Page 9 of The Tenant
I rack my brain, trying to think of what I can say to reassure her. But before the words can come to me, the doorbell rings.
Oh God, it’s another one.
6
Krista answersthe door this time while I brace myself for whoever is on the other side. Who knows what this prospective tenant will be? A convicted murderer in chains? A cannibal? A fire-breathing dragon? At this point, nothing would surprise me.
But the woman standing in the doorway looks…normal.
She doesn’t have piercings going through every bit of loose skin in her face, she isn’t wearing any robes or tinfoil hats, and she isn’t trying to drill a hole in our wall. She’s got straight light brown hair that hangs loosely around her face and simple hoops in each of her ears. She’s around our age—maybe thirtyish—and she’s dressed in blue jeans and a hoodie.
“Hi.” She flashes an endearingly nervous smile. “My name is Whitney Cross.”
Krista beams back at her. “Hi, Whitney. I’m Krista, and this is Blake.”
Whitney sticks out a hand, which we both manage to shake without her having any psychic visions of a bloodbath in the living room—a good sign. This is already going much better than any other interview. “It’s great to meet you both,” she tells us politely.
“So we’re looking for someone to move into the single room upstairs as soon as possible,” Krista says. “Would that timeline work for you?”
Whitney bobs her head. “Yes, my lease ended at my last place, and I’m…um…in between apartments right now. I saw the ad you put up at Cosmo’s Diner, where I work, and it was like a godsend.”
“You work at Cosmo’s?” I ask. It’s a Greek diner about ten blocks from here that I’ve walked by many times but never entered.
“Yes. I’m a waitress.” She smiles politely. “What do you both do?”
“I manage a dry cleaner,” Krista says.
Now Whitney is looking at me, waiting for my answer. Even before my promotion, I used to be proud of what I did. Now I just mumble, “I’m between jobs.”
Krista, the master of subject changes, says, “Would you like to try a cookie? They’re homemade.”
Whitney scores major brownie points by accepting one of the chocolate chip cookies on the dining table and gushing about how delicious it is. She then follows us to the living room and makes all the appropriate oohs and aahs as we show her around.
“This is our fish, Goldy,” Krista says proudly, like she’s our child who just graduated from Harvard. But I can’t say I don’t have a bit of pride over how Goldy does those little loop-de-loops around the bowl. Do all fish do that? I think Goldy might be gifted.
“Cute!” Whitney says, leaning down to look closer.
Krista moves the tour to our kitchen, which is pretty standard, although the way Krista talks about it, you’d think it was a prize onThe Price Is Right. She missed her calling in sales.
“Oh my God, a dishwasher would be heavenly,” Whitney sighs.
“You don’t have one now?” I ask, surprised.
Krista shoots me a look, but it’s a reasonable question. Who doesn’t have a dishwasher in this day and age? Is that a red flag?
Whitney hesitates for a moment, then shakes her head. “No, just the sink.”
“I didn’t have one until we moved in together either,” Krista confides. “Blake here doesn’t understand how the other half lives.”
The two of them share a laugh at my expense. But I don’t even care, because Whitney seemsnice. First impressions can be misleading, but she seems so harmless. Not a cannibal—I’m, like, 99 percent sure.
Maybe this will actually work out.
After we show her around the first floor, we head upstairs. The stacked washer and dryer are at the top of the stairs, and Whitney’s eyes fly open at the sight of them. “Is that what I think it is?”
“You got it!” Krista says. “It’s a washer and dryer. Compact but still way better than lugging your clothes to the laundromat.”
“Oh my God,yes.” Whitney rubs her hands together. “The last time I was there, someone took all my clothes out of the dryer and threw them on the floor! It’s a jungle in there.”
