You Deserve Each Other(28)

“We’re trying to see what else we can do for you kids,” Mrs. Howard says kindly. “We’ve always got a few different irons in the fire. I do burlesque, Melvin’s an ordained minister. We go to a bunch of Midwestern fairs in the summer and do the carnie thing. And then there’s Eaten Alive and House of Screams.” She clears her throat, making me think of brick dust drifting loosely down a chimney. “I know Tenmouth is out of the way for that boyfriend of yours, but if you want to move here, we’ll line something up for you.”

I envision myself with a mask and chainsaw, jumping out at patrons in a haunted house. Or with a mask and chainsaw at Eaten Alive, gutting gelatin desserts inspired by The Blob. I think about my decision not to get a college degree and Nicholas telling me I don’t need to work.

This is what my life has come to.

“Thanks, Mrs. Howard. That’s a really generous offer.”

“Think about it, okay? You don’t have to let me know yet. Take your time, talk to your boyfriend. If you decide no but you eventually change your mind, give me a call. I think Melissa’s interested in being a line cook at Eaten Alive, so there’ll be somebody there you know.”

The diner option dissolves before my eyes. House of Screams it is.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. Her voice is even thicker than usual, and I think she might be crying. “We did everything we could. It’s hard out there. There aren’t many steady, decent-paying jobs available, and I know we couldn’t offer you kids any benefits or overtime, but at least there was something. You should’ve seen us twenty years ago. Full parking lot, every day.”

I try to picture that, and I can’t. I’ve never seen the second row of parking spaces occupied. The four or five employee vehicles taking up room lends the illusion that we’re semibusy.

“It’s all right, I understand,” I rush to say. “I’m grateful you hired me in the first place. I’ve had a lot of fun there.” Nostalgia sweeps over me and my voice crumbles like Mrs. Howard’s. “Thanks for the notice.”

“Take care, hon.”

We disconnect the call, and I have no idea what I’m going to do now. I’ve got one, maybe two paychecks coming that will need to be stretched out to invisible fibers. I know what I would do if there were no Nicholas in this scenario: I’d start packing for Tenmouth and dedicate myself to a career of fake gore and screaming soundtracks, strobe lights in the darkness. Mopping up vomit and scrubbing graffiti. It’s a depressing prospect, but I can’t afford to be picky.

Even if I manage to get Nicholas to dump me and I end up with the house, I’ll have no way of paying rent. I desperately need to find a job close to Morris. I’ll get a roommate. Two roommates—we’ll become best friends and everything will be fine, just fine. That’s my plan A.

Uprooting to Tenmouth is plan B. Plan C is impossible with the noxious state of my relationship with Nicholas, so I don’t even consider it. I throw it out. Plan C is identity theft. I’ll enjoy a few relaxing weeks as Deborah Rose in my Malibu beach house before the feds track me down.

I’m still fretting over my quarter-life crisis when Nicholas barges in, big smile on his face. If I didn’t hate him already, that smile would be enough to seal the deal.

“Hello, Naomi,” he says gloatingly. Maybe he’s already heard about the Junk Yard.

I turn away. He walks to the fridge and opens it, whistling. I think about shoving him inside. He closes the fridge without pulling anything from it and stares in my direction; I know this because I can see him in my periphery, a smudge of browns and tan. He waits until I look at him, then starts laughing.

“What,” I snap.

My attitude thrills him. He angles a smirk at me, and it’s insufferable. He knows something I don’t. I know something he doesn’t, too. I’ve put a squirt of Sriracha in his shaving cream.

“What,” I repeat, this time in a growl. He laughs louder, bracing a hand on the door frame like I’m so funny, he can barely hold himself up. This man is a lunatic. How did I wind up here?

The thought is so loud in my head, it ends up coming out of my mouth. Nicholas takes a moment to consider it thoughtfully. “If memory serves, I asked a question and you said yes.”

And thus began my tale of woe. At least memory only serves one of us—thankfully, mine has been inked out with amnesia.

“How’d we even meet?” I marvel.

He wipes one eye with a knuckle, grinning crookedly. “I picked you up at a farmers’ market. From the top of the pile you looked nice. Wasn’t until I brought you home that I found out you were completely rotten on the inside.”

My mouth is shaped like a kiss, which sends the wrong message. I arrange it into a frown and say, “I’m telling your mother you say the F word. She’ll make you go to church.”

He throws his head back and laughs some more.

“Where were you all day?”

He winks. “Miss me?”

“Not even.” My glance slides to the window, where I notice a Jeep Grand Cherokee parked in his spot. “The neighbors’ visitors blocked you out again. Too bad.” I don’t see his car, so he must be parked way down the street. Poor Dr. Rose had to walk in the rain.

He steps into my personal space to check outside. His hair is a little bit damp and smells fruity, like my conditioner. I’m going to start hiding my toiletries.