Roomies

The two share a quiet look before Robert squeezes Jeff’s hand and replaces his glasses. “I worry it’s going to be tight. Calvin should start officially next week, but who knows if we can swing it.”

“We filed everything a day and a half after the wedding,” I say, glancing at Calvin, who nods.

“I know you did, Buttercup, it isn’t you. Work permits can take months, and we’re asking for it to move through in two weeks, total. It’s unlikely, and I’m not sure once Luis is gone that I can pair Ramón with Lisa until Calvin is officially hired. Ramón won’t go for it.”

One look at Calvin’s face—affronted, possessive—and I know Robert is right.

Jeff turns to Calvin and me. “I talked to Sam down at immigration and he assured me they’ve got what they need for now. He can’t guarantee approval, but he can give things a little nudge and make sure those forms go through in time.”

My shoulders drop with relief. “Oh. That’s good, at least.”

“I know I’ve said it,” Calvin says to Robert, “but thank you for everything you’ve done. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

“None of that,” Robert says, shaking off the tension. “I’m just having some pre-show jitters. Always happens. Circumstances are just a little different this time.”

The waitress stops at the edge of the table and asks if we’re ready to order appetizers. With little discussion Jeff and Robert order their usual, and during Lulu’s turn, Calvin moves closer, pointing to my menu. “If I get the eggplant, do you want to split? Or even get a few appetizers and share?”

It’s such a coupley thing to do, it catches me off guard.

“Holls?” Beneath his patient smile, there’s an amused glint in his eye.

“Sure,” I say. “What else did you want?”

He opens his mouth to answer, right as his phone vibrates in his pocket. He’s so close, I actually feel it move through the cushioned bench. “Sorry,” he says, pulling away and looking down to the screen.

I catch the name Natalie.

Calvin stares down at the screen in confusion for another ring, and then his smile slips as he seems to realize something. “Ah, bollocks.”

My throat goes tight. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes. I . . .” He stops, seeming to have changed his mind, and turns to address the table. “Would you all excuse me for a minute? I need to take this.” Back to me again. “Just order us whatever.”

Calvin stands and I twist in my seat. “You’re sure you’re fine?”

“Of course.” With a squeeze of my shoulder, he steps away and heads out of the restaurant. Through the glass doors I watch him climb the stairs—phone already pressed to his ear—before he’s out of sight.

I drop my keys on the counter and watch Calvin wordlessly duck in to use the bathroom before bed. I had this strange sense of a Plexiglas barrier between us the entire walk home and am trying to figure out what’s bothering him. Other than the obvious, of course: the looming pressure of his first performance, the stress over our paperwork getting filed in time. Maybe that’s all it is and he just needs some time to process it all. Keeping our sanity intact while we wait for the work authorization to come through is like watching someone hammer a nail through my hand one tiny blow at a time. It’s excruciating, and I have no control. Imagine how it feels for him.

But Calvin finds so much joy in music, and he’s so optimistic about all this, it seems hard to believe that he’s quiet because he’s worried about that. And what was the urgent phone call tonight? Is there another opportunity he’s keeping on the back burner? Am I the only one who’s planning to be faithful?

The prospect makes me want to vomit.

Calvin emerges, and does a double take when he sees me standing exactly where he left me, just inside the door.

“You feel all right?” he asks.

I attempt a smile. “Yeah. Dinner was fun.”

Nodding, he moves to the couch, sitting down, untucking his dress shirt, and putting his head in his hands.

It’s so weird to live with someone I don’t know that well. He didn’t drink very much, so I know he’s not suffering any ill effects from alcohol. We just ate a half hour ago, so I doubt he’s suffering from something he ate . . .

“Are you all right?” I ask.

He nods, and then looks up at me, eyes red and unfocused from exhaustion. “I know it’s only been a little over a week, but seeing Robert nervous tonight made me nervous. What if we did all this for nothing? I feel like the waiting to start is killing me. I just want to perform. I just want to get in there.”

I nod in understanding, but I get a weird twist of guilt, like I should be speeding this up somehow. And doing all this for nothing doesn’t land entirely without impact, either. I realize we aren’t actually together, but it’s been nice to be with him, even platonically. It doesn’t feel like nothing.

The name Natalie floats into my memory, paired with the way he dashed off . . . it leaves me feeling uneasy for a different reason entirely. “I hope that the phone call wasn’t anything bad.”

It seems to take him a few seconds to remember, and then he looks up, sheepish. “Oh.” He grimaces. “I was supposed to be on a date, and completely forgot.”

This leaves me momentarily speechless.

“Hold on,” he corrects, holding up a hand, “that came out wrong. It was a date I made a few days before we had that first lunch. I forgot to cancel it. I’m sorry.”

Well, this is awkward. I sit down next to him on the couch, picking at a tiny hangnail.

“I guess, if you wanted—but, yeah, I don’t know—we probably shouldn’t—” I trip over my words and can feel him turn to look at me. “Date. Shouldn’t. I mean, just for appearances.”

“Bloody hell, Holland,” he finally says, incredulous. “I’m not apologizing because I’m feeling regret that I wasn’t with her tonight. I’m apologizing because another woman called me when I was out to dinner with you and your lot.”

“Oh.”

He bursts out laughing. “Do you think I’m an absolute gobshite?”

“No?” I say, and can’t help smiling back at him because I have no idea what a gobshite is. The unease slowly dissolves. “But it’s true that our situation is a little unprecedented.”

“It is, but I’m not going to be unfaithful . . . even if we’re pretending.”

Although he’s used the word unfaithful, it’s the pretending that sends a tiny hot poker through my side. I’m not pretending—or, I am; I’m pretending that I don’t have feelings for him.

“How did you meet her?”

“Through a friend,” he says easily. “There wasn’t some long story building up to this. I’ve seen her once. That reminds me,” he begins, and waits for me to look up at him.

Finally, the burn eases, and I can. “What’s that?”

“We never discussed what to say when someone asks us how we met.”

I nod, looking back at the coffee table. I remember the intimacy of our texts the other night, how it felt to curl up against him on the couch, the heat of his skin, the firm press of him next to me, and have to remind myself that we’re pretending. “I guess we should keep it as simple as we can. We met at the subway station. It doesn’t have to be more complicated than that.”