Chapter 6 #2
Afternoon light streams through spotless windows onto gleaming hardwood floors. The walls are freshly painted beige that shows no evidence of previous tenants. It even smells clean, a sharp lemon scent cutting through the apartment’s baseline funk.
“I figured you’d want to set it up yourself,” he says, suddenly looking almost shy, one massive hand rubbing the back of his neck.
“But I cleaned it yesterday, because Sophie mentioned you’re…
particular about that stuff. I got some products from the store and stole some paint from the building super… ”
Something warm blooms in my chest, but I can’t form words.
“The closet’s pretty decent, and you’ve got your own bathroom right across the hall,” he continues, words tumbling faster. “I put the best towels in there—the ones that match and everything—although I figured you might have your own ones…”
He actually tried.
I’d been a standoffish bitch to him at Pine Barren Bagels.
Coming here, I’d behaved like an empress visiting the peasants.
I’d ignored that he’s as fucked as I am, financially, but still, he tried.
He spent money he didn’t have doing something he didn’t need to.
“It’s perfect,” I say, and shock myself by meaning it.
His grin blooms. “Yeah? Cool. I mean, it’s probably not like your old place?—“
“It’s perfect,” I repeat, more firmly, because it feels like a life raft in chaos.
“Maya!” Sophie calls from the living room, breaking the moment. “I have to go!”
The spell between us broken, I follow Maine back to the war zone, where Mike and Rook have resumed their digital violence on the gaming console. My boxes are stacked in the corner with shocking precision, labels facing out, showing that they, also, give a damn.
“Good luck with… all this,” Sophie says, gesturing helplessly at everything. Her hug is fierce and meaningful. “Send an SOS if you need extraction.”
“I’ll survive,” I say, and maybe actually believe it.
“Sure you will,” she whispers, a conspiratorial glint in her eye. “He cleaned the room. That’s practically a marriage proposal in boy language.”
Mike goes to the fridge and pulls out a beer. “Welcome to Thunderdome. Try not to civilize us too fast.”
“Yeah,” Rook adds with a grin that promises future chaos. “We’re like zoo animals, so sudden changes to our environment cause stress.”
Maine cracks his beer. “We might start flinging our shit if you move our stuff around.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“That’s Thursday,” he counters.
Mike and Rook go back to their game, and suddenly it’s just me and Maine in the kitchen, the overwhelming silence of reality settling over us.
It’s clear he’s less stressed than he has been in ages—I can tell by comparing how shit he looked at the bagel shop versus now—and it’s clear money is the reason.
“So,” he says, rocking back on his heels.
“So,” I echo.
We stand there, surrounded by the detritus of his life and the boxes of mine, two incompatible operating systems trying to run on the same hardware.
“Want a beer to celebrate?” he offers hopefully.
“It’s eleven in the morning.”
“Is that a no?”
“That’s a ‘what’s wrong with you?’”
“So many things. Want me to list them alphabetically or by severity?”
I look at him— really look at him—in all his disastrous glory: ancient shorts, ventilated shirt, and a grin that suggests he finds his existence hilarious.
Six-foot-five of questionable choices and unexpected consideration.
And, for now, my roommate, the person I’ll be sharing oxygen and the Wi-Fi password with.
God help us both.
“I’ll take water,” I concede. “But only if it’s in an actual glass. Not something that says ‘I SURVIVED SPRING brEAK’ on it.”
“Tap or bottled?”
I can’t hide my shock. “You have bottled water?”
He looks genuinely offended. “I’m not a complete Neanderthal. I shop at Target sometimes, and they have a whole aisle of fancy water with minerals and shit.”
He disappears to the fridge, leaving me alone with my life choices. Somewhere in this apartment, a surface is developing its own ecosystem. But I have a clean room. And bottled water. And a roommate who cleaned before I came just because my best friend mentioned it might matter to me.
In the hierarchy of disasters, this ranks somewhere between “survivable” and “future therapy material.”
Maine returns with water in an actual glass—not crystal, but not plastic—and hands it over with surprising gentleness. “Welcome home,” he says.
Home.
The word sits heavy in my chest as we clink drinks, his breakfast beer against my glass with a grin that’s equal parts sweet and shit-eating.
I take a long sip, focusing on the clean, cold water instead of the panic performing Swan Lake in my stomach.
One pristine thing in the chaos. I can work with this.
“Thanks,” I manage. “It’s a cool place.”
He nods. “It’s not fancy, but it’s good, like a favorite pair of underwear.”
“Did you just compare your apartment to underwear?”
“Good underwear.” He shrugs. “The kind that holds everything in place?—“
“I’m begging you to stop talking.”
But he’s trying. The clean room proves it. The bottled water proves it.
It counts for something.
And challenges me to try, as well.