Page 24 of The Tenant
I grab my glass off the coffee table, even though it’s half full. I don’t need anything. But I’d like to have a few words with Whitney Cross alone in the kitchen.
When I get there, Whitney is staring at the microwave as a Styrofoam container slowly rotates. She must have brought it home from the diner. She swats at a fruit fly buzzing around her ear, not looking up at me.
“I’ll be out of your way in a minute,” she says. “So you and Krista can continue having sex on the couch.”
“We weren’t—”
“I’m not stupid, Blake.”
I came in here to apologize, but instead, I want to throw something at her. “So what if we were? It’smyhouse, Whitney. You’re just renting out a room.”
“Yep. You’ve made that abundantly clear.” She flicks her ponytail over her shoulder. “Don’t worry. I don’t want to useyourTV, especially without giving you notice.”
Christ, why is she soangry? “Look, Whitney,” I sigh. “We don’t have to be best friends, but if you’re going to live here, we need to at least get along. If I did something to upset you—”
“If?” she snorts. “Are you really that dense?”
“I’m sorry,” I say tightly. “I’m very sorry I upset you. And…maybe we can start fresh.”
The microwave dings. Whitney pulls out the Styrofoam container, which has a burger and fries inside. A reheated cheeseburger and fries don’t seem very appealing, but Whitney doesn’t seem to mind.
“Do you remember,” she says, “when you were all worried about your new job, and I was comforting you, and I told you that I thought you’d do great because you’re smart and charismatic and good-looking and shit?”
“Uh, yeah…”
“Well, none of that is true.” Her gaze sears into me so intensely that I take a step back. “The reason you’ll succeed—the reason youhavesucceeded—is because you’re a self-absorbed asshole. You like to pretend that you’re a good guy, but deep down, you know you’re a terrible person.”
I gape at her. Is she really this worked up because I asked her not to use my soap? This girl is out of her mind. “Whitney…”
“Enjoy the movie with your girlfriend.” She brushes past me, hard enough to jostle my shoulder. “You better hope she doesn’t wise up and figure out what you’re really like. But for her sake, I hope she does.”
I stand in the kitchen, trying to compose myself as Whitney’s feet stomp up the two sets of stairs and the door to her bedroom slams shut. What the hell was that? Okay, I admit it wasn’t the nicest thing in the world to show up at the diner and give her a hard time, but did I really deserve that tirade?
I’m not an asshole. Sure, I’ve done a few shitty things in my life. You don’t get a competitive marketing VP job by being a nice guy. But there are worse people out there than me.
In any case, I’ve got to keep a close eye on Whitney.
14
If I haveto stay in this meeting one more second, I’m going to lose my mind.
In the month I’ve been at this temp job, my expected contribution to meetings has been made very clear: I take minutes. I am not expected to come up with ideas or talk or think. I just write down what everyone else says and what time they said it. It’s important work. (Not.)
I’ve got a paper and pen out because I haven’t been granted a laptop, and for the first twenty minutes of the meeting, I was doing a great job taking notes—I was a temp superstar—but over the next twenty minutes, that has changed drastically. I have become increasingly distracted by an intense itching sensation over my entire chest and arms. It is all I can think about.
I’ve been noticing it more and more. Not every day, but lately, I’ve been itchy more often than not. And today is the worst it’s ever been.
“Porter?”
I rub my fingers along my forearm, but what I really want to do is rip open my shirt and scratch at my chest for five straight minutes or until I draw blood, whichever comes first. I don’t know what’s under my shirt, but the angry red is now creeping out from under my sleeve.
“Porter!”
My head snaps up. My boss, a guy named Kenny who is definitely no older than thirty, is staring at me. I grip my pen tighter, pretending I’m writing down whatever boring crap they were just discussing about synergistic solutions. Taking minutes at a meeting is such a shit job. I didn’t even know companies did that anymore. “Sorry,” I mutter.
“So what are you waiting for?” Kenny asks me.
I raise my eyes to look up at his clean-shaven face. He obviously asked something of me when I wasn’t paying attention because I was too distracted trying not to scratch my own skin off, and now I have no idea what it is. All I can do is stare at him blankly.
