Room-maid(39)

CHAPTER TWELVE

A few days later, I was hunting under the bathroom sink for a bottle of window cleaner. Which I had, in my naivete, assumed only cleaned windows. As per the label. While cleaning the mirror I’d been using the kitchen cleaner, which had falsely labeled itself as “all-purpose.” It was not all-purpose and made bathroom mirrors streaky. “Deceitful advertising,” I mumbled to myself.

Once I found the window cleaner, the internet recommended I not use paper towels but since this wasn’t 1996, we didn’t have any newspaper. I also highly doubted that Tyler had microfiber cloths.

The paper towels worked well enough. Which freed me up to indulge in one of my favorite pastimes: daydreaming about Tyler.

It was one of the few ways to make chores entertaining. I imagined him coming home, finding me in the bathroom, washing the mirror. He would sneak in behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist, nuzzling my neck. I’d lean against his brawny frame, loving the way he felt and how he touched me. Shivers of anticipation would rack my frame, making me rely on his strength to keep me upright.

Then he’d whisper words hotly against my ear. “There’s something I want to ask you.”

My rib cage would constrict my breathing, my heart speeding like a jackhammer. “Yes?”

“Madison . . . how did you get the mirror so clean?”

Ugh. It had been so long since I’d been with someone that even my fantasies were lame.

I scrubbed at the mirror harder and wondered how Tyler cleaned the one in his bathroom. Or if he had someone else do it for him.

Someone like Oksana.

“Oksana, Oksana, Oksana,” I muttered as I continued cleaning the mirror. It was weird to be so deeply jealous of someone I knew nothing about.

I had just finished up when I heard a noise. I figured it was Pigeon, but then she came in to sit on the floor next to my feet. She was whimpering.

Which meant . . . I went down the hallway and found Oksana in the kitchen.

I tried not to gasp. I’d chanted her name and had accidentally summoned her.

She had spread groceries all over the counter. A large pot sat on the stove, and I heard bubbles popping, as if something was boiling.

For all that was holy, I hoped it wasn’t a bunny. Whatever it was, it smelled a little like dirt and sulfur. Wasn’t that how brimstone was supposed to smell?

Maybe she was cooking up something for her good buddy, Satan.

“Hello.” I smiled and waved at her.

She had a cigarette hanging from her lower lip. She paused from cutting up a head of cabbage to glare at me and then resumed her cutting.

When it was obvious she wasn’t going to respond, I opted to be more direct. “What are you doing here?” Did somebody accidentally leave the gates of hell unlocked? I hoped I didn’t come across as too accusatory. I was genuinely bewildered to find her in my apartment again.

Her eyebrows went up, as if my question were stupid. “Cooking.”

“Oh. So, what are you, uh, making there?”

“Borscht.”

That was a kind of soup if I remembered correctly. “What do you use to make borscht?”

She glared at me again, obviously not in the mood to talk, and it kind of surprised me when she answered. She held the large knife she was using against her shoulder, making me feel the tiniest bit of fear. “Beets. Cabbage. Knucklebones. And other things.”

Knucklebones? Like . . . from people? What other animals had knuckles? This concerned me.

“Well, that sounds . . . great. Have fun. I’m going to go clean.” She so didn’t care what I was going to do. I wanted to ask her not to smoke because I was a big fan of my own lungs and breathing in general, but I didn’t know if I had the authority to say so.

I scampered away, trying not to think about how unfair it was that she not only looked that way but could cook, too. She’d probably never stick a cast-iron pan in the dishwasher.

When I got back to my room, I called Shay. Somebody needed to commiserate with me.

She answered and I said, “Oksana’s back.”

“Back where?”

“She’s in the kitchen. Cooking.” Something that had not seemed great initially but now smelled utterly divine.

“Is she clothed?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m afraid I may have accidentally used the dark arts and conjured her by saying her name three times while looking in a mirror.”

Shay played along. “Obviously.”

I knew that I was being weird about this Oksana thing. I figured some of it had to be, like, guilt. Or some manifestation of my subconscious and conflicting desires. I wanted to be just friends with Tyler but I also wanted to fight Oksana in a death match for his hand in marriage. So . . .

“Do you know her last name?” Shay asked. “I feel like we should do some deep diving into her social media.”

“No. And there’s no way for me to get it.” Unless I asked Tyler, which was something I didn’t really want to do. His girl situation was just that—his girl situation. I shouldn’t be involving myself in it. Especially if I wanted to maintain some emotional distance from him. He was supposed to be home in a few hours. He could deal with it then.

“Okay, maybe if we just do a more general search. I’m looking up hot girls named Oksana . . . oh! No! Oh, whatever you do, don’t do that. Ugh. I’m going to have to bleach my eyeballs now. But speaking of hot, you should tell Tyler.”