Chapter Sixteen
Harriet.
Help.
What’s the matter?
Do you remember that thing you said I should do that I said I wouldn’t?
I did.
Doesn’t seem very nice to call your roommate a “thing” ;)
THIS IS NOT FUNNY.
Ooh, bringing out capslock on me
I am SERIOUS.
Okay, okay
So what happened?
What do you think? I’m sure I don’t have to spell it out.
So you got together with your roommate
No! It was a one-time thing.
Sorry, let me rephrase:
You fucked your roommate
No.
Sort of.
I swear you should have been a lawyer
You had some type of sexual encounter with your roommate
Yes.
So what’s the problem?
I don’t know.
Was it bad?
Not at all.
Is he being weird?
No more than usual.
Are YOU being weird?
Certainly not.
Yeah, I’ll reserve judgment on that one
So what you’re telling me is that there IS no problem beyond you majorly overthinking
Because it doesn’t fit your ideas about how these things work
I am not overthinking.
In spite of everyone else insisting otherwise.
Couldn’t imagine why
You’re no help at all.
…coffee Sunday?
Can’t
I’ll be out of town
Oh, yes, you did say so.
How was your date last week, by the way?
Awful
I’ll tell you about it next time we see each other
I’m spending all next weekend in town for the auction, so we’ll catch up then, okay?
—
On Friday, David had another house viewing scheduled after work, and the failure of his past few attempts plagued his mind all day.
This time, he was determined to see it through—so long as the house was suitable and the price within his means.
In truth, the latter was more of a concern than he’d anticipated, particularly following his recent viewing of the overpriced Victorian.
If he wanted to make his exit from Midnight Cottage—and he did, no doubt about that—it was imperative that he have the opportunity to meet with Cartier.
With renewed determination, he went off in search of Steve Corner to demand his well-deserved place on the centennial auction’s VIP list. He’d hired the auction staff, organized the catering, tracked the donations, overseen the expenses—it was only fair that he receive a few crumbs of recognition for it.
Corner was not in his office.
David found him instead leaning against one end of the sales counter in ladies’ formalwear, taking no pains to disguise his enjoyment of the view from behind as Paulette, the resident IT specialist, crouched on all fours to prod at the impossible tangle of cords beneath the register.
David cleared his throat, and Corner eyed him with evident displeasure. “Yes, Carew?”
Before David could reply, Paulette emerged from beneath the counter and straightened up, sweeping their long locs out of their face. “Don’t know how that managed to get disconnected, but it’s fixed now,” they reported.
“Excellent,” said Corner. “If you happen to have a couple more minutes free, the printer in my office has some updates that need to be installed.”
“Mx. Paulette,” David broke in hastily, “actually I was just looking for you. I’m afraid the fax machine in the mail room might have gone wrong again.” This was a lie, but he could not in good conscience walk away without giving them an out.
Paulette groaned. “I swear that thing hasn’t been right since the Incident. Guess I’d better come take a look.” To Corner, they added, “When I have a chance to get back to my desk, I’ll send you the tutorial I made for updating device drivers.”
At Corner’s icy glare, David decided the most prudent course of action was to retreat to his own office without further delay.
—
After work, David met Leonard Flood to view a cozy brick bungalow a few blocks from downtown. Neat box hedges flanked the front steps, potted houseplants filled the living room’s bay window, and the warm low lighting gave the place a pleasant, lived-in feeling.
Yet there was still a hint of doubt in the back of David’s mind—a whisper that something was not quite right, that something was missing.
For just a moment, he thought of his own bay window at Midnight Cottage, the cluttered bookshelves, the scrabble of claws on hardwood, and was struck by a tiny pang of loss.
Nonsense, of course. He’d been dragging his feet long enough.
He really needed to stop being so particular or he’d never make any headway.
This was a perfectly nice house in a desirable location, only a fraction higher than his ideal asking price, and there was nothing whatsoever the matter with it.
Pushing aside any lingering reservations, David instructed Mr. Flood to make an offer on his behalf.
—
Upon his return to Midnight Cottage, he found the other occupants watching television in the living room—Todd Billion in an armchair, Meredith sprawled across the sofa, Bianca curled up atop a throw pillow.
“David! Come watch TV with us,” urged Meredith. When David hesitated, he said, “Oh, come on, quit worrying about tomorrow. Bednarek came and mowed the lawn, and I already cleaned up the deck and the living room. And Bianca helped, of course.”
