12. A Bad Sign
Chapter 12
A Bad Sign
S am’s apartment is fairly comfortable, but it isn’t home yet, and I can’t help but feel aimless as I walk out of my apartment for the last time. Turning in my keys to the office and stacking my boxes on the sidewalk are more bitter-than-sweet moments, but they shouldn’t be. I’m leaving behind temperamental electricity and locks that stick, and trading up for a building with an elevator and an en suite laundry room. Since I just carried about thirty boxes and two bookshelves down four flights of stairs, the thought of the elevator alone should be enough to lift my spirits.
But it isn’t.
“This is a bad sign,” I admit out loud. “My boyfriend forgetting about me on the day I’m supposed to move in with him is a very bad sign.” Sam was supposed to be here at eight to help me haul my belongings, but as the minutes creep closer to ten, I lose hope of having a smooth transition.
“No, it’s not. Stuff happens. Sam is a great guy, he wouldn’t just forget about you.”
It’s not like this is the first time he’s stood me up. He forgot we had dinner plans one time, and I sat at the restaurant alone, cringing at the pitiful looks from the other diners and servers. He forgot to pick me up from work once when my car was in the shop and I had to walk home. He forgot about lunch with my parents one Saturday, and I had to answer their questions about why I didn’t bring my boyfriend. His excuse was the same every time: “Something important came up with work.”
Most of me is angry that he isn’t here because… well, what the hell? But there’s a small gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach that something horrible has happened. Like a car accident, a stroke, or what if something happened to one of his parents?
“Why don’t you just let Brian and I help?” Sage asks.
“Because it’s not your problem. And you don’t have room in his truck anyway.” I send off another text to Sam, giving it a few minutes, hoping he finally responds. But if he didn’t respond to the first hundred, the chances of him responding to this one are slim. “You and Brian go enjoy your day together. I’ll just sit here and hope he shows up soon.”
My car still isn’t running, it still wore the spare tire, and I still had no money to fix it. It’s parked outside Sam’s apartment building where I left it, although I put it in neutral and pushed it over to a spot assigned to his apartment to avoid a tow fee. It was enough exercise to kill me, but unfortunately, I’m still here.
Sage pulls out her phone and presses some things on the screen before holding it up to her ear.
“Who are you calling?” I ask. She puts her hand over my face and pushes me away.
“Hey. Are you busy? Cori needs help moving stuff to Sam’s because we can’t get a hold of him,” she says into the phone.
“NO, I DON’T NEED ANY HELP!”
But I guess they don’t hear me because Sage thanks them and hangs up.
“Tyler is on his way.”
I groan. Don’t get me wrong, I love Tyler. Callum, too. They’re—somewhat—mature men and they’ve never made me feel weird or awkward about being shy. Tyler did ask me once why I didn’t talk a lot, but I answered with, “Why do you talk so much,” and he said, “Touché,” and that was it. But it’s because I like him that I don’t want to ask him to wake up early on a Saturday to do manual labor for me.
“Why are you so against people helping you?”
“Because help always comes at a price. Like how you’ve been driving me to and from work for the last few weeks, despite us having the same shifts, and you’re making me pay for all of your gas.” Or that time I asked Sam to run to the store for me when I had the flu, and he asked for a blow job as payment. Or when I got distressed glances from Dad because I didn’t go off to a university the second I turned eighteen, and Dad still had to pay for my food and shelter.
“Your boyfriend’s friends are an extension of him. If you can’t get a hold of your boyfriend, you call his friends.”
I really don’t think that’s how things work, but I don’t say anything until, “Why do you even have Tyler’s number?”
“We texted a bit before I met Brian. We almost hooked up a few times, but I got to thinking—what if he and Hailey got together? Wouldn’t they be so cute?”
“If you want Tyler to have his dick bitten off, sure.”
It isn’t long before his truck pulls up, followed by Nick’s. And if that’s not enough, Callum steps out of the passenger side of Tyler’s truck.
“I am so sorry. I didn’t want to ask y’all to come help, but Sage-” I forget what I’m saying when Tyler gives me a noogie as if I’m one of the guys.
“Stop it. We have no problem helping you, that’s what friends are for.”
Callum steps up, places his hands on my shoulders, and bends to my height. “You’re worth our time, Cori.”
It’s Nick’s turn and he says, “Yeah, please call any of us if your dumbass boyfriend doesn’t show up.”
“So, he’s not at the apartment?” I ask, hopeful that I’m wrong.
“No, he left around six this morning. I don’t know where he went. I also didn’t know you were moving in today, or I would have been here anyway to help. We all would have. I remember telling you to let me know when you needed help?”
“You said if I needed help. I didn’t need help because Sam was supposed to be here.”
