Page 44 of Resisting my Roommate

With all the hours I’ve worked at the taproom and the generous tips I’ve received from many locals, I’ve been able to save a decent amount of money.

More money than I made in a month at my nonprofit job.

Despite being in a good position to pay rent, Jude still refuses to accept a single penny from me. Instead, I’ve made sure to contribute in other ways, like buying groceries and other household necessities.

But a couple hundred bucks on groceries seems inadequate compared to everything he’s done for me, so I decided to use my day off today to clean the townhouse. It’s not a disaster zone by any means —Jude’s a pretty tidy roommate — but it’s probably been a while since anyone’s given the floors and countertops a good scrub.

When I lived with Carson, I hated spending an entire day cleaning. With him, cleaning and cooking were expected duties,since he was supporting me financially, even if he was the one to suggest it.

It’s different with Jude. He’s never once asked anything of me, other than being on time for work and friendly to his customers. Which is why I don’t mind spending my day cleaning. Iwantto do something nice for him in return for all the kindness he’s shown me.

I sing along with Chappell Roan on one of my playlists, not caring who might see or hear. I shouldn’t be this happy while cleaning. But since arriving in Sycamore Falls and being welcomed like I’ve always lived here, it’s difficultnotto be happy.

To not feel like I belong.

During my time here, I’ve formed amazing friendships I’ll remember for the rest of my life.

Every Monday morning, I have a standing coffee date with Jude’s mother, where she catches me up on the latest gossip she’s picked up while working at the salon.

Every other Wednesday, I attend a meeting of the unofficial Sycamore Falls Dirty Book Club, which Dylan convinced me to join, along with Haley, Beckham’s wife, their friend, Parker, and the beloved Grandma Estelle. Even though she’s not technically a grandmother, I can see why everyone in town loves and admires her. She’s a riot to be around, and is responsible for my discovery of a genre of romance I didn’t think was needed —monster erotica.

But my favorite thing to do is go bowling with Jude on Sunday night. It’s become the highlight of my week.

I’d like to think it’s become the highlight of Jude’s week, too.

Over the past several weeks, I’ve definitely improved. I’m not nearly as good as Jude, but a spare isn’t a rarity anymore. In fact, I’ve even managed to hit a few strikes.

I’ve only been here for a little over a month, but I can’t imagine being anywhere else at this point in my life. While I know I can’t stay here forever, this place is what I need right now. It’s helped heal my soul and give me hope. Maybe that’s why I haven’t actively started to look for one in my field yet. Because once I find a job, I’ll have to say goodbye to Sycamore Falls. I’m not ready to do that quite yet.

With the refrigerator cleaner and more organized than it’s probably been in ages, I set my sights on mopping the floors.

Provided Jude owns some sort of mop.

I check in all the obvious places — the entryway closet, laundry room, garage — but come up empty. Maybe he doesn’t have one.

I’m about to walk down to the hardware store to grab one when I remember the closed door on the second floor. It must be a closet. Maybe it’s in there.

Heading up the stairs, I walk past my bedroom and approach the door opposite the guest bathroom. As I do, an unsettling chill trickles down my spine, a strange premonition washing over me.

What if I’m wrong? What if it’s not a closet, but a room he’s kept closed for some reason? But what would that be?

Because he’s a modern-day Norman Bates and is keeping a mummified version of his mother in this room? That’s ridiculous. Not to mention, I’m more than aware his mother is alive and well.

And not a mummy.

Shaking off my unease, I place my hand on the doorknob and turn. As the door opens with a loud creak, every inch of me freezes in place.

I was wrong.

This isn’t a closet.

It’s a room.

And not just any room.

It’s a nursery.

The blinds are drawn tight, allowing only a few slivers of light to filter through. The air feels heavy and stagnant, a thick layer of dust coating every surface, confirming my suspicion that no one has entered this room in quite some time.

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