#96: At times, it is as if he can read one’s mind.
“Well…” It was true that everything within view was passably clean, if still disorganized.
(The blue vinegar cruet on the bookshelf did not escape his notice, sandwiched as it was between a volume of poetry and an outdated Sorcerers’ Almanac, the relic of another past housemate.) Nevertheless, David supposed he could allow himself to relax, and joined Meredith on the sofa.
“All right, then. What are we watching?”
“Well, you’ve come too late for Karl Machine—he’s got a new song that’s just a recipe for vindaloo, it’s brilliant!”
“Mustard seed, that’s what you need,” sang Todd.
“Wonderful,” said David flatly. “What a pity I missed it.”
“But now the Minnesang Carpenter is on,” said Meredith.
David already regretted agreeing to this. “The what?”
“The Minnesang Carpenter! She lectures on medieval love ballads while refinishing cabinets.”
“Ah. Of course. Don’t see how I could’ve missed that from the name.” Ignoring the show, David took out his phone to check the rugby scores and catch up on the business news, skimming an article about Cartier Property Investments scouting locations for a new housing development in Bingham Junction.
In the meantime, Meredith did what he always did every time he enticed David to join him in front of the TV, migrating closer and closer until the least annoying option was for David to rest his arm across the back of the sofa, which was slightly preferable to having it crushed against his side.
Meredith, of course, took this as an opportunity to burrow one bony shoulder into the available warm spot until David resigned himself and draped his arm over him.
In the back of his mind, he might admit, grudgingly, that there was something to be said for the contact, some degree of comfort in the way Meredith seemed to fit so easily into place against him.
Then again, David reflected as Todd raised his eyebrows, perhaps there wasn’t. He glowered and moved away.
“Oh! But I’m cold,” complained Meredith, though whether he’d caught on to the unspoken exchange, David couldn’t guess.
Todd, however, wisely retreated to the kitchen to wash his teacup. When he returned with his sleeves rolled up, Meredith’s gaze went straight to the long jagged scar running down his forearm.
David nudged him. “You’re staring,” he hissed.
“It’s from a boating accident a couple years ago,” said Todd. “Pretty brutal, huh?”
“Hmm? Oh, I am sorry,” said Meredith. “I’ve done a few scar cover-ups lately and was thinking what I could do with one like that, but you’re right, it was rude of me to stare.”
“Hey, it’s cool.” With a grin, Todd suggested, “How about you guys both show me one of yours, and we’ll call it even?”
This, David recognized, was an overture at friendship, or at least a degree of familiarity. Suddenly he felt a bit sorry for Todd, coming into the house like this where he was clearly the odd man out.
Perhaps that was why David acquiesced and pulled up the hem of one trouser leg.
Todd gave a low whistle at the sight of the wide shining scar that curved across his shin. “What’s that from?”
“Rugby.” The scar looked worse than the injury had been in reality, though it had weighed into David’s decision to give up the sport toward the end of university.
“That’s badass,” said Todd, suitably impressed, and David couldn’t help but feel a bit pleased. “What about you?” he asked Meredith, who was now staring off into space.
“Oh,” he murmured, “none really.”
Of course he didn’t have any scars.
#97: He never gets hurt.
“Oh. Well, how’d you break your nose, then?” asked Todd.
“I didn’t,” said Meredith, with such an odd inflection that David turned to stare at him. Abruptly, Meredith rose. “I’m going to take Bianca out.”
The Chihuahua trotted dutifully after him out the back doors.
Todd watched him go in dismay. “Jeez, I didn’t mean to say the wrong thing. I didn’t realize he’d be sensitive about it.”
“He’s had a difficult week. I wouldn’t worry too much if I were you.” David would have preferred Todd to avoid such personal remarks altogether, but then again, he’d only been trying to gloss over the situation Meredith had created himself. David sighed. “Excuse me.”
—
Beneath the darkening twilight, he found Meredith perched atop the picnic table, a quantity of freshly gathered daisies spread across his yellow tartan skirt.
Bianca chased fireflies in the tall grass nearby.
He didn’t look up at David’s approach, but continued to gaze toward the last streaks of gold in the western sky as he plucked the petals from one of his daisies.
“He loves me, he loves me not?” inquired David.
Meredith blinked as if not really seeing him. “What?”
David nodded toward the flower in his hand. “That poor daisy. You may as well divine something if you’re going to go ripping out all its petals.”
“Oh. No, I’ve never won at that game.”