“Can I get a tour?” We’ve naught else to do, it seems, and she’s not a great conversationalist. Neither am I in her company.
Kaylee lifts herself off the couch without any further prompting and stretches.
“Sure, of course. Right this way.” She gestures, putting on a show of a grand tour of their small house. “You’ve seen the kitchen. Here is the tiny dining room. Mostly we just toss our shit on the table.”
Off the kitchen through a rounded doorway is a little room I hadn’t noticed, a dining room with a circular table, no chairs. The girls seem to be using it as a makeshift office, with a printer in the corner and stacks of printer paper and office supplies set on the counter of a built-in hutch.
I raise my brows.
Fascinating how other people live. I would never think to use my dining room as a drop zone, but to each his own.
I peel my eyes away as Kaylee leads me to the hallway where the bedrooms are located, accented with another flourish.
She stops in front of the door of the first room on the left.
Bathroom perhaps?
The door is closed, and she slowly turns the knob, pushing it open a few inches; it’s dark so she flips on the light.
“This is Lilly’s room—she’s not here very often. Spends loads of time with her boyfriend.” Kaylee rolls her eyes. “Obviously.”
The room is painted a cream color and has nothing on the walls—it’s staid and boring, just a twin bed and a desk. Beige comforter, no throw pillows.
“This room belongs to a female? Huh. Never would’ve guessed.”
“Lilly is an architecture major—she likes things neat and clean. Simple, you know?”
Ah, now that makes sense.
I have a few friends like that, architecturally minded or accountants, who live life a little differently than I do. More structured and finite, whatever that means.
And this room is obviously the bathroom. Kaylee pushes open another door that is partially closed so I can peer inside the water closet; it’s severely outdated with pink tile, a pink toilet, and a pink bathtub—though they’ve tried to make it cute by adding a fun, patterned shower curtain. On the counter are curling irons and flat irons, hairspray, and whatever styling products girls use.
It’s a bit of a mess if I’m being honest.
I also doubt I would fit beneath the spray of the showerhead. It doesn’t look that high, but then again people weren’t as tall as they are now back when this house was probably built.
I nod to signal that I’ve seen enough, so Kaylee shuts off the light and closes the door again.
The next door isn’t her bedroom, either. When she pushes that one open, she says, “This bedroom belongs to Eliza.”
I do my best not to crane my neck to get a better look, do my best not to ogle rudely. Staring at one’s tour guide’s roommate’s bedroom isn’t couth. It’s highly improper and what the fuck am I even talking about—this isn’t 1812.
The bedroom isn’t what I am expecting it to look like, though I haven’t given it much thought, ha!
It’s girly, painted the palest shade of pink, and accented in all white—a stark contrast to the posters and drawings hanging on the walls. If I’m being fair, the bedroom isn’t much different than mine—the feminine version. I am actually surprised Eliza doesn’t have Marvel comic bedding or at least a pillow or two thrown on the bed. But what she lacks there, she more than makes up for with the rest of the decor.
She must really love cartooning.
And based on some of the sketches she has hanging? She’s quite good at it.
Talented.
A natural, some would say…
I feel Kaylee watching me intently, so I shift my gaze and plaster on a smile so she can’t read my mind: Eliza is fucking awesome. And by awesome I mean: she makes me want to be her friend, and I’m only judging her by what’s in her bedroom, and the brief experience we had at the coffee shop when we were having breakfast.
And lunch.
It’s a bloody shame she isn’t home; then again, if she were, I wouldn’t be looking into her room right now, would I?
“You said Eliza was home for a wedding?”
“Baby shower.”
Yes, that’s right—a baby shower, whatever the bloody hell that means.
“Er, Kaylee,” I begin. “What exactly is a baby shower?”
Her eyes widen with surprise, then glee, and she laughs. “You don’t know what a baby shower is?”
I scowl, irritated that she’s now laughing at me, and not with me—another strike against her.
It was a simple question and there’s a bloody cultural difference. Has she not noticed my accent?
“You never know unless you inquire,” I say.
She pats my bicep. “A baby shower is to celebrate someone having a baby—for a pregnant woman. There will be food and gifts, cake, that sort of thing.”