“Are you homophobic, Lennon?” he asks mildly. “Because if you are, this roommate thing is a nonstarter.”
Annoyance flares, ripping the seam of the thin façade currently holding me together. “No! Of course not. Havi’s gay. Of course I’m not homophobic.”
“Who’s Havi?”
“My best friend.”
“Huh,” he says. “Good to know.”
The way he says it irritates me. Like he’s not sure if I’m telling the truth.
“I’mnothomophobic,” I say again, with meaning.
This time, he nods and gives me a fractional smile. “D’you have a girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Boyfriend?”
“No,” I reply, a little quicker.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “Well, I don’t mind if you bring people home, as long as they’re not here all the time. A couple of nights a week is fine, but space is a little tight for more than two people to be here on an ongoing basis.”
“Girls,” I correct, and to be on the safe side, I add, “You can have whoever you like over. Doesn’t bother me.”
“Gee, thanks.” He says it as though he’s sincerely grateful, but a thread of amusement in his voice takes the piss out of me. He raises his chin slightly and considers me. I still can’t tell if he believes me about not being a homophobe, and that, along with the smile, bugs the shit out of me. “I have a few questions for you. Is that okay?”
Good. Great. Yes. Good idea. Let’s change the subject and work through his ridiculous list of prospective roommate questions. Then let’s get me the fuck out of here and as far away from him as possible. “Shoot.”
“Are you always this”—he waves a hand in a circular motion in my direction—“intense?”
I’m not expecting the question, and it gives me pause initially, but I quickly realize that I like it. I love it. I recognize it in a strange, distant way that makes me think that maybe this is it. This is what I need from him, this is what I’ve been looking for. I need him to know I exist, that I’m out here, living my life as he lives his.
I want him to know that, and be uncomfortable about it. I hope I unnerve him, and I hope my existence makes him as uncomfortable as his makes me. I’m glad he finds me intense. I hope he finds me intense as fuck. It gratifies me in an awful, pathetic, deep-seated way I can’t explain or control.
“Why?” I ask, matching his smile and adding a hard twist of my own. “Do you find me intimidating?”
He leans back on the sofa, legs spread casually, posture morphing—disappointingly—into the posture of a man who isn’t intimidated by me, and who likely won’t be at any point in the future.
My heart sinks.
“Lennon,” he says quietly and not unkindly, “I looked death in the face and lived.” His expression is calm and nonthreatening. Honest and open. My blood runs cold and starts to curdle. “Hate to break it to you, bud, but it would take a lot more than you to make me blink.”
From there, something like peace, or defeat, washes over me. I slowly come to accept that whatever it is I want from him, it isn’t something I’m going to get. What I want isn’t possible because it doesn’t exist.
I let him tell me about himself and only half-listen. He tells me he used to play football, and that he’s an only child. He tells me he wants to be an antique dealer after college, and that he’s planning on working at his dad’s store. I know about thefootball, and his family, obviously, and I know his dad owns an antique store, but I didn’t know he wants to work there.
He says he likes early nights and staying home. That doesn’t surprise me a bit.
He isn’t embarrassed by the admission, and that does surprise me, though I’m not sure why. Perhaps it’s because of the football. Even though nothing I’ve observed has given me the impression he’s wild, the fact that he used to play quarterback implies the kind of mental toughness and machismo usually associated with debaucherous nights and frat parties.
I tell him I like early nights too, though I’m not completely sure whether it’s true or not. It’s been so long since I’ve been out voluntarily that I can’t remember if I enjoy it or not. I tell him I have a sister named Caroline, and what my parents do for a living. I make no mention of the fact that they’re currently worried sick about me and don’t know where I am, and I sprinkle just enough personal peccadillos to be believable as a prospective roommate.
Because it seems relevant, I ask if he drinks or smokes, and he says no.
“Never?” I check, almost hoping he’ll trip himself up.
“Not anymore,” he says firmly. He has one arm slung over the arm of the sofa and the other resting in his lap. He looks so relaxed and unaffected that I start wondering whether he’s purposefully trying to project that image of himself. “I don’t mind if you drink, but I don’t want to live with a smoker.”
