CHAPTER TWO
“I can’t believe you’re still pissed about the bath bomb,” Celia grumbles as she buckles her seatbelt.
It’s the next morning and I’m heading to work with Celia in tow. She has a meeting at the employment agency later today—a meeting I fear she’ll be laughed out of since they’ve helped her acquire each of the three jobs she’s been fired from so far. In the meantime, I don’t want her getting any more ideas about that whole ‘lady of leisure’ thing. Lounging around the apartment watchingmyTV, eatingmyfood, and usingmythings while I work hard isnothappening.
Lost in thought, I forget to respond until Celia huffs out a breath. “I’ll buy you a new one, Ivy. Sheesh.”
“That’s not the point.” I jam the key in the ignition and twist it hard, the engine firing to life. “You can’t just take stuff that’s not yours. I don’t mind sharing, but you seem to have a penchant for the things that are specifically mine. Like my Greek yogurt youclaimto hate and yet at least three times a week there’s mysteriously one less than the day before. Or my favorite sweater you stretched to hell because you pull on the sleeves to cover your hands.” I glance over at her hands in her lap to see they’re completely covered by her sleeves, which stretch several inches below the cuffs of her jacket. “Then the bath bomb, after you go on and on about how disgusting baths are. I just don’t get you. Are youtryingto drive me crazy?”
She makes a disgusted sound in the back of her throat. “Yes, Ivy, I’m secretly gaslighting you so you’ll snap and I can step into your wonderful life. Perfect job, perfect apartment, perfect best friend.” She says that last bit in a high singsong voice.
My hands clench the steering wheel tighter. Despite her flippant tone, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s only half kidding. “Anyway, it’s the principle of it. I don’t take your things without asking, so extend the same courtesy to me, okay?”
God, I hate how school-marmy I sound. My aunt was the Queen of Lectures; even though I tried my hardest to always do what I was told and follow the rules, it was never good enough. She resented having to take me in when I was twelve, and she never made any effort to hide her displeasure. Maybe that’s why she insisted Celia come to live with me. She saw it as some sort of karmic retribution for me being forced on her all those years ago. Who knows, but right now I feel like I’m channeling her and that thought makes me shudder.
“I won’t take your stuff anymore,” Celia says, her tone surprisingly contrite now. “Or I’ll at least ask first.” She jerks her sleeves farther down over her hands, drawing my eyes back to her sweater.Mysweater. The buttery-soft blue one with sparkly silver threads woven through the material. My eyes snap to Celia’s face. The forced, guilt-ridden smile plastered there makes me groan. “Starting now,” she says quickly. “And with my first paycheck from my new job, I’ll buy you a new bath bombanda new sweater.”
A sigh escapes me. This time instead of channeling my aunt, I attempt to find my inner Elsa as I chant my new mantra over and over in my head:Let it go. Let it go.
*****
I set Celia up in an empty conference room with a stack of envelopes that need labels affixed to them. The office has people who do miscellaneous odd jobs like this, but I need something to keep Celia busy and hopefully out of trouble until her meeting in a few hours.
I check on her several times throughout the morning. Despite appearing bored each time I poke my head in, she stays put and does her assigned task. Maybe this is the type of job Celia needs—something solitary, away from other people. The girl should come with a warning label:Does not work well with others. I’m not sure if she purposely tries to be offensive or if it’s just her nature, but she seems to annoy people wherever she goes.
Her parents were the opposite of my aunt and uncle, which always made me wonder how they could be friends. Where my guardians were strict to the point of being oppressive, Celia’s parents let her get away with anything. There were few rules and even less structure in the Guan household, and Celia was rarely punished for misbehaving. It’s ironic how the Guans did nothing about their daughter’s out-of-control behavior most of her life, yet when she continued making poor choices into adulthood, they decided they’d had enough. That’s how I ended up with the roommate from hell and feeling like I’m constantly policing her or scolding her.
When lunchtime rolls around, I peer through Bridget’s office window and see she’s on the phone. She spots me and slumps forward, her dark hair falling around her shoulders. She points to the phone with an exaggerated cringe. By now, I know this means we won’t be having lunch together. Again.
Trying not to feel dejected, I head to the conference room and find Celia scrolling through her phone. “Wanna grab a quick bite before your meeting? My treat.”
“Sure.” She gathers all the envelopes she labeled and deposits them in the bin I left for her. “Any chance of thatnotbeing free labor?”
“Nope. Consider it part of the payment for what you owe me.” I smile as I say it, wanting her to know I’m kidding—mostly—and have gotten over the stolen bath bomb. Plus two ruined sweaters.
She rolls her eyes, but her lips quirk slightly. “Fine. I guess that’s fair.” She joins me at the door and we make our way to the elevators. “Okay, so if I won’t get paid for that, how about an actual paying job? That was boring as shit, but I could do it every day if I got paid. Or I could be a gopher. Fetch coffee for people, do photocopying, sort mail. Or you could teach me the ropes and I could work for your marketing team.”
