Chapter 2
THE SPACE IS SIMPLE. Just a bedroom, as advertised, with honey-colored hardwood floors and exposed beams. No odor beyond the stale air of an unused space, and nothing so obviously unacceptable that my good eye can pick up on it.
There’s a mattress pressed against one wall, wrapped in plastic, though I’m not sure if that’s good or creepy, and past it, a darkened doorway, what I presume is the bathroom.
And the windows! I don’t know if it’s the influence of the beer, which I am absolutely feeling, or the sheer scope of the divided panes of glass dominating the south wall, but I could swoon. My plants would be so happy here.
Behind me, Grant clears his throat. “So, um…This is it? Bathroom.” He points to the door I noticed, then to the one we entered through. “And the rest of the house. Obviously.”
My apprehension sparks back to life. I’d made a point not to peek into any of the rooms we passed as Grant led me down the hallway, lest I spy something that would send me running from the place before I’d gotten a chance to scope out the one on offer.
But a shared kitchen. If I go through with this, I’ll be sharing a kitchen, laundry room, and common areas with three unknown variables in lawn chairs.
My memory drifts to the substandard living conditions of male friends and guys I dated in my undergraduate days. Suspiciously stiff towels. Microwaves so crudded up, they had to be pried open. One guy I worked with had a pump bottle of dish soap in his shower in lieu of body wash.
Even Cole, who was, by most metrics, a functional adult when we met, fell soundly into the category of hapless male.
Dishes made it to the sink but could never quite travel the last three feet into the dishwasher.
Shoes abandoned in the living room, little land mines to tumble over in the dark when going to the kitchen for water.
He couldn’t cook and barely cleaned, and I tolerated it all because in my mind, that was how I made up for my own deficiencies.
But it wasn’t enough. I’m not strong enough for this, too—
My face must betray some of the ugliness running through my head, because Grant’s brow puckers in worry.
“There’s a lock?” He crosses to the door leading to the hallway, closes it, and turns the dead bolt.
He makes a minor production of trying to pull it open, then unlocks it, letting the door swing into the room.
“Great!” The false cheer in my voice is grating.
“Cool. And you’re good with the rent?” He recites the price that had been on the sign, a mid-triple-digit sum I haven’t paid since my own undergraduate days.
“And no deposit or first and last or anything. But there are utilities,” he adds, solemnly.
As if a share of this place’s utilities would make a dent in the savings I’d get from reducing my rent by a good 65 percent.
“Absolutely,” I say, happy to contribute something fully genuine. And very happy to think about Cole’s rent skyrocketing. You strong enough for that, y’dick?
“If all this is too weird, you can just, like, bounce?” Grant points to a third door on the far wall.
“That’ll let you out on the same side as the driveway.
” I blink at the unexpected out, and he blanches.
“Not that I want you to! But you seem… grown-up?” he says, which is very diplomatic.
“And I’m sure we seem way not. So I get it if you aren’t into this. No hard feelings.”
Points for self-awareness, Grant. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Cool.” After another moment of silence, he starts to edge toward the door to the rest of the house. “I’ll give you a minute?”
“Yes!” The word comes out tight. Reality is threatening to close in, and I refuse to subject this innocent bystander to whatever that might look like. “Thanks.”
“Rad. See you in a few!” He laughs, adding, “Hopefully!” before stepping into the hallway and closing the door behind him.
I take in one long, slow breath, holding it until the urge to scream passes, and exhale. This is fine! It’s stupid and impulsive, and I’m actively dreading the moment I’m going to have to look at the kitchen, but… it’s fine. I need it to be fine.
I stroll over to the mattress and scan the tag taped to a corner. Final Sale. Ian Hammond, pickup, and a date going back almost a year. I squint at the price. Damn. He got a good deal, but this thing was pricey. I send the room’s former tenant a silent kudos.
While I’m peering down, my left eye picks up a flash of light, and I angle my head toward my phone, still in my hand. I brace myself. Incoming call. Heather.
My stomach drops. If my notoriously call-averse friend has resorted to dialing, then I’ve already missed at least three texts of increasing intensity. Plus, she’s with Mark, her roommate. The man’s a drama teacher. He literally can’t help himself from escalating a situation.
