Page 2 of Bad at Love

“He admitted he leaves the toilet seat up and didn’t fill in what his routine is. How am I supposed to know if I can live with him if I don’t know his routine? His name is Storm—what kind of name isthat? Oh, and there’s a typo.”

It’s silence on the other end and I can practically hear her slow blinking at me. I seem to be the only one who can get Marta to be quiet for a few seconds, but of course, it’s never when I want her to be. She tells me I stun her so badly that her brain misfires. That’s not a real thing, but whatever makes her feel better, I guess.

“Gabriel, you’re joking,” she finally says.

Why would I joke about something like that? She knows I take these things very seriously.

“I can forward you the email if you want to look at it.”

“I mean you’re joking aboutcomplainingabout those things!” she says loudly. “Ay Dios Mio.”

“I never joke about the toilet seat, Marta. When I was a little kid, I fell in. I’ll never forget the way that cold water felt on my ass. It was terrifying, and I still have nightmares about it.”

“Your ass is too big to fit into a toilet bowl, Gabriel!”

I frown and wonder if that’s true. Do I have a big ass? No one has ever said that to me before. Though, I guess I don’t talk to many people who would. I stand up from my chair and move to the hallway, where there is a tall mirror on the wall. I turn sideways, the phone still pressed to my ear, and look at my ass. It’s a little bubbly, but not huge. I face forward again. My hips aren’t very wide, at least not more than average, but I guess as an adult male, they may be too wide to fit into a toilet. I’ll have to do measurements to be sure…

My gaze travels up my body, settling on my mop of dark hair. These curls have always been unruly. My mother complained about them every spare second she had, and when I was younger, even brought me to get my hair straightened. Sitting through that, dealing with the smell and sounds of a hair salon, was torture. She forced me through it three times. I like the way my hair looks, but it doesn’tlook proper.When I cut them short, it looks like a frizz ball or Top Ramen. I run my hand through them and watch them bounce back into place. They’re nice like this.

“Gabriel!”

“Hm, what?” I say, turning to my side to give my ass another looksee. It’s really not big. I think it could fit into a toilet.

“Are you even listening to me?”

“No,” I answer honestly.

“Dios Mio!” She continues on a rampage in Spanish, spouting off things I don’t understand but hear all the time. This is another thing she frequently does when speaking to me. Honestly, I’m not sure why she is friends with me. All she does is complain and yell. “Listen, Gabriel, and listen good. It’s been months, and you need the financial help. The last thing you want to do is go live with your parents.” A shiver runs up my spine at those words. It’s a last resort. I couldn’t handle living with them—if they’d even allow it. “So suck it up, email this Thunder Storm back, and tell him he can move in immediately. If you don’t, it’s back to Hell with El Diablo!”

I shake my head as I move back to my laptop. Her shouting used to scare me, but I’m used to it now.

“I don’t know, Marta…” I open the email again, clicking on the attachment. “The typo—”

“Fuck the typo! If you do not email that man back and tell him he can move in, I swear I will find a hacker to get into your email and do it for you.”

“No need. You know my passwords.”

She mumbles something under her breath in Spanish. When she speaks this time, her voice is much more calm. “Gabriel, I’m trying to help you. This is the best and most normal application you’ve gotten so far. Would you rather go with the fifty-year-old man who said he jerks off before going to bed every night to help him sleep?”

I shrug, even though she can’t see me. “At least he puts the toilet seat down.”

She screeches so loud I pull the phone away from my ear, then she shouts, “Email Storm!”

I’m staring at the screen when the call ends. I sigh and put my phone down, then bury my face in my hands. I hate that this is what my life has become. Living with a stranger? How am I going to handle that? How am I going to open this houseup to someone I don’t know and allow it to be theirs too? It was supposed to be mine and Tara’s. Technically, it still is. The court won’t remove her name because she hasn’t been gone long enough, but she isn’t coming back and she doesn’t want to be found. Changed her number, email, and no more social media. It’s causing me too many problems.

My fiancée left me at the altar and disappeared. The life we planned out is now nothing but a foggy memory. In the blink of an eye, my world was turned upside down. And now I’m struggling to pay the mortgage here, alone, and have no one to ask for help.

Okay, not entirely true. I could ask my parents for help, but that’s only if I want to deal with them throwing it in my face for the rest of my life. I still haven’t decided if asking them for money to help pay the bills would be worse than asking to move in with them. The first thing they would do is complain about my lack of a college education and blame my problems on that. Because anything less than a PhD doesn’t count, according to them. It doesn’t matter that I’m still helping people—in the medical field, mind you. I’m not a doctor, therefore, I’m not good enough.

I sigh and read over Storm’s application one more time. Maybe the fourth time won’t be so bad.

Well, it’s still bad, but with thoughts of living with my parents, I decide to email Storm.

Dear Storm,

I have one question before I make my final decision.

Is it possible to put the toilet seat downallthe time? It’s a pet peeve of mine.

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