By midnight, Seth still hasn't returned from work. I'm getting nervous. Heath Briggs' novel can't distract me from the gnawing sensation in my stomach that Seth isn't coming back. When I fear an ulcer is starting, I save the manuscript on my laptop and clean. The act has never failed me in the past, but after forty minutes of wiping already spotless surfaces, I'm still anxious. So I make comfort food. If only I had Seth here to make me something scrumptious instead of the box of Mac 'N Cheese I pull from the cabinet.
The door creaks open when I'm rinsing the macaroni in the sink. Seth's steps are loud enough for me to hear him over the gushing water. I flip the handle down, turn to face him, and to my surprise, there's an apologetic smile tugging his mouth. It's indication enough this won't be another heated match and instead a friendly conversation. I'm relieved.
He says nothing as he takes off his boots and sets them beside the door. And when he finally steps over to take a seat in the far island stool, I say, "Hi."
"Hey."
I tug on my bottom lip with my teeth and consider the best way to start this shameful apology he deserves, when he takes the lead.
"So, we had our first roomie fight. Ready to toss me out on the streets yet?"
His tone is light. I release the breath I'd trapped in my lungs.
"Your duffel's still in your room, isn't it?"
He nods. "That it is."
"Then I guess we'll keep it there. Too much work to move it out."
His shoulders sag, the tension from them deflating. He glances at the empty macaroni box resting on the island. "You're just keeping me around for the cooking, aren't you?"
"Nah." I pull the colander of macaroni from the sink and pour it into the pot. "I'm actually a culinary master when it comes to the microwave."
He doesn't laugh at my own mockery, which causes me to glance up. His hands are clasped together on the island, his thumbs fumble together. He's using a great deal of concentration on those thumbs when he sighs. "The things you want to know about me are tricky."
At his mention of earlier, I say, "I'm sorry." His gaze lifts to mine. "I shouldn't have insinuated the things I did. As you can tell, I get a little nutty after a few drinks."
"Yep. Still have a mark from that shoe you chucked at me." The corner of his mouth lifts. Mine does the same. "And I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said what I said. I get a little touchy after a few shots to my ego." I nod, breaking away to grab the butter and milk from the fridge, when he adds, "I've never killed anyone. So you can sleep easy tonight."
I never thought he did, but his confirmation is a relief. My roomie may be a criminal who's been to jail for a crime I'm still blind to, but at least I don't have to fear my life.
"Good to know." I turn around and pour the products in with the macaroni, along with the cheese, and stir. "Care to elaborate on any other crimes you haven't committed?"
"It's not something I like to talk about."
I keep my eyes focused on the macaroni instead of Seth because I want him to feel comfortable, not pressured. "And I get that. I just want to know the person I've let live in my apartment, with me and my things. I want to feel safe with you. I can only do that by understanding you."
"You might not understand me."
When the macaroni is blended and creamy, I take the opportunity to look at him. "Then again, I might."
He doesn't seem convinced and it's when I remember his unspoken words from earlier. People always leave. I don't understand what's happened to force this outlook he holds of other people, but I want to. And I want to prove I'm different.
"I want you to trust me enough to tell me. Have faith I might not be like everyone else and walk away. Heck, it's my apartment, I can't walk away."
His eyes narrow at my words, or maybe the truth held within them. "Like you trust me?"
I get the point he's making, but there's a difference between trusting someone with details and trusting a criminal with all your personal belongings when you're not around. "I'm trying to."
As he chews on the inside of his cheek, I can't help but wonder if he's embarrassed by his past and it's what's keeping him from sharing it, despite his comment this morning of never being embarrassed by anything. People create facades to conceal their true selves. Maybe that's what he's been doing with me.
"Look ," -he scratches the back of his neck- "you think you'll understand, but it's not that simple. My life hasn't been sunshine and rainbows like I'm sure yours has. It has layers. Fuckloads of layers."
I lift my brows. "You think my life was easy?"
He doesn't respond, just waits. I can shut down again, seal up my past, but we'd get nowhere. So I take a leap of faith, hoping in some way I earn a bit of his trust by showcasing a bit of mine.
Placing my hands on the counter, I speak evenly. "My father died when I was six and my mother didn't know how to handle it. She lost herself. After that, she liked everything in our life wrapped in perfect little bows and a kid doesn't exactly fit that mold. I wasn't allowed to play with the other kids in the neighborhood because my knees weren't allowed to get dirty. She'd punish me for speaking out of turn and she'd slap me if I didn't act like a porcelain statue of excellence in front of her friends. She wanted me to be her daughter, but she wanted me to be perfect more. So while other teenagers went to parties, I sat at home studying so I could one day leave that place. Which I did."
Seth's breathing is steady as he absorbs the information I'm gifting him.
"Not what you were expecting?"
"Marsha may have left that out during our gabfest."
"Because that all predates my Marsha era and she doesn't know. I only speak to my mother twice a year and she no longer has any influence in my life and the decisions I make. She lost that luxury when she lost herself." And broke my wrist in three places.
I throw sincerity behind my next words. "So let me assure you, you're not the only one who doesn't like to look back at their past. We all run from something. And I get running from an old life."
He's quiet for a long time. As I wait, I turn the knob to low so the macaroni doesn't get cold. I want to continue this conversation, but I want my dinner warm afterward.
When he finally takes a breath, my eyes flick to his. "You're right. You've managed to get away from yours, but mine has a messy way of tumbling back in." He says this softly, sadly. "Can you just trust me when I say I'm not the same guy I used to be and leave it at that?"
I frown, frustrated. I'd opened myself up for nothing. Removing the pot from the burner, I divvy the macaroni into two bowls, making sure his eyes are trained on mine as I pass him his.
"Trust has to be earned, Seth."
"I know." His eyes downcast to the bowl in front of him as he begins eating, signaling the end of the conversation.
I grab the seat next to him and do the same instead of sitting on the couch. I'm not ready to offer him the out of the television. But the silence is deafening. I hear each piece of macaroni he chews and each scrape of our spoons against the porcelain bowls.
Only two spoonfuls of dinner remain in my bowl when Seth finally says, "My mom died giving birth to me and my dad was a drug addict. When the narcotics and I became too expensive for him to afford, he gave me up. I hardly knew him, but, from what I remember, I didn't like him much. After he kicked me out, I spent most of my life on the streets of Washington Heights, surviving. Because of that I've done a lot of shit I'm not proud of."
My spoon dangles in mid-air, a single bite left in my bowl. I'm no longer hungry. I'm disappointed-in life, in parents, in fate. The words people always leave sound in my head again, and this time I understand them. It's impossible to have faith in someone when the only one who was left to love you abandons you.
He doesn't divulge anything else about his past or the crimes he's committed and as much as I want what's still untold, I let it slide. He'll tell the rest eventually. This is a start.
I don't look at Seth as he continues eating because he's not reaching for a sentimental moment or more attention. It's not why he offered me the information. And I don't feed him some reassuring line about life getting better and everything being okay now. He knows that and they'd be wasted words. Instead, I offer him something better, something he actually wants-my trust.
"I'll tell Marsha not to come tomorrow. You're babysitter free. Don't make me regret it."
I focus on my final scoop of macaroni as I lift it to my mouth and chew. Seth doesn't respond, but out of the corner of my eye I see him smile.