Swallowing a sigh, I jab the down button when we reach the elevators. “We’ve been through this, Celia. You’ve never worked in an office environment and you have no marketing experience. If you go back to school and get a diploma or a degree, I’d be willing to put in a good word. Until then…” I don’t mention working togetherandliving together would probably send me over the edge.
The elevator arrives and we step inside. Celia stands as far away from me as possible, with her arms crossed and her face set in a petulant pout. When we arrive on the first floor, she pushes ahead to get off first, and then whirls around to face me. “Since you won’t get me a job here—”
“Can’t, Celia,” I interrupt. “Can’t, not won’t. Let’s just make that distinction clear before you go on making me the bad guy.”
She gives her standard huff. “Fine,can’t. Since youcan’tget me a job here, will you at least drive me to my meeting at the employment office?”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that either.” I swallow the guilt rising in my throat. I want to help Celia, I really do.Reallydo. Helping her is the same thing as helping myself; the sooner she has a steady job, the sooner she can get her own place or go to college or doanythingthat’s no longer living with me. “The office is all the way across town. I need to grab lunch and get back to work.”
“Ugh, come on. Doesn’t beingbestieswith the boss get you some special treatment? You bailed on work early yesterday. Can’t you take an extra long lunch and help me out?”
The snide way she says ‘besties’ makes my hackles rise. I ignored her comment earlier about having the perfect best friend, but she’s pushed too many of my buttons this week. For some reason, she’s been down on Bridget since the moment they met. Bridget has been nothing but kind, asking Celia to join us for outings, inviting her along on our friend dates, bringing extra food whenever she comes over with takeout. I can only assume Celia’s issue is jealousy. At twenty-nine, Bridget has an awesome career in which she’s moved through the ranks to become boss, plus she has a drop-dead-gorgeous boyfriend who treats her like a queen. She’s got her shit together more than anyone I know, not to mention she’s the best friend and soul sister a girl could have.
“I would if I could, Celia. I’ve got a deadline that needs to be met today, and I’mnotstaying late to finish. You have plenty of time to have lunch with me and then get the bus. The one that stops outside this building will take you straight to the employment aid office. I can give you change if you need it.”
She stuffs her arms into her coat and swings her purse over her shoulder, nearly knocking out a man heading for the elevators. “Don’t do me any favors, Ivy.” She spins on her heel and heads for the exit.
I almost call after her to at least have lunch with me, but the words die on my lips. Instead, I mutter, “I’ll remember you said that next time you ask me for a favor.” Ignoring the funny look from the guy Celia almost wiped out with her purse, I shake my head and make my way to the cafeteria. Foregoing the healthy options I’ve been trying to stick to lately, I make a beeline for the soup station, choosing an everything bagel and cream of broccoli soup. Calories and carbs be damned. At least there are chunks of broccoli floating in all that cream and cheese. If the cafeteria had a liquor license, I’d probably opt for a glass of wine right now, if not something stronger.
After paying for my lunch and finding a seat far from anyone else, I dig in, trying to swallow my irritation along with the creamy soup. Sometimes I wonder if I’m too hard on Celia. If I’m bitter because I’ve been saddled with a whiny, snarky, demanding roommate when I was perfectly happy with my life the way it was. But then we have conversations like the one that just transpired, and it leaves me wishing Celia realized how lucky she is to have walked away without me throttling her.
It was her comment about Bridget that made my defenses snap up quicker than usual. Celia is always making little digs about her, along with comments about how she doesn’t believe I’m not jealous or resentful of Bridget’s success. I’m not, though. Well, most of the time anyway. And whenever Idoget jealous, I quickly remind myself I wouldn’t want to be the boss. The better pay doesn’t outweigh the long hours or the responsibility of overseeing a big team.
I do, however, miss how things used to be. Before Bridget was promoted a year ago, she was a marketing consultant like me, and we worked side by side for five years. I miss the days of chatting while we worked, and meeting in the break room for a bit of gossip or to make plans together. Now she’s so busy I feel like I practically have to schedule a meeting just to talk to her during the day. Not to mention since Bridget started her relationship with our former boss, David, we’ve gone from hanging out most evenings and weekends to seeing each other a couple times a week if we’re lucky.
A chair screeches across the linoleum, startling me out of a daze. The spoon in my hand hovers halfway between the bowl and my mouth. My stomach gurgles, and I push the rest of my lunch away, my appetite fading. All this heavy contemplation is going to give me indigestion.
Nothing feels like my own anymore. My apartment certainly isn’t my own. And as much as I try to deny it, it’s harder than I thought having to share Bridget. We’re still as close as ever—I don’t think anything could shake the sister-like bond we’ve formed over the last six years—and I don’t begrudge her being in a relationship, especially since David is pretty much the personification of Prince Charming. I just wish I had something that was all my own that I didn’t have to share.
Gathering my things, I dump my tray at a cleanup station and head back to the elevators. There’s something else I’m beginning to realize I can no longer deny: I don’t like the person I’m becoming. At times it feels like the air around me is toxic andI’mthe one giving off the radioactive vibes. I don’t want to become my aunt—bitter, nasty, and downright insufferable. Something has to change. I just don’t know what or how to make it happen.
