I narrowly survive an early dinner and a huge slice of cake. I’m peppered with questions about my flight to the point my head spins. My jet lag is kicking in with full force. I hardly slept on the plane and my dad tried his best to keep a conversation going for the entire drive from the airport. What with all the jubilance, the hugging, the carbs, the questions, and the copious amount of sugar I’ve consumed, I’m feeling buzzed and not in a good way.
“I’m feeling pretty beat,” I say for the second time.
My dad’s smile slackens in disappointment, but Rachel is quick to rescue the situation. “You must be exhausted. It’s such a long flight. Why don’t you get an early night?” I’m on my feet like a shot. “We thought it would be best to put you in the guest house with Luke. Thought it might be nice for you guys to have your own space.”
“Thanks,” I mumble.
My dad spoke to me at length about the living arrangements before I arrived. At the time, I had so much going on, I didn’t pay the matter the attention it deserved. Something about the dynamic I’ve been exposed to in my first couple of hours here makes me question the wisdom of that decision.
“We’ve set your room up out there, but if you’d prefer to be in the main house, we can move you, no sweat,” says Rachel.
“Come on, I’ll show you around,” says Luke.
My dad swings an arm around my shoulder and pulls me into an awkward hug. I’m not kidding about being tired, I really am. My ability to play happy families is at an all-time low, so I keep my arms down at my sides and try to squirm out of his grip.
When he releases me, Rachel says, “Why don’t we let you boys get settled in? Luke can show you around and we’ll see you in the morning.”
Luke gets a kiss on the cheek from his mom and is given a hearty shoulder bump and hair ruffle by my dad. Far from hating it, or even simply tolerating, he revels in it. Instead of squirming out of it, he wriggles into it.
Oh fuck.
I’ve made a mistake coming here, haven’t I?
We head out through the French doors that lead to the back yard and walk along a paved path past the pool to the guest house. The guest house is an obvious addition to the property. It looks notably more modern than the rest of the house. It’s white weatherboard with a slate roof and jasmine climbing the pergola at the front door. It looks like a picture-perfect cottage for a romantic mini-break at the sea. Luke opens the door, using a little more strength than is needed. It sends the door flying into the wall with a loud bang. It makes me jump but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“This is it.” He couldn’t look happier.
We’ve walked straight into a small living room. There’s a navy sofa and a decent sized TV with a small kitchenette to one side. As I enter the hallway, I’m met by three doors. The first leads to a bathroom. It’s clean and compact. It doesn’t look like a guy has been using it. Doesn’t smell like it either. I bet his mom came in this morning and cleaned it up for him. She probably comes in and straightens the place up every couple of days. He probably doesn’t even realize that’s pathetic. The room is tiled floor-to-ceiling in white subway tiles and there are a whole lot of large glass jars on the vanity filled with things like bath salts and cotton wool. It has a decent sized shower but no bath.
“I cleared some space for you,” he says motioning to the shelving over the vanity.
Not to sound like a brat, but no-one mentioned that I’d be sharing a bathroom with this guy.
“This is your room.” He drags my big bag into the room and hoists it up onto the bed. The room has been painted a deep, inky blue. There’s a queen-sized bed pushed against one wall and a desk beside it, with a study lamp on it. There’s a vintage Van Halen poster above the bed. The muted colors of the poster tone in with the walls to perfection. There’s a wardrobe and a bookcase on the opposite wall that’s filled with books; all sci-fi and fantasy series I was into three or four years ago. They’re tastefully arranged, interspersed with attractive, yet meaningful accessories; a 3D wooden Grand Prix car my dad and I built together when I was ten, a snow globe I got in New York on a vacation my dad and I went on after my parents split, a few family photographs, and the first cartoon I ever drew, framed in a light timber frame.
It’s clear no amount of effort has been spared putting the room together. Hours of thoughtful consideration have been given to every object that meets the eye. It strikes me as the type of thing you’d expect to see on the set of a popular daytime TV show.
Stage 5: Bedroom of Jessie Lewis – Beloved Stepson/Troubled Misfit.
I hate every single thing about it.
2
Jessie
Jesus.
Jet lag is bad enough on its own without the constant disruptions from Luke. The wall between our rooms is paper thin. I can hear everything he does. Every. Single. Thing. He’s noisy as fuck. He’s like a bull in a China shop. He’s up and down until almost midnight. He goes to the bathroom and has a long, loud shower, complete with a rendition ofSomewhere Over the Rainbow. I kid you not. After that, I think he’s settled in for the night, but nah, he gets up and goes to the kitchen twice for a snack. He boils the kettle once and opens and closes the fridge three times. I fall asleep in between each disturbance, but the wakeups plus the jetlag are making me feel crazy. I wake up around two AM for good. I guess my stomach thinks it’s lunchtime, or something.
My mom and I text back and forth for a while since it’s daytime for her. She seems okay, so that’s good. It makes me feel a little better. After that I read for a while and try my best not to think about what a terrible mistake I’ve made coming here.
I must fall back to sleep at some point, as the next thing I know it’s light and I can hear Luke in the living room. The smell of coffee drags me out of bed. I stumble through, bleary eyed, only to run slap-bang into my new housemate. He’s naked except for a pair of sleeping shorts.
“Jesus!” I say.
“Morning! How’d you sleep? You must feel so much better after a good night. Jet lag’s the worst, huh? What’d you feel like doing today? Your dad might have plans but if not, we could hang with some of my friends. They’reampedto meet you.”
Oh fuck.
