Page 31 of There Are No Saints

Don’t be ridiculous,I tell myself.You’ve lived in this house for two years. Nobody comes up here.

Three of my roommates are male, but two of them are gay and the third, Peter, is engaged to my other roommate Carrie. He’s the only one of us who’s not an artist, which means he’s the only person who pays his rent on time. He works at Adobe, and he’s so shy and soft-spoken that we’ve probably only spoken twelve words over the last two years.

Of course, the rest of my roommates have friends over constantly. It’s possible some asshole could have come up here and poked around my stuff.

I sweep the room, wondering if I would notice if anything had been moved.

My copy ofDraculais still right next to the bed, open to the same spot as before.

Other than that . . . how the fuck would I know if someone had been in here?

My heart hammers against my sternum, my hands trembling as I setDraculadown once more.

You’re being paranoid. So your underwear was wet. It’s probably just . . . you know, discharge or some shit.

I don’t want to be this person. Jumping at shadows and thinking everybody is out to get me.

I can’t live like this, terrified and paranoid.

I take several deep breaths, trying to slow my racing heart. I look at my new phone, bought with a credit card.

7:14. I’m really fucking late.

Snatching up my purse once more, I leave the underwear on the floor and hurry out of the room commando. No underwear is probably better than dirty underwear anyway.

* * *

Josh isirritated it took me so long to arrive.

“I’ve been sitting here twenty minutes with this drink!” he says. “The waitress is pissed.”

Our waitress is leaning up against a pillar, flirting with the busboy.

Josh often transfers his own feelings onto other people. Especially me.

“You like the caprese salad, right?” he says, scanning the menu.

“Not particularly.”

He’s not listening, eager to put the order in as soon as he can catch the server’s eye.

“We’ll have the caprese and the pork belly to start,” he says.

I don’t argue, because Josh will be the one paying for the meal. I’m still a broke bitch.

Relaxing a little, Josh slings his arm across the back of my chair.

He’s 5’10, dark-haired, with a tasteful amount of scruff on his face. He’s got classic Polish features, something I’ve always liked, and he reads and watches an immense amount of documentaries, so we’re never forced to sit in silence.

“How’s Bruno doing?” he asks.

Josh likes animals, probably even more than me. He sometimes joins me at the park when I’m walking the dogs. He takes his shirt off and jogs beside us. Any time it’s socially acceptable to take his shirt off, he will.

“Bruno’s good. I fucking hate his owner, though. Buys him the shittiest food. Keeps him locked in that apartment all day.”

“Big dogs are expensive,” Josh says.

While Josh enjoys attacking people who lack compassion, he occasionally defends just such an individual for no goddamn reason at all, something that never fails to aggravate me.

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