As I packed up what I needed for the day, I made as little noise as possible, then I tiptoed toward the door. From a few steps back, I noticed something taped to the door. It was a twenty-dollar bill. A yellow sticky note was attached to it. Just in case. You can pay me back by introducing me to your future supermodel friends. That was followed by a smiley face with its tongue sticking out.
I didn’t want to take the money. I hated owing a person something, and I felt guilty taking it after all the things I’d grumbled about him in the shower. I didn’t want to take it—borrow it—but I needed it. If having to accept some favors from my roommate was what it took to get me on the right track, that was worth swallowing my pride.
I took the twenty down, grabbed the pen from my purse, and scratched my own note onto the yellow sticky. Now I owe you twenty dollars and a subway ticket. After adding my own smiley face with its tongue hanging out, I slipped out of the apartment.
Today was the same as yesterday. Subway. Agency. Go-sees. A pattern seemed to be emerging, and with each client I met, I became more comfortable with the process. I got a better overall response from today’s meetings than from yesterday’s, so by the end of the day, I was feeling pretty amazing when I returned to the apartment building. Having sneakers for my commute made a big difference too, not to mention having a couple dollars in my wallet when my stomach staged a protest and would not let me pass the next food cart without getting a soft pretzel with cheese sauce.
My stomach started its protest again when I reached the fifth floor and the smell of something fantastic became present. It got stronger the closer I got to the apartment. The sound of pans clamoring was echoing in the hall as I unlocked the door.
“Hayden?” Soren’s voice chimed from the kitchen.
“What are you making? It smells amazing.” I paused beside the entrance of the kitchen, checking him out as much as I did what was on the stove. He was in a pair of light grey sweats that barely clung to his hips. The shirt and shoes were missing, but the ball cap was in place, backward and resting low.
“Chicken marsala. It’s my mom’s recipe. You like Italian?”
“I like Italian,” I said, having to force my eyes to look away from him. And I liked whatever nationality the person cooking Italian tonight was.
When I realized I was having marginally dirty thoughts about my roommate, I gave myself a mental thrashing. Crushes, fantasies, and dirty thoughts would not be entertained where my roommate was concerned.
“Do you usually cook like that?” I asked after dropping my bag off at my bed space.
He glanced down at himself. “How do you cook?”
“Usually it involves more clothing.”
“This way, I don’t have to worry about staining my shirt.” Right then, a bubble of sauce popped in the pan, sending a splatter onto his abs, causing him to flinch. I was so not staring at their muscle definition or the web of veins trailing into the waistband of his sweats. After running his fingers across his stomach, he licked off the sauce. “Easy cleanup.”
I’d been so distracted by him licking sauce off his abs, it took me a minute to realize the state of the apartment. Nothing had been cleaned up from earlier. But more mess had been added to the mix.
“We need to talk.” I slid into the kitchen doorway, figuring it would be better to address some apartment rules sooner rather than later.
“Don’t mention it. Really.”
“Don’t mention what?”
His shoulder lifted as he reached for the last two clean plates in the cabinet. “The twenty I spotted you.”
“Thankful as I am for that, it’s actually something else I want to talk about.”
He started plating the chicken. “Shoot.”
“The apartment . . .”
“What about it?” He licked more sauce off his thumb as he moved on to scooping mashed potatoes onto the plates.
“It’s a disaster.” So much for trying to be delicate about it.
He kept working. “If you think this is a disaster, you should have seen the place when it was me and my old roommate.”
That thought made me shudder. “The apartment was clean when I moved in.”
“Yeah?”
“Why was it so clean then and not even close two days later?”
“Because I was trying to make a good impression.” Grabbing the two plates, he moved past me toward the table.
“So you were trying to trick me into moving in with you? Making me think you cleaned up after yourself instead of . . .?” I kicked at his duffel, which was right back to blocking the center of the hallway.
“Instead of what?” He looked up as he set down the plates.
Half of my face pulled up as I debated how to word it without causing offense. “Instead of you not cleaning up after yourself.”
“Are you calling me a slob?” He flattened his hands on the table and stared across the room at me.
This was blowing up in my face, and now I was questioning myself for bringing it up. I’d never had a roommate before—that I wasn’t related to, anyway—and wasn’t sure how to make it a successful partnership. Was it better to be a laid-back type or was it better to bring stuff up before it drove me insane and I exploded on him? “No. I’m not calling you anything. I’m just saying you seem to have a tough time cleaning up after yourself.”
“Translation—I’m a slob.” He settled into his chair and motioned at the one he’d set the other plate in front of.
“You’ve got your jockstraps hanging from the ceiling fan. That’s above the dining room table.” I pointed at the fan as I moved closer.
“I hang them there to dry.” He motioned at the fan too. “If I’m such a slob, you should be grateful I’m at least cleaning them.”
“I’m not calling you a slob. I’m trying to address this in a mature, respectful way.”
He was cutting into his chicken like he had some sort of vendetta against it. “I go to school, play ball, and work. I even try to do my homework on occasion.” He circled his fork at where his backpack looked like it had vomited its contents on the couch. “I’m busy. I don’t have a lot of free time, and what I do have I’m not inclined to spend it cleaning.” He stuffed a bite into his mouth, continuing on as he chewed. “If you had some sort of expectation that your roommate be a neat-freak, you should have mentioned that before you decided to move in.”
“I didn’t have neat-freak expectations, but you did make sure the apartment was clean and organized when I first saw the place.” As I sat down in front of the second plate, my stomach growled. I was hungry, but something felt wrong about eating a meal he’d prepared for me while we were arguing.