Blair
“This is it,” I declare to the young, dark-haired woman behind me. “Home sweet home. Feel free to take a look around.”
She steps into the entryway, and her eyes immediately gaze up at the ornate wooden design on the ceiling—one of my favorite features of the house. There are a lot of older homes on this block, but my house is the prettiest, most original of them all, thanks to grandmother’s creative mind and grandfather’s carpentry skills.
“Wow,” she murmurs, glancing down at one of the flyers I’d posted all around campus over the last few weeks. “I was expecting a shit hole for this price, but this place is actually pretty decent. A little old and musty, but not bad.”
Strike one. I grit my teeth and try to smile, but it’s taking every ounce of manners I have to keep a straight face. Grandmother taught me to never make rash decisions based on a first impression, but I can already tell this woman’s not the kind of roommate I’m looking for. Just as I think this, Jinx hisses from the landing upstairs.
“I don’t like cats,” she scowls, looking in Jinx’s direction. “Is he always inside?”
“She’s a girl,” I answer flatly. If I let this woman stay here, Jinx would leave furball gifts in all her shoes, and dead mice in her bed. “And yes, she’s an indoor cat.”
“I see,” she huffs.
From creepy guys to foreign students who didn’t speak a single word of English, the entire process of finding new tenants has been nothing short of a nightmare. Why in the hell did my best friends have to graduate early? The better question might be, why did I pick a program that required graduate school to be licensed? After nearly three weeks of showings, and no reasonable person to fill a vacancy, I’m really starting to question a lot of things in my life.
Is it me? Am I the problem?
“The kitchen is just through there.” I motion toward the hallway, just off the entry. “There’s a bathroom on this floor, and another on the second where the bedrooms are. Laundry is in the basement.”
She continues to take in the vintage fixtures as she quietly moves to the living room. The heels of her boots clack loudly on the hardwood, the sound setting my teeth on edge. She stops near the leather L-shaped couch before turning back to me with a look of pure confusion on her face. “So, what’s the catch?”
Stunned, I open my mouth to respond with something snarky, and then snap it shut, questioning instead with, “Excuse me? I don’t know what you mean by that,” as I take a few long strides to close the distance between us.
Rolling her eyes, she crosses her arms over her chest. “You heard me. What’s the catch?”
“There’s no catch,” I say, trying to keep my tone even. “What you see is what you get.”
Honestly, she isn’t the first person to ask about my ad. The same ad I’d read through at least half a dozen times before posting it. The pictures alone should’ve given any potential renter a good idea of what they were getting. It’s not like I found random photos of a house on Google and slapped them onto the ad.
I’m learning that cheap rent is a red flag for such a nice house, especially in a neighborhood so close to campus. I could count on two hands the offers I’ve turned down over the years from both the university and local developers. This shouldn’t be rocket science. Nice house. Good rent. Non-psychotic roommate. Okay cat. If the roles were reversed, I’d have jumped at the opportunity.
“Yeah, right,” she fires back, her eyebrows arched in disbelief. “Where’s the rug you’re going to pull out from under me? Because this place is far too nice for what you’re asking. Did someone die here?”
Strike two. You’re about one comment away from being struck from the list altogether, lady.
“The house is in perfect working order, if that’s what you’re implying. And no, it’s not a murder house. I just need a roommate to help with bills over the summer session. I already have a roommate lined up for the fall semester.”
Thank God for that. I just wish Melissa had decided to stay for the summer and take extra classes instead of leaving me in a bind, but I understand why she did it. After almost not graduating, she needed a break. Especially with the rigorous program we were about to step into this fall with a full schedule of graduate school and teaching assistant requirements.
The girl huffs silently under her breath. You try to help someone out, and this is the response you get. Her persistence in trying to find faults with the house only makes my decision easier. She’s not what I’m looking for, no matter how desperate I am for help with the monthly bills. There must be a better way to keep my late grandmother’s 1917 Victorian home. I’m starting to deeply regret turning down the last girl who came to see the house. Sure, she had a dog, and Jinx would lose her shit, but her attitude was way better than this chick’s.
“Are you a psycho or something? Is that why this place hasn’t been snatched up?”
Strike three. I can deal with her shitty attitude, but calling me a psycho within minutes of stepping foot into my home? Not happening. There are four more people waiting in the wings to come look at this house. At this point, they would have to be complete whack jobs in order for me to breathe the same air as this woman on a daily basis.
“I think we’re done here,” I clip out. “You and me,” —I motion between us— “are just not going to work.”
“No, wait,” she cries, her hands going up in surrender. “I didn’t mean to come off as a bitch. I’m sorry. I’m just… I’m not good at the whole ‘people’ thing. This place is really great, and I’d love to be your roommate.”
“I’m sorry, but you’ve insulted me, my home, and my cat. You can’t seriously think I would consider having you move in here. You need to leave. Now.”
“Please, give me another chance,” she begs, her nasty, arrogant attitude gone. “I can’t afford anything else this close to campus, and I’m on a really tight budget. My student loans haven’t been approved yet, and I start class next week. I really need this.”
As much as I sympathize with her story, I need to take care of myself first. I know giving this chick a place to live will do serious damage to my mental health. “I’m sorry, but it’s a no from me.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” she whines, stomping her foot in a tantrum worthy of a preschooler. “I said I was sorry.”
“And I asked you to leave, but your feet don’t seem to be moving any closer to the door. Let me remind you where it is.” Walking back to the entry, I open the door wide, directing her with my hand to take the hint. She has fifteen seconds at the most before I forcibly remove her or call campus police.
The woman fumes as she storms out past me, spluttering a string of curses that would make a sailor blush, as she stomps down the walkway to the sidewalk.
I step out onto the porch, watching to make sure she’s gone before closing the door behind me. Sighing heavily, I head to the kitchen to warm up the leftovers from last night’s dinner. And, she called me the psycho. She’s in desperate need of professional help, the kind that I—in three more years—can give her. Well, that is, if I survive them. Grabbing a bowl out of the refrigerator, I pop off the lid and shove it in the microwave. The second the first button beeps, a familiar meow calls from behind.