Page 3 of The Ground Beneath Our Feet
But I couldn’t object, because she’d get her feelings hurt. Cooking and sewing were the few things she could do for others. Otherwise, I cleaned the house, handled her finances, and took care of pretty much everything else.
She couldn’t live without me. As much as I loved her, I resented her, because I’d been stuck here since childhood. I lived at home for college and law school at UCLA. I was long overdue to leave home. But could I?
I gave her a kiss and went to my room, the same childhood room I’d lived in my whole life. Even when I had a steady boyfriend, I didn't move out. We’d just go to his house to mess around, which didn't happen much given the fact that I really didn't like him—or anyone—touching me. Flipping open my laptop that I’d bought with scholarship money, I found myself pulling up Craigslist to search for rooms to rent in Santa Barbara.
Dreaming.
What if I had a home up there?
I wasn’t doing anything wrong, right? I was just looking.
Hundreds of rooms for rent popped up on the search. So many ads! I started reading. They were all so expensive!
I got lost looking up addresses, because I didn’t know the area, and I didn’t have any friends up there. I wouldn’t want to end up on the nightly news for being murdered or raped for picking a bad Craigslist ad.
Not that I was really going.
Room for rent, Goleta area near UCSB, share expenses with 4 guys from Delta Tau Chi, recreational marijuana use encouraged.
Uh. No.
SWM seeks curvy female roommate, 25-35 to share expenses and enjoy long walks on the beach.
This was a stupid idea. What kind of freaks lived up in Santa Barbara?
I kept scrolling and almost slammed my laptop shut, but I came across one that looked okay.
Room available for rent. $1000 Non-smoking, no drinking, no drugs. Near downtown. Single male professional roommate. Pets ok.
That didn’t sound that bad. It was crazy expensive, but they all were. A thousand dollars just for a room? I had money saved up from my job, so I could cover it.
I looked at the pictures in the ad of a sunlit, old-fashioned room and a pretty Victorian house on a tree-lined street.
No.
I shut my laptop.
God, I just wanted my own life for once!
I opened my laptop and emailed the contact.
I’m a first year attorney, and I need a room to rent in Santa Barbara for a new job. I don’t know how long, just until I get on my feet. I’m quiet and nonsmoking. I don’t drink or do drugs.
Immediately, I received a response.
It’s yours. PayPal me the first month’s rent. Mikey Tate.
What was I doing? I wasn’t taking the job.
I glanced around my room, but nothing there had changed in years.
Help. I needed help. That usually came in the form of my best friend, Monica. I picked up my phone. In a stroke of luck, she answered my call—she cut hair, but I’d caught her between clients—and after I summarized my dilemma, she sighed.
“So let me get this straight. You finally have the opportunity to leave the hellhole you call home—” I started to interrupt, but she cut me off with, “Oh, it is, and you know it, even if he’s passed. That dragon’s dead, but you’ve still been burned.” I shut up, and she continued. “You’re such a classic millennial, living at home after college. You’ve got skills and smarts. Go use them.”
I tucked my hair behind my ear and got up off my chair. “Do you think my mom will be okay, though? She’s used to me taking care of things for her.”
“Girl. You’ve lived your entire life doing everything for other people. This is your chance to finally live your own life. You know you want to.”
