“You broke down thedoor?” Her eyes are wide, and she’s yelling again.
I snort. “No, I came in through the window, and it was being a little bitch.”
“Why would you do that?” she screeches. “On whatplanetis it ever okay to climb through someone’s window? Did you not think to ring thedoorbell?”
She keeps stressing parts of her sentences in the most peculiar way.
“There is no doorbell.”
“Yes, there is! There is a doorbell—what house doesn’t have a doorbell?” she yells, furious. “Did you not look? Oh my God, and then you barge in here snooping around like you’re trying to give me a heart attack?” She leans back, catching her breath, checking the watch on her wrist. “I wasn’t ready for you yet.”
I shrug. “Caught an earlier flight.”
“And didn’t bother to let anyone know?”
I yawn. “Didn’t think it would be a problem.”
And I’m not sure what her problem is now. It’s not like I’m a killer or a robber or a shady mother-effer.
She needs to calm her tits.
She’s staring at me as if I were some kind of lunatic, half-crazed whack job who’s totally invaded her space. Which isn’t the case because I am renting the room where I dropped my bag. If anything, shouldn’t she be grateful for the extra cash?
It’ll help take some of the burden off her plate—and I’m not just giving her rent money. I’m giving her a small payout, so if she could quit looking at me as if I were the devil incarnate, that would be fantastic.
She’s still heaving and sighing like she’s just completed a training workout with one of my defensive coordinators when all she’sactuallydoing is sitting in a chair staring daggers at me.
My therapist, Dr. Nancy, has been teaching me how to redirect and reframe—turn a negative into a positive— to be more constructive and less hostile when I’m talking to someone, and I attempt to do that now with my new roomie.
“Thanks for welcoming me into your home,” I tell her pleasantly, ignoring her stiff posture and unsmiling mouth.
“Are you being serious right now?” she deadpans. “You broke in.”
I’m confused. Does she not think I appreciate the bed to crash in? And the use of her Wi-Fi? What in tarnation?
“I didn’t break in.”
“But the house is locked,” she points outagain, Master of the Obvious, reiterator of facts.
“But I didn’t come in through the door. I came in through a window.” I point at a chair across from her at the desk. “Mind if I sit?”
“Yes, I mind if you sit.”
I sit anyway, this entire exchange exhausting.
I need food and a shower.
Pulling out my phone, I begin scrolling through messages to see if Eli has finally gotten back to me.
He has not.
2
posey
The nerve of this guy, climbing in through the window and scaring the shit out of me, acting like an intruder I hadn’t known was in the house.
How long was he inside before he entered my office?