“And you’ve got enough for the rent in the meantime?” she asks.
“I’m not borrowing money from you, Mom.”
“I really don’t mind,” she says.
“I’m fine.” That’s the truth, but even if it weren’t, I wouldn’t take a cent from her. For years after their split, Dad treated her like an ATM, and she helped him out every time, until I turned eighteen. Like some kind of fucked-up reverse child support, where he was the child she was obligated to support.
She told me she couldn’t have my father out on his ass, that it wasn’t right. But a funny thing happened when she cut him off: he was fine.
Mom’s done enough caretaking for two lifetimes, and if my dad can scrape by without her help, I can too. When I move, it will be because I’ve found a good job and my own place, that I can afford with my money.
“I’ve got things under control,” I promise.
She’s stopped walking, catching her breath at her front door probably. “You’ve always had a backbone of steel.”
“Wonder where I get that from,” I say.
“No idea,” she deadpans.
We say our goodbyes, do our I love you; I love you mores, and I go back to reading the library’s galley copy of a new Goonies-esque chapter book.
After a minute, though, I pick up my phone and text Ashleigh: Do you know of a good beginners’ yoga class?
She sends back nothing but an ellipsis. I reply with a question mark. She says, I don’t believe in organized exercise.
I have no idea what that means.
She adds, Looking to get ripped?
Looking for a hobby, I say, because “more friends” sounds too desperate.
Does it have to be exercise? Ashleigh asks.
Nope. When I see her typing, I head her off. But I’m not interested in the knitting circle at the library.
I’ve got something better, she says. You free next Wednesday after work?
There’s a knock at my bedroom door, and I set my phone aside, sitting up. “Come in.”
The door whines open and Miles leans in, hair wet from a shower, beard sticking out in every direction. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I say; then, with a realization, “It’s Friday.”
“It is,” he says.
“Shouldn’t you be at work?” I say.
He half shrugs. “Katya needed more hours. You up for another film?”
We’ve watched a movie every night since Sunday. Specifically the over-the-top action-comedies I’d always assumed were strictly intended for viewing whilst high out of your fucking gourd. It turns out they’re also pretty good when you’re stone-cold sober and trying not to think about making out with your roommate.
Lying on the floor of my tiny bedroom, while he stands over me like this, for example, is less ideal.
I sit up abruptly and knock over my chai in the process. “Shit!”
Miles retreats and returns with a hand towel, throwing it at me. Not to. At. It hits my face.
“Great catch,” he says.
“Thanks.” I yank the towel down and mop up the spill. “When’s showtime?”
“Whenever you want,” he says.
“Give me two minutes,” I say.
“I’ll make popcorn,” he says.
Five minutes later, we’re settled in for our ritual.
The oddball pairings are so cliché, so expected. But then again, they work.
The huge guy and the tiny one.
The trained assassin and the everyday Joe who gets mixed up with him.
The serious one who gives good eyebrow and the wisecracking sidekick who is absolutely always Ryan Reynolds or someone nearly indistinguishable from Ryan Reynolds when you close your eyes.
“This man must make sixty of these a year,” I say.
