I bit my lip and pretended to study the Craigslist ad intensely to avoid having to look at him.
In truth, a large part of me was relieved that Sam and his new husband Scott had just bought a tiny lakefront condo that barely accommodated them and their two cats. While living with them would save me the stress and the hassle of what I was going through now, Sam and Scott had just gotten married two months ago. Not only would my living with them hinder their ability to have sex wherever and whenever they felt like it, the way I understood newlyweds tended to, it would also be an awkward reminder of just how long it had been since I’d last been in a relationship.
As well as a constant reminder of what a colossal failure every other aspect of my life was.
And, of course, living with Amelia was out of the question. Sam didn’t understand that his straitlaced, perfect sister had always looked down on me and thought I was a total loser. But it was the truth.
Honestly, my finding a place to live that was neither Sam and Scott’s new sofa nor Amelia’s loft in Lakeview was best for all of us.
“I’ll be fine,” I said, trying to sound like I believed it. My stomach clenched a little at the look of concern that crossed Sam’s face. “No, really—I’ll be okay. I always am, aren’t I?”
Sam smiled and tousled my too-short hair, which was his way of teasing me. Normally I didn’t mind, but I’d cut my hair pretty dramatically on a whim a couple weeks ago because I was frustrated and needed an outlet that didn’t require an internet connection. It was yet another of my not-great recent decisions. My thick, curly blond hair tended to stick up in odd places if not cut by a professional. In that moment, as Sam continued to mess with my hair, I probably looked like a Muppet who’d recently stuck her finger in a light socket.
“Stop that,” I said, laughing as I shrugged away from him. But my mood was better now—which was probably exactly why Sam had done it.
He put his hand on my shoulder. “If you ever change your mind about the loan . . .”
He trailed off without finishing his sentence.
“If I change my mind about a loan, you’ll be the first to know,” I said. But we both knew I never would.
* * *
I waited until i was at my afternoon gig at the public library to reach out to the person with the two-hundred-dollar room for rent.
Of all the part-time, not-art-related gigs I’d managed to string together since getting my MFA, this one was my favorite. Not because I loved all aspects of the work, because I didn’t. While it was great being around books, I worked exclusively in the children’s section. I alternated between sitting behind the check-out counter, shelving books about dinosaurs and warrior cats and dragons, and answering questions from frantic parents with tantruming preschoolers in tow.
I’d always gotten along well with older kids. And I liked tiny humans as an abstract concept, understanding—in theory, at least—why a person might intentionally add one to their life. But while Sam and I definitely thought of his spoiled kitties as his children, nobody in my life had an actual human child yet. Dealing with little kids twenty hours a week in a public-facing service position was a rough introduction.
Working at the library was still my favorite part-time job, though, because of all the downtime that came with it. I didn’t have nearly as much free time during my shifts at Gossamer’s, the coffee shop near my soon-to-be-former apartment—which was the worst aspect of that particular job.
“Slow afternoon today,” my manager Marcie quipped from her chair beside me. Marcie was a pleasant woman in her late fifties and effectively ran the children’s section. It was our little inside joke to comment on how slow it was when we worked together in the afternoon, because every afternoon was slow here. Between the hours of one and four, most of our patrons were either napping or still in school.
It was two o’clock. Only one kid had wandered through in the past ninety minutes. Not only was that nothing noteworthy, it was par for the course.
“It is slow today,” I agreed, grinning at her. With that, I turned to face the circulation desk computer.
Normally, library downtime was for researching potential new employers and applying for jobs. I wasn’t picky. I’d apply for just about anything—even if it had nothing to do with art—if it promised better pay and more regular hours than my current cobbled-together situation.
Sometimes, I used the time to think through future art projects. I didn’t have good lighting in my current apartment, which made drawing and painting the images that formed the base of my works difficult. And while I couldn’t finish my projects at the library, as my paints were too messy and the final steps involved incorporating discarded objects into my work, the circulation desk was big and well-lit enough for me to at least make preliminary sketches with a pencil.
Today, though, I needed to use my downtime to reply to that red flag of a Craigslist ad. I could have replied earlier, but I didn’t—partly because I was still skeptical, but mostly because a few weeks ago I’d gotten rid of Wi-Fi to save money.
I pulled up the listing on the computer. It hadn’t changed in the time since I last saw it. The oddly formal style was the same. The absurd rent amount was also the same and set off as many alarm bells now as it did when I first saw it.
But my financial situation also hadn’t changed. Jobs in my field were still as hard to come by. And asking Sam for help—or my accountant parents, who loved me too much to admit to my face what a disappointment I was—was just as unthinkable as ever.
And my landlord was still planning to evict me next week. Which, to be fair, I couldn’t even blame him for. He’d put up with a lot of late rent payments and art-related welding mishaps these past ten months. If I were him I’d probably evict me, too.
Before I could talk myself out of doing it, and with Sam’s worried voice ringing in my ears, I opened my email. I scrolled through my inbox—an ad for a two-for-one sale at Shoe Pavilion; a headline from the Chicago Tribune about a bizarre string of local blood bank break-ins—and then started typing.
From: Cassie Greenberg [[email protected]]
Subject: Your apartment listing
Hi,
I saw your ad on Craigslist looking for a roommate. My lease is up soon and your place sounds perfect. I’m a 32-year-old art teacher and have lived in Chicago for ten years. I’m a nonsmoker, no pets. You said in your ad that you aren’t home much at night. As for me, I’m almost never home during the day, so this arrangement would work out well for both of us, I think.
I’m guessing you’ve gotten a lot of inquiries about your apartment given the location, price, and everything else. But just in case the room is still available, I’ve included a list of references. I hope to hear from you soon.