Page 6 of Renegade Roomie

Tara pauses. “I love the color, but to tell the truth, it was kind of sticky,” she says.

“Right,” someone else agrees. “My hair kept getting stuck.”

I grab my phone to take notes. “OK, so the base needs work. What about the color, did it last long enough… ?”

* * *

After a page of feedback plus some more impromptu makeovers, I head out, back to my apartment to collapse for the night. I live in a gorgeous Art Deco building on the Upper West Side, brimming with character, just like my apartment: Built-in bookcases, intricately-scrolled crown molding, and a massive brick fireplace that’s perfect on frigid winter nights.

And if you’re wondering how I can afford an amazing place like that working retail, well… That’s kind of a long story.

I enter the immaculate lobby, and immediately hunch my shoulders, slinking toward the elevator, almost rounding the corner, when—

“There’s a package here for you, Miss Delgado.”

I quickly spin around. “Thanks, Henry!” I beam at the doorman. “You’re the best.”

“How’s your aunt getting along?” Henry asks, friendly, as he hands the package to me. “Where is she now, Europe?”

“I think so, it’s hard to keep track!” I blurt. “Goodnight!”

I bolt to the elevator, and it’s not until the doors slide shut behind me that I can relax. See, everything about my apartment is great, except for one teensy-tiny little catch.

It doesn’t actually belong to me.

See, the name on the rental agreement is still Celia Delgado—my aunt. She passed away earlier this year, and I drew the short straw to come box up her things. And when I say short straw, I mean my entire family actually drew straws because nobody wanted to go out of their way to lift a finger for that witch, alive or otherwise.

Because Aunt Celia was… Thorny. She’d basically alienated half my family and feuded with the rest, thanks to her delightful mix of stubbornness, ego, cruelty, and some rather outdated opinions on, well, everything. In the end, it fell to me to go clear out her place and get it cleaned up, and that’s only because my mom said I could take her mint-condition collection of Harlequin romance novels as a reward.

The woman had been living here since the Seventies, so it was no small job, let me tell you. But while I was up to my elbows in lavender potpourri and back issues of Reader’s Digest magazine, there was a knock at the door. A fresh-faced kid from the building management company was doing the rounds introducing himself. Apparently, the building had just changed hands, and he wanted to remind Celia to re-sign her lease.

Her jaw droppingly cheap, rent-controlled lease.

It was a split-second reaction, but before I knew it, I was telling him that actually, my beloved aunt had just set sail on the cruise of a lifetime, and would be gone the next few months. While I, her dutiful niece, was taking care of the place for her.

I know, I know. Bad Callie. But can you really blame me? I was living in a shoebox in Bushwick with only a fake partition wall keeping me from my roommate’s enthusiastic nightly threesomes.

And that girl had stamina.

Besides, it was kind of true. Celia was on the adventure of a lifetime… just not this lifetime.

I thought someone would figure it out soon enough, but until then, I’d enjoy the comfort of a large one-bedroom with a soaking tub and additional study nook. Except… They still haven’t busted me yet. I extended Aunt Celia’s cruise, and then threw in a trip to Europe, and South America, and back to Italy for more pasta and gelato. And if my neighbors noticed something hinky, well, they’ve never said a word. After all, I helped Mrs. Danbury paint her foyer, and watched the Kowalski kids during a snowstorm, and help Madam Joliet down the hall with her makeup when she has a hot date for bingo night.

And it’s not like I’m not paying more than rent for my little white lie…

As I unlock my door, a high-pitched shriek greets me the second I walk inside. “Who’s a crusty old whore?”

And there’s the real price of my comfort: Perched in a golden cage, a parrot cocks his head, pinning me with one beady black eye. “Hideous busybody,” he blurts with a loud squawk. “Shame! Shame!”

“Yeah yeah,” I sigh. “Hello to you, too.”

Besides the antique wooden pieces and pinstriped loveseats in cream and gray and the rest of Aunt Celia’s tasteful if slightly stuffy furnishings, I’ve inherited her blue and gold Macaw parrot, Marlon Brando. His verbal repertoire runs the gamut from inappropriate yet amusing to, quick, run and grab the brain bleach awful. Unsurprising, given my aunt’s tendency toward casual narcissism and, uh, sexually controversial comments.

I’ve seriously considered rehoming Brando, but I can never bring myself to pull the trigger. Since I lucked out with the apartment, it’s only fair that I care for everything I found in it.

Even if one of those items is a bitchy, feathered troll masquerading as a pet.

After making sure Brando has bird seed and fresh water, I check my voicemail.

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