I fake a smile as I answer. “Hey, H—”
“Ellie, what the hell?” Heather’s voice comes out sharp against my ear. “Why is Cole blowing up our phones, and why aren’t you responding? I’ve sent you, like, four texts.”
Called it.
“Why does Cole even have my number?” Mark grumbles, which bodes well. If he’s open to petty grievances, then we’re well out of range of hysteria.
“He’s asking if we know where you are? Weren’t you two going to dinner?”
“We were…” I say, and let the incomplete statement hang.
I’ve been avoiding this conversation all week.
I’d reached out to Heather that first morning, in case her biology background might hold the secret to my mysterious blindness.
Instead, Mark joined the conversation and I found myself talking down two semi-hysterical secondary educators.
And while calming them did a nice job of easing my own nerves, it didn’t seem like the time to introduce the possibility of a soon-to-be-dissolving relationship.
Now isn’t any better, but there’s no avoiding it. I take a crinkly seat on the mattress. “But before we could even order, he proposed that we ‘take a break’ from our relationship,” I say, loading Cole’s words with the disdain they deserve.
Twin gasps brush against my ear.
“Oh, my God, Ellie! Are you okay?” Heather asks. “Where are you?”
“I’m fine,” I say, sidestepping the second question. “I just needed a minute.”
“What did you say?” Mark’s voice is edged with wicked intrigue.
“I told him that he could go fuck himself.” There’s a bloom of pride in my chest at the recall. That was not very “Ellie” behavior. Kind of like everything that’s followed.
Mark’s laugh is a bright cackle. Heather snorts.
“It’s been a long week,” I say, and groan at the understatement.
“It’s been a long few years, but this week in particular has been more than enough.
” A bitter laugh pulls free from me. “Which is funny. That’s how Cole felt, too!
‘We’ve already been through so much,’” I quote.
“‘I don’t think I’m strong enough for this, too.
’” I grit my teeth. The final word twists just as painfully as it did at the restaurant.
The silence on the other end of the call speaks volumes. We don’t have to be face-to-face for me to know the look they’re giving one another, the wordless anxiety as they try to determine whether I’ve opened the floor to the subject of my notoriously uncooperative body.
Unbidden, my free hand comes to rest low on my abdomen.
When Cole and I started dating, a degree of pain had already been a standard part of my cycle.
He’d been so patient and understanding during the stretches of days I’d be “out of commission,” murmuring gentle words as he held me on the floor of whatever bathroom he’d found me doubled over in, soothing me in waiting rooms and doctors’ offices.
When I’d finally been diagnosed with endometriosis and given a treatment plan, it had been a relief for both of us.
But there’s no curing the condition. Barring surgery, which my insurance isn’t quite convinced I qualify for, the most anyone can do is mitigate its symptoms. With the potential for pain lurking in the background of every intimate encounter, it became harder to connect physically.
Add to that the fertility issues that are common with cases as severe as mine, the distance that accompanies the possibility that you won’t be able to provide what your partner wants in the long term, and the unspoken awareness that you’re only staying together out of convenience and respect for a lease agreement, and you have yourself a dealbreaker stew.
“I’m not sad,” I insist, but there’s a sliver of dishonesty in the words.
“Or, maybe, for some past version of us.” Or just the past version of myself.
The me that hoped that Cole would be different from the guys I’d dated since my symptoms started.
We’d make it because he cared enough about me to stay, despite my traitorous body.
I’d be enough to make him care. I could do enough and ignore enough and accommodate enough.
But it really was only a matter of time.
“Oh, Ellie.” Mark turns my name into a sympathetic coo. “Fuck that guy.”
“But where are you now?” Heather repeats, inconveniently attuned to my earlier evasion.
“I’m looking at a room that’s available to rent. Near Hyde Park,” I add, hoping the allusion to the stately Austin neighborhood north of the university will inspire confidence.
“How did you find the space so quickly?” Mark asks.
“I saw the sign for it on Monday.”
Another loaded pause. Shit. I fall back onto the mattress, the plastic cold against the bare skin of my shoulders and back.
Heather’s never outright expressed her dislike of Cole, but she never had to; her face always did it for her.
So I am unsurprised when she asks, “And why were you noticing rental signs Monday?” with particular venom.