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?”

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