He glares at my subtle avoidance, but I ignore it as Sage starts ordering everyone around.
I’m so overwhelmed with the emotions of the day that their sweet words almost push my tears over the edge. But I don’t have time to think too hard about Tyler’s nice, yet, annoying brotherly gesture, or Callum somehow saying exactly what I needed to hear, nor Nick’s shared annoyance at Sam. So I take a deep breath and bottle it up for later.
With everyone now involved, it doesn’t take us long to get everything loaded into the parade of vehicles. As payment for helping me, I promise to buy the guys pizza from Joe’s later.
When Sam finally calls, I almost knock myself out when I slap the phone to my ear.
“Sam, where are you?”
“Hey, I’m at the golf course with a client. Is everything okay? I have twenty-two missed calls from you and a few from Nick.”
My heart sinks. “So, you did forget that you were supposed to help me move my stuff in today?” I ask in disbelief. I’m relieved he’s safe, but I had hoped I was wrong about him simply standing me up. Again.
“No,” he more so asks than says. “You’re moving in tomorrow. On Sunday.”
“No, I told you I had to turn in my keys on Saturday because no one is in the office on Sundays.”
“You told me Sunday.” There’s an air of finality to his voice.
“I did not!” I whisper-shout.
“I remember you said Sunday because I thought ‘That’s perfect, I’ll still be able to golf on Saturday.’ Look, I have to go. I’ll see you tonight and we’ll celebrate your first night at the apartment.”
I roll my eyes and hang up without saying goodbye.
As I look over at Tyler, Callum, and Nick, I wonder if it’s worth getting worked up over. They showed up for me and we got my stuff loaded, so there’s not much of a problem. But the hollow feeling in my gut doesn’t care.
* * *
“Y ou ready to go?” I shout to Cori.
Despite our friendly conversation the other night, she looks at my truck with disdain before glancing around for a reason not to be alone in a vehicle with me. The passenger seat of my truck is the only seat available after loading both Tyler and my backseats down with Cori’s boxes. Large, heavy boxes that we men could barely lift with two people.
“You either ride with me, or you stay here. Your choice.”
I open the passenger door, just in case, and lean against the truck while she decides. Thankfully, she doesn’t spend too much time stalling and hoists herself inside, and I make a mental note to install a stepladder. I close her door before running around to the other side finding Cori’s seat belt already buckled, her hands clasped politely in her lap, and her body rigid as I start the engine.
“You can relax, I’m an excellent driver. No accidents, knock on wood, and only one speeding ticket.”
“I’m relaxed,” she says, as if I’m imagining her shoulders by her ears again.
“Tell your face.” I straighten my leg to get my phone out of my pocket. “We should probably exchange numbers so that if something like this happens again, you can call me.”
“I’m not planning on moving again anytime soon.”
I level her with a look. “You know what I mean. If he ever leaves you stranded again.”
“Fine.”
I create a new contact, naming it Roommate, and hand my phone to her. Taking her phone, I see what she assigned as my name in her contacts: Roommate. I laugh as our heads snap up and the hint of amusement appears on her face.
I type my number in, then reach over the center console to open the music app on my phone. “And play whatever you want.”
Hesitantly, she scrolls for a few minutes before finally pressing play on a hard rock playlist. As I pull into traffic behind Tyler, we listen to the first part of the song, a heavy guitar intro fading as the lyrics begin.
“Is this the kind of music you actually listen to?”
“Yes.”
“I would have guessed you listened to… I don’t know, punk or indie rock.”
“I do.” She stares out her window, apparently not in the mood to elaborate.
“Are you going to explain? Or leave me in suspense, like you do with everything else?”
She turns in her seat and sighs. “I listen to all kinds of music. Leona Lewis, Breaking Benjamin, Riley Roth, Staind, Patsy Cline. It really just depends on the song and what I’m in the mood for. Right now, I’m in the mood for guitar riffs and heavy lyrics.” She raises her eyebrows as if to ask, Is that enough of an explanation?
“Yeah, I guess I’m the same way.” We fall silent, listening to the guitar solo before the bridge.
“So what the hell is in these boxes? Are you taking the brick from your old building with you? I saw a few missing.” I have to say I’m relieved she’s leaving that place. I don’t know how it hasn’t been condemned yet.
“No, it’s books.” I should have known.
“How many books do you read in a month?”
“Probably about four or five.”
I whistle to show my surprise.
“That’s not a lot compared to most passionate readers. But it’s all I have time for.”
“Considering I don’t read any, it’s an abundance. Wait, how many books do you buy a month?”
“Okay, but you have to understand that buying books is a totally different hobby. Especially for someone like me that doesn’t have much extra money. I have to be smart and shop sales when I have gift cards, or when authors run promotions. I also resell the books if I don’t like them enough to keep them. And that money funds my book buying further. It’s like a sport.”
