Page 20 of The Tenant
“I’ll tell you what,” she says. “I’m so confident that your first day is going to go well that I’m going to bring back some cake from the diner for us to celebrate tomorrow.”
“What kind of cake?”
“Any kind you want.” She flicks her tongue briefly over her upper lip. “What would you like, Blake?”
And now I’mreallyglad that throw pillow is on my lap.
Still, nothing is going to happen between me and Whitney. Not now—not ever. I’d never do that to Krista in a million years.
Although sheisvery attractive.
“Whatever kind you want.” I clear my throat. “As long as it looks like a piano.”
My joke breaks the tension as Whitney and I passionately debate whether the drum kit on screen might actually be cake. I’m even able to eventually abandon the pillow. We end up watching TV for the next several hours, exchanging occasional commentary but mostly just sharing the space and eating cookies. I pass out on the sofa around three in the morning, and when I wake up, my neck stiff and aching, Whitney is gone.
11
Today ismy first day of the stupid temp job. I’m dreading it.
But I have to take it seriously. Because the agency suggested that if I do well, this could turn into a permanent position. And it’s a reputable company, where I might have a chance to claw my way back into a decent job again. I’ve got a chance anyway.
So I set my alarm for seven thirty in the morning, giving myself ample time to make it to the office by nine if I forgo my workout. I stumble into the shower, returning to my old ritual of starting my day off with freezing cold water to wake me up.
When I can’t stand it another second, I switch the water temperature back to hot, but unfortunately, all I can coax out of the showerhead is a lukewarm stream. Krista is still asleep in our bed, so it must have been Whitney who showered early this morning and used up all the hot water. Damn it. Not a great start.
I reach for the bottle of soap, resigning myself to a barely warm shower. But when I attempt to squeeze a dollop into my hand, nothing comes out.
What the hell?
I squeeze more firmly, shaking the bottle this time. No luck. The bottle of soap is completely empty.
Obviously, Whitney used it all up. Granted, I did give her permission to use my soap, but this bottle was half full only a few days ago. Who uses that much soap? Worse, when I try to squeeze out some of my combined shampoo and conditioner to wash my hair, that bottle is empty too.
I have no choice but to use Krista’s girly soap and shampoo. So when I climb out of the lukewarm shower, my hair smells like coconut and apricots, and my body smells like lemon and vanilla instead of just smelling like freakingclean.
All right, it’s fine. I’ll talk to Whitney about the shower products. I was trying to be a nice guy, but clearly, sharing is not going to work out.
I get dressed quietly, trying not to wake Krista. Despite how much I’m dreading this job, it feels good to be going back to work. Even though I was accused of awful things, my career is not over. It’s just a temporary setback.
I knot my tie the way I taught myself to during my first year as a marketing intern. I check it in the full-length mirror in our bedroom, and it looks perfect. I don’t look like a temp. I look like a vice president.
They say you’re supposed to dress for the job you want. It’s just a matter of time.
My mother taught me that breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and it’s one of the few pieces of advice from her that stuck with me. No matter how big of a rush I’m in to get to work, I always eat something. There’s definitely no time for a power breakfast, but before I run out to catch the subway going downtown, I head to the kitchen to have a quick bowl of cereal. Frosted Flakes aren’t exactly the breakfast of champions, but the influx of sugar will do me good.
I grab the box of cereal from where I left it and shake it over the ceramic bowl. Nothing comes out, so I shake it again, tilting it to the side until it is upside down, at which point a little pile of sugar and some cornflake dust drops into my bowl.
Seriously?
Apparently, giving Whitney permission to use my products turned into a free-for-all. She used them until they were completely gone. Without evensayinganything, like,Hey, we need more cereal, Blake.I mean, who the hell finishes a box of cereal, then puts it right back on the counter?
And now I’ve got to leave in about ten minutes, and there’s nothing for me to eat.
I grind my teeth in frustration. Impulsively, I grab the empty box of cereal off the counter and hurl it at the floor.
That was not the smartest thing I’ve ever done. The box bounces as it hits the kitchen floor, sprinkling bits of sugar and cornflake crumbs everywhere.
Crap.
