Page 7 of On the Line
I closemy bedroom door behind me, freshly showered and smiling from this afternoon’s small win. Even with the furniture I bought, my room still looks bare—empty white walls, and a popcorn ceiling. Sad and uninviting, like a wilted balloon clinging onto the memories of joy and laughter.
I alsopleasantlydiscovered that the window was completely painted shut. I wasted a whole afternoon and ruined a perfectly good palette knife trying to crack the paint. Now that I know how fast money can just … disappear, it hurt to even buy a fan for this place.
It felt frivolous somehow.
My roommate Steve and I barely talk. Which is perfectly fine by me. He keeps to himself and I keep to mine.
The one tangible thing I miss from still living at home is the clawfoot bath in my ensuite, which I had imported from Italy.
Here, the only thing I dare to take are showers, and that’s only if I don’t look down and avoid making eye contact with the grime on the tiles. Even cleaning a bathroom myself was a learning curve. But, at least between these four walls, the decisions I make are my own.
The mistakes too.
While sitting on my bed, my wet hair dripping onto my shoulders, towel wrapped loosely around my body, my phone rings.
“Hey, I was just about to call you,” I say a little hesitantly, not sure if Zachary has warmed up since this morning.
I had been right about his sour mood. We fought for over an hour when I got home from the park, with him accusing me of flirting with his friend Yannick while at a frat party over the weekend. His accusations were completely unfounded as usual, still, I had to plead my case as if they were.
It’s a bizarre feeling having to constantly defend myself for things I haven’t even done.
It would be a lot simpler to just cheat instead. I’m still being accused of it whether it’s true or not.
“Were you?” Zachary snaps. “This is my third time calling in a row. Where the hell have you been?”
My heart drops, guilt making me chew on my bottom lip.
I hadn’t realized I had missed any calls.
“Sorry I was in the showe?—”
“Probably fucking that roommate of yours,” he sniffs indignantly.
“Zachary, how many times do I have to tell you that nothing is going on between me and Steve?” I reply with exasperation.
“I hate that you live in that shithole.”
“Yeah, you’ve said that already.” Rolling my eyes in exasperation.
He huffs. “Whatever.”
My fist tightens around my towel, a bottomless well of frustration bubbling inside of me.
“Were you really calling just to keep tabs on me?” My voice is hard, it’s a gamble, I might just be making everything worse for myself.
He stays silent for a beat then answers, “I’m going up north to Gran’s cottage tomorrow for the weekend. You’re coming with me.”
“Can’t. I found a job. My first shift is tomorrow,” I reply, partly relieved that I can avoid spending time with his family, especially his hyper-conservative grandmother.
“I already told the whole family you’re coming, you’re trying to make me look bad, Jamie.”
“I’m nottryinganything, Zachary.” My tone noticeably softer. “I need this job.”
A few loaded seconds pass before he speaks again. “So you found a job,” he scoffs. “Where?”
“Just this restaurant downtown.”
“And you weren’t going to tell me?”