Chuckling, I point out, “That wasn’t an answer.”
She sighs again. “Over the past month, I bought ten books.” My eyebrows shoot upwards and I open my mouth to exclaim a word of shock, but she raises her voice before I can do so. “ But I only spent four dollars on them all. Now, I’m on a book-buying ban for the rest of the year because my bookshelves will crumble if I put any more weight on them.”
“And you haven’t considered the library?”
“Of course, I love the library. But I enjoy reading indie authors, and the library doesn’t always carry what I want.”
I shake my head.
“What? You don’t have a hobby? Something that takes a lot of your time and money?”
Scoffing, I reply, “Of course, I do. Everyone has hobbies. I hang out with friends, I watch sports games, um… I eat. And sleep.” Scratching my head, I rack my brain for an actual hobby, something I’m passionate about. I used to play fantasy football, but I stopped after my injury. Growing up, football was my hobby. The only thing I had time for. Work and simply surviving has taken up most of my time and energy the past couple of years, I guess I never picked up anything else to replace it.
Instead of answering further, I bypass her question. “So, will this move bring you closer or further away from your job?”
She shoots me a knowing look but plays along. “It’s adding twenty minutes to my commute. Bringing it to about forty-five with no traffic.” Longer than my drive to work, but typical for this area as most people drive closer to the city for work.
“Do you enjoy the work? Sam said you worked at your dad’s diner?”
Shifting in her seat, she stares back out the window at the concrete buildings we pass. “That’s a difficult question to answer.”
I want to laugh at her ability to overcomplicate everything. “It’s yes or no, I think that’s pretty simple.”
“I used to love it because it was my grandma’s diner and it had a family feel where everyone was a friend and no one bitched because the cook took longer than five minutes for their chicken. Now, it’s just a roadside diner and a black hole of a job that’s slowly sucking the life from me.”
I want to tease her, tell her “ My mistake for asking.” Instead, I offer some helpful, although unsolicited, advice. “So, change it.”
She scrunches her face up. “I’m trying. I’ve applied for jobs and gone to interviews.”
“Have you considered improving the job you currently have? Bring back the family feel to the diner? Or, maybe turning a hobby into a career? What kind of things do you like to do in your free time? Besides, read.”
“What about you?” she counters defensively. “You said you wanted to figure out what you wanted to do with your life. Why don’t you think about that before telling me what to do?” Crossing her arms at the tension smoldering in the air around us, she turns back to her window. Clearly, that’s a sore subject.
I should feel dismissive, or hurt that she threw that back in my face, but I don’t. I feel… like we’re getting somewhere. “Okay, how about this? We can be each other’s accountability partners. You do something with your life, I’ll do something with mine. And we’ll check up on each other’s progress. You know, keep each other accountable.”
“Fine.”
A chuckle rumbles from my chest. “Is that going to be the title of your memoir?”
A strange, full-bodied noise from the passenger seat wipes the smirk from my face and my foot almost slams on the brake.
“Was… was that a laugh I just heard come out of you? I wasn’t sure you knew how to make that sound.”
I grin from ear to ear as she glares at me, her face back in its natural, detached state.
“I’d like to point out that, while you might find me irritating, your shoulders have relaxed, your head is leaned back on the headrest, and your arms are casually resting on the door and center console.” As I say the words, she collects herself back into her seat, hands once again holding each other and resting in her lap. Still, her body isn’t stiff, afraid to take up too much space.
She doesn’t verbally acknowledge my observation. Instead, she sidesteps and changes the conversation. “Can you keep a secret?”
“Sure. But why are we whispering?”
She rolls her eyes and raises her voice to a normal volume. “That stuff I was working on the other day… it’s a blog.” I furrow my brows, unsure what that has to do with secrets. “I post recipes for coffee drinks, homemade creamers, and syrup. And I have a whole cozy, coffee aesthetic thing going on social media.”
“What’s the name?”
“I’m only telling you because of the whole… accountability thing. I’m exploring different avenues. If I never find a job, maybe I can do something with this. If this doesn’t turn into anything more, maybe I can eventually get somewhere with a job. Or, maybe my dad will finally listen to my ideas for the diner,” she adds, more so to herself than me. “My family doesn’t know about it and I don’t want them to.”
“Well, thank you for telling me about it. I still want the name, though.”
We’re quiet for the rest of the drive, while she thinks about whatever the hell goes on inside her brain, and I think about what I’m going to do next. Besides the jealous and wishful thinking on the balcony that I want to do something besides bounce from job to job, I haven’t done anything. Like Cori said, I can’t give advice if I’ve made no progress myself.