Page 3 of Bad at Love

Hope to hear from you soon.

-Gabriel

I send the email and smile to myself at a job well done. If he responds and tells me that he promises to put the seat down, I’ll tell him he can move in. If he says he can’t, I’ll have to wait for more applicants. Marta can be mad all she wants. My ass in toilet water is not an option.

Closing my laptop, I head upstairs to my bedroom to pull out my outfit for work tomorrow. I lay it on the bed as I gather the ironing board and iron from the hallway closet and set it up. It doesn’t take long to iron everything—I’ve been doing this for years, so I’m a pro. Once I’m done, I lay the outfit over the antique chair valet I inherited from my grandfather.

We weren’t close, but we shared a similar style in fashion—also something my mother hates about me. This chair was the only thing he left me in his will, but I appreciate the sentiment. It’s the thought that counts, and I use the chair every day. Money would have been nice, but he’s in the mindset that if you don’t earn something yourself, you don’t deserve it for free. All his money went to my brothers, who are doctors.

The alarm goes off on my watch, alerting me it’s lunchtime. I tidy my room before going downstairs to prepare lunch, and try my hardest not to worry about Storm emailing me back.

Chapter Two

Storm

I stare at the email without a single fucking clue of how to respond.

This guy is concerned about me leaving the toilet seat up… how often does he sit on it? And why would he sit on it without looking at it first? Is he blind or something?

My thumbs hover over the keyboard on my phone, wanting to tell the guy that he’s a psycho and should get some help, but I shouldn’t do that. Not only is it mean, but the neighborhood he lives in is perfect. It’s spacious with privacy, and close enough to my mother that seeing her won’t be a problem. Which is the reason I moved here in the first place.

Money is no problem, but my credit is shit, so renting something myself or even buying, is out of the question. I only have myself to blame for that, but I’m working on it. Stayingwith a stranger will only be temporary. Besides, I don’t plan on staying on the west coast forever, so renting or buying out here would be stupid.

I minimize the email and go back to the photos of the house. It’s set in a quiet, family-oriented neighborhood. There’s a garage at the end of a driveway that could fit three cars front to back. The front yard is raised from the sidewalk about a foot, and there is a porch that is adorned with colorful flowers and decorations. The house sits further back on the property than the others beside it. Meaning, more privacy. Which is what I need in my line of work.

Everyone else I’d applied to room with had a million questions about myself-employment. Questions I wasn’t comfortable answering. Though it turns out my non-answers get as much judgment as my truthful ones, so at this point, I’m not sure which is better to give.

This guy didn’t ask me any of that, though. He doesn’t care what I do for work. He only cares that I put the toilet seat down. That won’t be so hard to do, right? I’ll have my own bedroom, and my own space. It would be stupid to deny this over a freaking toilet seat.

The listing says there are no pets in the house and no pets allowed, so he can’t be worried about an animal drinking from it. Is this guy fucking with me? A basket case? Is he looking for someone to move in so he can kill them? Does he want to break into my room, steal my underwear and wear them? If so, he’s going to have to pay for that, just like everyone else.

I go back to the email and respond—because I need this. I have to be close to my mother, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make that happen.

Hi Gabe-

Are you asking about shared bathrooms or the one that would be mine?

I stare at the line I’m sending him, wondering if it sounds rude. I don’t think it does. The listing states I have my own bathroom, so I can’t imagine why he’d be worried about what I do in there. It’s all really weird.

I hit the send button and run a hand through my hair. I’m getting a headache. I spend too much time on electronics—it’s starting to mess with my eyes. I’m supposed to be taking a break from life today, but I’m tired of staying in this stupid hotel room. There’s nothing to do and I’m going stir crazy. Being new to town, I have no friends to hang out with, and I’m stressed between finding a place and everything going on with my mom that I don’t want to go out in the first place. I’m so backed up on work it’s not even funny.

I look around the spacious hotel room. It’s a good place to make content, so I should use this to my advantage. But I just… can’t. It’s hard to get your dick up when you’re stressed out, despite what some people think.

My phone chimes and I pick it up from the bed beside me.

An email from Gabe. That was fast.

Hello Storm,

Please call me Gabriel.

I was asking about all bathrooms, just in case.

-Gabriel

I stare at the email for a very long time. Like most of his emails, I don’t know how to respond. How am I supposed to live with this guy if we can’t even communicate via email? And I’m a friendly guy. I’m social. A people person. If he’s making me speechless, how is this going to work?

Okay, Storm. Focus. Think.

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