Page 20 of Jump

I’m living in purgatory, and I have no clue how to escape.

Vivian

HANNIBAL LECTER IS BACK IN TOWN

“I’m Vivian.” I shake a man’s hand and look him up and down as he releases me and walks a lap of my living room.

Hannah’s smile is barely restrained. Her eyes, bugging out of her head as our guest, dressed in tight jeans and a professor’s corduroy jacket, paces and mumbles under his breath.

Something about crown molding. And how my couch doesn’t have enough throw cushions, so his lumbar won’t be supported.

“Uh…” I wipe my hands on the front of my jeans and shoot a look at my best friend when she snickers. “You…” I sit on the edge of my sofa and scratch my neck nervously. Meeting new people stresses me out. “You’re Anthony, right? F-from your email.”

“Anthony Brooks.” He walks all the way to the entryway to the kitchen and peers in, leaning on one foot, so his pants ride up on one side. “Your kitchen is small.”

“Well…” I glare at Hannah when she chokes on her muted giggles. “I consider it the perfect size, actually. But of course, opinion is subjective. The appliances are new, though.”

“Do you cook, Anthony?” Hannah is entirely too entertained. Too perky. Too… fricken happy. And I’m a rotten friend for considering that an inconvenience for me. “Because this is a cooking kind of apartment. The neighbors are accustomed to delicious fragrances coming from that kitchen.”

“No.” He turns back to face me as Hannah goes into a complete meltdown when his bottle-thick glasses magnify his eyes, and the tie he wears sports little ducks and cartoon water splashes. “I don’t cook. Who are you?”

I lift a hand and point my thumb back in my direction. “Me?”

“No, her.” His eyes are comically large. Massive. And move to watch Hannah closely. “You’re mocking me.”

“No!” Her back snaps straight and her laughter stops on a gurgling gulp. “No. I’m just a smiley person. I meant no disrespect, Mr.… uh…”

“Brooks,” he bites out. “You’re asking a thousand dollars a month? For a kitchen as small as yours?”

“Well, I—”

“And a bedroom,” Hannah cuts in. “A bathroom. A massive tub I can personally attest is awesome. You don’t cook anyway, so the kitchen isn’t really a concern for you. But you sleep.” She coughs in the back of her throat to hide ‘we assume’, then she looks my way and smirks. “The bedrooms are spacious, and the closets are a selling point, for sure. However, your lack of cooking is a concern.”

“A concern?” His over-large lips flatten into a long line. “Why is that a concern?”

“Because although you seem to think it is you interviewing us, Mr. Brooks, it is actually us interviewing you. And unfortunately, this,” she points between him and me, “isn’t going to work.”

“How d—”

“So,” she pops to her feet, energetic and bouncy, “you may leave. If you’d like written feedback on your performance today, I’d be happy to provide it in five to seven business days. Don’t call us,” she herds the poor man toward the front door, “we’ll call you.”

I remain in place, my hands in my lap and my nerves sprinting through my veins, until she slams the door shut and the wall rattles in response.

“Goodbye! Have a great day.” She strolls back into the living room and waves as Anthony makes his way downstairs. “Creepo.”

Then she turns to me, wrinkling her nose and lips. “Ew. No.”

“You were rude.” I flop back on the couch and press the heels of my palms to my eyes. “That was not nice.”

“False. He was rude, and I saved you from becoming a skin suit. Who’s next on the list?”

Exhausted, I wave a hand toward my phone, where a list of potential housemates is buried somewhere deep in my email inbox. “Jared something or other. He attends college an hour away, but can’t afford to live in the city. Online lessons mean he can stay home three days a week, and commute the other two.”

I crack a single eye open when the couch compresses under my butt, to find Hannah standing over me, her knee on the cushion so she’s almost straddling me. “He’s young, hip, and knows how to format emails way better than I do,” I grumble.

“Young might mean parties.” She shudders dramatically. “It might mean noisy. Oh gosh, it might mean hell for an introvert!”

“You’re not helping.” I set my hand on her hip and shove her to the left, out of my space. “Larry was a bust. Quinoa was rejected.”

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