Page 18 of Roommating

“Maybe I’m a stamp collector.”

I give him a side glance. “Are you?”

His lips quirk. “No. I just have the basic Forever stamp twenty pack.”

“I can get you set up if you want… like I did with Marcia,” I say on a whim. The door opens to our floor and I rush out first, surprised by my own boldness.

We walk down the hall in the direction of Rocket’s barking. Ignoring my offer, Adam says, “Do you think he knows we’re home, or does he bark whenever the elevator opens on our floor?”

Either he has no idea I’m onto him or he has a superb poker face, but I’m relieved because I haven’t decided how to play this yet. I ignore him right back, even though I know that Rocket barks every single time the elevator opens on our floor unless he’s asleep, something Adam would also know if he paid any attention.

The second we enter the apartment, I hang my winter coat in the hall closet and try to make a mad dash to my room until Carley gets here. Only Rocket intercepts my plan and hurls himself at me, seemingly to get his mouth on the stack of mail I’m holding. I let my school bag fall off my shoulder onto the living room rug.

“Not for you,” I say lovingly, patting his head with my free hand. Playing nice doesn’t work as Rocket tries to climb my legs. I pose like I’m about to toss the mail for him to fetch. When Rocket’s eyes follow the direction of my hand, I race to the kitchen and drop the stack on the table. Although anything on the warm oak hardwood floor is up for grabs, even Rocket knows the table is off-limits.

“How was your day?”

I take a deep breath through my nose and turn around.

Leaning against the wall where the living room meets the kitchen, Adam grins. “What’s the most interesting thing that happened at the library?”

I have told him some of the more entertaining stories from work, like the time the fire alarm went off because a staff member burned their macaroni and cheese in the microwave. Everyone willingly evacuated except one patron who wanted to stay back to retrieve his print job… coincidentally a recipe for homemade mac and cheese. I initially basked in Adam’s seemingly sincere interest about the library, but now I just feel duped.

Nothinginterestinghappened today aside from Gabe’s warning to “watch my back” in case my new roommate plants drugs in my room. Maybe I should tell himthat. I’m still contemplating when Rocket dashes back into the living room and I see him chew on the school bag I dropped on the lavender-and-gray shag rug. “Rocket. No!” The Herschel Little America Backpack, the same shade of blue as Adam’s eyes (not that I noticed) with pastel-pink straps, was a gift from my mom for Hanukkah. At over a hundred dollars, I couldn’t afford to buy it for myself. My love for Rocket is unconditional, but he’s testing the boundaries of my devotion right now.

Rocket pretends he can’t hear me and continues to gnaw on the strap of my beloved bag like it’s a bone from a rib eye steak.

“Rocket!”

At the sound of Adam’s voice, Rocket releases the strap from his mouth and darts over to him.

“Thanks,” I mumble grudgingly. How does hedothat?

The doorbell rings.

“Who is it?” Adam and I ask at the same time.

“Me.”

“Helpful.” Adam chokes out a laugh and heads for the door.

“It’s for me,” I say, racing in front of him to let Carley in.

My friend’s long, straight dark hair is tucked under a sparkly blueberry winter hat that matches her eyes, and she’s wearinga leopard-print puffer jacket and baggy Levi’s. She smiles brightly between me and Adam crowding her at the threshold. “I feel so welcome!”

I take a step back to let her in the apartment. “Carley, meet Adam. Adam, this is Carley.”

I lead us into the living room where Carley appraises Adam slowly, like he’s a painting at the MoMA. “So you’re Marcia’s grandson.”

He grins. “I am. And you’re the makeup artist slash influencer. Congrats on the off-Broadway gig.”

Her eyes slide to me. “You’ve been talking about me?”

“You’ve come up once or twice.” I glance toward my bedroom, anxious to get these introductions over with.

“She’s proud of you,” Adam says, looking at me not at all like someone who would plant drugs in my room.

Carley throws a hand to her heart and beams. “I’m proud of my punk-ass book jockey too! And I’m proud of you too.”

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