Page 34 of Homebody
When she’d delayed as long as she could without making him suspicious, she returned to the living room, the two beer cans in her hands. “Sorry. I realized I only own coffee mugs. Not any actual glasses. Did you want one of those for your beer?”
“No. This is fine. Really.” He stood and reached for one can, pulled up the tab and popped open the beer with a hiss of carbonation. Sitting on a white plastic lawn chair that she’d put a padded seat cushion on, he said, “So, this is… nice.”
Sitting opposite him in a small wooden chair that she suspected had once belonged in a school, she pulled her mouth to one side. “You don’t have to lie. I know it’s shit.”
“It’s not shit. It’s just…”
“A dorm-room-décor-meets-Victorian-architecture aesthetic?”
He wobbled his head with a smile. “Apt description.”
Yes, it was an apt description, because that’s exactly what it was. Old wooden furniture she’d found along the curb or bought second-hand at Red’s thrift shop sat next to cheap dollar store purchases. That mingled with inexpensive pressboard box-store furniture. The assemble-it-yourself kind that came in a flat box with lots of parts and confusing instructions.
The modern lines and stark white color of what little furniture she’d purchased new looked extra out of place—not to mention minuscule—against the ornate style of the turn-of-the-century building with its heavy dark wood molding, tall windows and even taller ceilings.
It was a real shit show. It was all too cheap and mismatched to even call iteclecticor evenshabby chicbut it had suited her purposes fine—at least until now.
At least her bedroom wasn’t so bad. In fact, it was her favorite room in the house. The room that felt the mosther.
It was more than where she slept. It was where she worked, even where she ate, usually while working.
The bedroom was filled with things she loved. Stacks of treasured books, both fiction and non-fiction, cluttered the floor. So many they kind of formed pieces of furniture on their own.
One lone plant she hadn’t managed to kill—a potted lavender that smelled as lovely as it looked—sat atop one book stack piled in front of the window that looked out into the side yard and got the morning sun.
A matted and framed postcard from a hundred years ago featuring the old inn, Mudville House on Main Street, had been a purely decorative splurge. An unnecessary indulgence purchased because she couldn’t resist it in Red’s shop. It had cost double what she’d paid for the five-dollar wooden chair she’d bought that day, but the visual reminder of the history that surrounded her daily life here in Mudville made her happy.
As for actual furniture, she had a decent enough bed to sleep in, only because it had come with the apartment. It was small, that weird size that was bigger than a twin but smaller than a queen, but it was good enough for her.
It’s where she sat while she streamed movies on her laptop. The single-drawer side table with one broken leg had been rescued from the curb. It stood next to the bed, conveniently in front of one of the room’s two electrical outlets. It served nicely to corral all the devices she needed to charge daily.
Off the bedroom was, thank goodness, a really nice closet. Back in the Victorian days it was probably used to stow the household’s linens with its built-in shelves and drawers. Someone had installed a closet rod too, so it organized her limited, though growing thanks to this new bad girl gig, wardrobe nicely.
The living room hadn’t faired as well—decor wise—as the bedroom had. There she only had a pair of folding snack tables, which served as an occasional place to eat. And of course, the two chairs she and Dean currently sat on.
Technically it was enough furniture for her to have company over, if the guest-list was limited to one person or perhaps a group of frat boys used to worse.
It wasnotenough furniture to keep her from being embarrassed though. As an adult woman she should have more, do more, with the apartment.
Again she wondered what the hell she’d been thinking inviting Dean over.
What he must be thinking of her… although it did suit her fake persona.
In reality she was a struggling student who refused to ask her parents for money. But it could look completely differently to Dean. To him it might look like how a party girl who didn’t give a shit, who took odd jobs but didn’t work all that hard, might live.
Funny how her real life and her imaginary life diverged so greatly in some areas but had such a close crossover in others.
She realized she was in her own head and had completely forgotten to include her guest in the conversation. And this was why she was no good at dating.
Glancing up she saw he was smiling.
Her expression must have said what her mouth didn’t, the unspoken question of what he found amusing, because he said, “Sorry. I just… I can see your mind working. What’s going on inside that pretty little head of yours?”
The wordprettythrew her, as did his comment and question. Scrambling for a reply she finally came up with, “Just that I really did have a nice time tonight.”
“Nice,” he repeated with a chuckle. “High praise indeed.”
Crud. She was messing this up royally.
