Page 20 of Dear Roomie
I never do.
I’ve been plagued by nightmares for over half my life. They are always the same: red and blue lights shining in from behind the curtains on the front windows of our house, a forceful knock on the door, my mother’s almost inhuman scream as she falls to the floor as grief overtakes her, and watching thecoffin lower into a bottomless pit, feeling like my own soul was going with it. They were worse when I was younger, happening almost every night. Time and therapy helped, but they always come back in unfamiliar environments or when I’m stressed, which means I haven’t gotten a full night’s rest in over a week.
Resigned, I pull myself off the mattress on the floor and head out to the living room. Watching TV has always been my go-to way to cope. James doesn’t know it, but I took her up on her offer to use the living room TV that first night and every night since.
After a few seconds of deliberation, I put on one of my favorite comfort watches,The Adventures of Sir Lancelot. I’ve seen it dozens of times through at this point, but the campy 1950s take on King Arthur and his knights never ceases to amaze me.
Yes, it’s cheesy.
Yes, the acting leaves a lot to be desired.
No, it isn’t even in color.
It doesn’t matter. I love it anyway. Other iterations of the legend do a good job, and I love those too, but none quite capture the magic of chivalry and heroism the same.
The hellhound wakes with a growl as the opening sound of trumpets plays softly through the speakers. This has also become a part of my nightly routine. I realized pretty early that the growls were just for show, but he still hasn’t warmed up to me.
I can change that.
The thought hits me like a lightning bolt. James might be a lost cause, but I can make this dog like me. Then at least someone in this house would be happy to see me.
With my quest in mind, I head to the kitchen to look for a suitable bribe. I’m not above buying this dog’s affection. I search through the cabinets, careful not to mess up the she-devil’s meticulous organization. Even though I’m surenothing is out of place, I guarantee I’ll get a note about leaving things where I found them in the morning. Finding my faults is her superpower.
My fingers itch to ruin it and leave something out where it doesn’t belong. Why am I even trying to please her when it’s never going to be enough? But I resist the urge; kicking the hornet’s nest seems like a bad idea when I have to live with the consequences.
I’m about to give up my search when I find it, the holy grail, a jar of dog treats.
I grab my loot and go sit cross-legged on the floor near where the hellhound rests. He watches me with wary eyes but doesn’t growl again. I’m calling that progress. His head perks up as I take the lid off the jar and hold one out to him with a flat hand. I stay still, letting him make the first move. I never had any pets growing up, but I know better than to try to force this, especially with an animal this on edge. That’s how you end up with a bitten hand.
I suppose James isn’t so different.
She is a scared animal lashing out with anger when she feels threatened. If I’m going to try to salvage this year, I’m going to need to be as nonthreatening as possible and let James lead.
Grover approaches cautiously and sniffs at my hand before devouring the treat in one wet bite. I extend my hand toward him, watching for any signs of aggression, and scratch the coarse fur behind his ear. His tail thumps against the floor, and he licks my face, leaving a trail of saliva.
I think he’s sufficiently charmed.
To be safe, I give him a few more treats while dragging my hands through his fur. I don’t want to give him too many or make him sick, so I take the jar back to the cabinet where I found it. This time, though, I have a hellhound shadow. My shadow persists even after I get comfortable on the couch again, and he jumps up on the seat next to me, curling up to lay his head on my thigh.
That went way easier than I thought. Maybe James will be just as easy.
I choke on a snort of laughter.Like that will ever happen.
I keep petting Grover as I focus back on the screen. My chest feels a little lighter knowing I have one ally in this apartment.
Chapter 9
James
Deep breaths, James. You can do this. The worst he can do is say no.
I raise my fist, poised to knock on Morgan’s door, but chicken out. Again. My arm falls back to my side, and I let out a sigh of defeat. This is the third day in a row I’ve stood outside his door, and it’s the third day that I’ve not followed through. I don’t even know if he’s in there.
We haven’t crossed paths since that day at Cutter’s. The daily disappearance of my notes is the only proof I have that he comes home. He’s taking my insistence that we stay out of each other’s way seriously. I should be grateful. He’s doing exactly what I asked of him, but I didn’t expect him to be this good at avoiding me.
Or for it to be this lonely.
At least it’s been peaceful, or as peaceful as a cold war can be. I’ll take careful avoidance over constant fighting any day. It feels wrong to disrupt it. Pushing Morgan away was hard enough the first time, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to do it again.
