Chapter 4
FAUGH
Iplace the plate in front of her with the same care I would handle a delicate piece of glassware, ensuring the edges align perfectly with the mat I laid down earlier.
The pasta is arranged in a neat spiral, the sauce distributed evenly, garnished with the last wilted basil leaf I managed to salvage from her refrigerator's vegetable drawer, which had, upon initial inspection, resembled a crime scene.
She stares at it with an expression of such profound bewilderment that I find myself bracing for impact, as though I have just set a live grenade on the table between us and calmly announced that the pin is missing.
Her eyes widen incrementally, her jaw slackens slightly, and for a moment she does not move at all, she simply sits there, fork suspended in mid-air, her gaze locked onto the plate with the intensity of someone who has just witnessed something fundamentally inexplicable.
The color in her cheeks has deepened to a shade I can only describe as approaching crimson, and her breathing has become noticeably shallow.
I can see the exact moment her eyes begin to glisten, and I find myself running through every possible explanation for this reaction, trying to determine if I have somehow miscalculated the temperature of the pasta or misjudged the acidity of the sauce.
But no, the plate itself seems to be the source of her distress, or perhaps the simple fact of its existence, of my having provided it, of there being a meal prepared with such deliberate care sitting before her in this moment.
"This is beautiful," she whispers. "Like, genuinely beautiful. I didn't even know I owned plates this nice."
"You do not," I inform her, pulling out the chair across from her and lowering myself into it with careful precision.
The furniture in this apartment was clearly designed for humans of average size, which means I am in constant negotiation with structural integrity.
"I purchased them this afternoon along with the cleaning supplies.
Your previous dishes were unsafe for food consumption. "
"You bought dishes," she says softly. She picks up her fork with careful deliberation, still staring at the plate as though she is attempting to commit every detail to memory, the precise spiral of pasta, the even distribution of sauce, the placement of that single salvaged basil leaf.
"You bought me dishes and then made me dinner. For me. You actually made dinner."
There is a quality to the way she speaks it that suggests this is not a common occurrence in her life, that meals prepared with this level of care and attention are something foreign enough to warrant this particular brand of amazed disbelief.
The realization settles into my chest with an uncomfortable weight.
"I bought us dishes," I correct, gesturing to my own plate, which holds a significantly larger portion because my caloric requirements are roughly triple hers. "And I made dinner because you will not survive on cold brew coffee and what I can only assume was once a bagel."
She laughs, the sound bright and sudden, and something about the way her face transforms when she does it, the way her eyes crinkle at the corners and her whole posture loosens, makes the tight coil of tension I have been carrying since I walked into this apartment ease just slightly.
We eat in companionable silence for several minutes.
She takes small, careful bites, savoring each one in a way that suggests she is not accustomed to meals that require actual chewing.
The observation settles into the growing catalog of details I am accumulating about her, slotting in next to the fact that she chews her thumbnail when she is stressed, hums off-key when she thinks no one is listening, and has a truly impressive tolerance for chaos that would send most functional adults into a psychological spiral.
"So," she says eventually, twirling her fork through the pasta, "not that I'm complaining, because this is literally the best thing I've eaten in months, but why did you actually answer my ad? Like, the real reason."
I consider the question while cutting my portion into precise, uniform pieces.
Honesty has always served me well, even when it makes others uncomfortable.
"I needed to leave my previous living situation quickly, and your advertisement specified immediate availability with minimal screening process. The lack of questions was appealing."
Her eyebrows shoot up with such velocity that they nearly disappear into her hairline, and her fork clatters against the rim of her plate with an audible clang.
"Are you running from the law?" The question tumbles out in a rush of breathless concern, her entire body going rigid in that peculiar way that suggests her mind has already constructed an elaborate narrative.
"Is this a mob thing? Did you have some sort of falling out with dangerous people?
Please, for the love of all that is holy, tell me you did not kill someone.
Because I really cannot afford to be an accessory after the fact, I have enough problems without adding federal charges to the list."
"I did not kill anyone," I assure her, though I cannot entirely suppress the slight curve at the corner of my mouth because her imagination has clearly spiraled into dramatic territory.
"I ended a professional relationship that had become untenable, and remaining in proximity to my former employer would have resulted in violence, though not necessarily fatal violence. "
"That is not remotely as reassuring as you seem to believe it ought to be," I observe with careful deliberation, my gaze remaining fixed upon her face as I note the way her fingers have begun to fidget with her napkin.
"In fact, your phrasing suggests that you have constructed an entire narrative around my departure from my previous employment, and that narrative likely involves considerably more dramatic circumstances than the reality of a simple professional incompatibility.
The notion that I left my former situation specifically to avoid inflicting violence upon my employer does not, I suspect, inspire the confidence you are hoping to cultivate in me as a suitable roommate. "
"I am not a danger to you, Chantel." I set my fork down and meet her eyes directly, letting her see the complete sincerity in the statement.
"I have no criminal record. I have references, though I did not provide them because you did not ask.
I simply needed a clean break from my previous circumstances, and your desperation matched mine. "
She blinks, processing this, the nervous energy in her shoulders settles somewhat.
"Okay. Yeah. I can respect that." She takes another bite, chewing thoughtfully.
"For what it's worth, I'm also running from something.
Student loans, mostly. And my mother's very aggressive vision for my future that involves law school and a complete personality transplant. "
"Then we are both refugees," I observe, resuming my meal with deliberate calm, cutting into the food with measured precision.
"This arrangement, by all logical assessment, is mutually beneficial.
You require stable housing and someone capable of maintaining a functional living space.
I require a fresh start in an environment removed from my previous circumstances.
The terms align adequately." I pause, lifting another forkful to my mouth, then add with the faintest hint of something that might be dry humor, "And you will not attempt to fold me into a sedan, which I appreciate. "
"Mutually beneficial," she repeats, and there is something almost wondering in her tone, like the concept of mutual benefit is foreign to her. "Yeah. I guess it really is."
The first week unfolds with surprising smoothness, once we establish the boundaries of our cohabitation.
Chantel keeps her bedroom door closed and does not comment on the fact that I have reorganized the entire kitchen according to a logical system that accounts for frequency of use and optimal workflow.
I keep my concerns about her catastrophic sleep schedule to myself and simply ensure that there is always coffee prepared when she stumbles out of her room at odd hours, wild-eyed and paint-smudged.
I discover that I enjoy cooking for her.
There is something deeply satisfying about watching her face when she tries something I have prepared, the way her eyes widen and she makes these small, unconscious sounds of appreciation that she seems entirely unaware of.
I begin planning meals around her schedule, timing them so that food is ready when she returns from her shifts at the coffee shop, still smelling of espresso and exhaustion.
She is a chaotic creature, but there are patterns to her chaos once I learn to read them.
She paints in frenzied bursts that last for hours, completely losing track of time and basic human needs like hydration.
She talks to herself while she works, carrying on full conversations with her canvases that range from encouraging to combative.
She leaves half-empty mugs in improbable locations, and I have taken to doing sweeps of the apartment every evening to collect them before they grow new civilizations.