On Turpentine Lane(31)

Nick and I commuted in separate cars, rarely ate lunch together, discussed dinner off-handedly in the waning hour of the workday. One of us would say, “I’m picking up a roast chicken” or “I’m thinking of sushi,” always prefaced by a variation of the phrase “If you don’t have other plans . . .”

So far, Nick’s real estate search had yielded nothing. That one on the dead-end street that sounded so good on paper had no light or cell service. Another had wall-to-wall carpeting in the kitchen. A so-called garden apartment overlooked an algae-coated swimming pool. They were too small or too smelly or had a dog barking in the next apartment for the entire visit. No storage, no parking space, no counter space, no character. “I swear I’m not fussy,” he said, after each visit. “All I’m asking for is half of a house, upstairs or down. I’m not looking for a palace, just a few decent rooms. Who knew the inventory would be this bad?”

I did. Mid-November was not when apartments became free. One week at 10 Turpentine became two. He put apartment-wanted signs up at school. Someone with an in-law apartment called, offering a room over her garage, not technically a legal apartment, plus there were parents arriving from Florida in mid-May.

As a housemate, he was excellent. He took out the garbage before it overflowed or decomposed. He fixed things that I didn’t know needed fixing or desqueaking. He wasted no time buying various oils and ammoniated liquids, along with fine steel wool, lightbulbs of various wattages, and a shiny black power drill. So when he said, “All I’m looking for is half a house,” I said, “Sit down. Okay. This is a two-bedroom house and you’ve been a model roommate”—an especially apt statement at this moment as he was collecting limp dish towels to be thrown into the wash with his own load of whites.

He didn’t answer immediately. After returning from the cellar and no doubt cleaning the lint filters, he announced, “I agree. This is definitely working. We’re both easy to get along with. We’ve worked out the kinks. I just wonder if you think it would ever get awkward.”

I said, “Such as?”

He poured a refill into the cup he’d already washed and sat down. “I’m not saying this is going to happen tomorrow, but we’re two single people . . .”

What was I expecting? Something personal and declaratory? No. What he was working up to was this: “I mean, how awkward if one morning, at breakfast, there are three of us instead of two?”

A sleepover. With a woman. Or, in my case, a man. So I asked lightly, casually, like the neutered buddy and disinterested party I was pretending to be, “Do you have someone in mind?”

“No! The ink’s not dry on the breakup. I’m just covering all contingencies.”

Of course, bachelor Nick, handy, eligible, and good-natured Nick—handsome Nick, lest I’d failed to note that before—would undoubtedly meet someone, and in the natural progression of things, the new girlfriend would keep a toothbrush here. Because an answer was called for, I said, “I could deal with that.”

Nick said, “I don’t even know why I brought this up now.”

“Covering all contingencies,” I reminded him. “Who knows. You could start seeing Brooke again. Like a trial run.”

“Did you forget that the only trial run Brooke wants is down the aisle?”

I could’ve added, You’re well rid of her, but decided to take the high road. “Who knows what new girl or guy might be around the corner. We’re both free now.” Then, in case that sounded one iota flirtatious and inappropriate for a coworker, I lied, and said, “A few of my brother’s friends are calling me, but I think it’s too early.”

“And Stuart?”

“Stuart what?”

“Any regrets?”

“His. I had to unfriend him. He kept sending me messages.”

“Saying what?”

“Same old stuff. ‘Heading south. It’s cold up here. The credit card was rejected again.’?” I stopped short of reporting the love yous expressed in emoji.

Nick said, “Never having met the douche, may I still say congratulations on the unfriending?”

With that, he rose from the table, walked his mug to the sink, rinsed it, then came back with a sponge.

I said, “You’re an uncommonly good roommate.”

“It’s official then? I’ll get the rest of my stuff?”

“Deal.”

“No, not a deal until I know what half of your expenses are, by which I mean mortgage. And taxes. Plus utilities.”

I couldn’t think of a single reason why one-half of everything wouldn’t be a fair share. I said, “Okay. I’ll do the math. Nothing’s due till the first of the month.”

We shook on it, a kind of teenage-boy shake with thumbs and a fist bump. “Mind if I bring my vacuum cleaner, which actually picks up dirt?” he asked. “And can I now caulk around the tub?”

I nodded, but my face must have been registering Did I just hear what I thought I heard?

“What’s that look for?” he asked.

“Cock around the tub? I’m not sure what that means.”

“Caulk, you knucklehead! C-a-u-l-k. The stuff that comes in tubes. You haven’t noticed there’s hardly any seal left between the tile and the tub?”