Erik keeps walking without comment.
“There is, of course, the fact that we live together, and maybe we shouldn’t hide that.” I scratch my head, thinking. Four months is way too little time to move in with a boyfriend. I probably wouldn’t do that even after a year. “Would a long-distance relationship make sense?” I say. “Then we could have met before, when—”
“Met through Cinder four months ago is fine,” he cuts me off, practical as usual. “Also fine that you moved in with me when my previous roommate left.”
“Who was your previous roommate? Did they leave recently?”
Erik doesn’t answer. I’m so curious, so I press him. “Come on, I need to know your history.”
“My cousin had been living with me for a few months. He moved in with his girlfriend two weeks before you took the room.”
His gaze lingers on my face, as if he is overanalyzing my features under the sunlight. Yes, overanalyzing—not appreciating them like I am appreciating his. It’s Erik, after all.
“And who lived in my room before your cousin?”
“Why does it matter?” He diverts his eyes, getting defensive.
“We need to know about each other’s lives. If people ask—”
“We don’t need to answer everything people ask, Sol.”
His words are not necessarily unkind, but they are clearly dismissive. It’s too early to dig into Erik’s personal affairs. Especially when I suspect this has something to do with an ex. Perhaps he will never tell me about it, whether we have a fake relationship or not.
“Wait, didn’t you get my number from someone who works at Scorpio?” Erik remembers, facing me with a worried look.
“Yes. Mark, a programmer.”
“Shit. We need to change our story then.”
“Why?” I try to read in his eyes the reason for his concern, and then I realize the problem. “Oh. Mark knows I only just met you because he is the reason why I got your number and heard about the apartment.”
“Exactly.” He looks at me as if I’m too slow in processing the facts.
“But Mark is not in Group Lars.”
“So what? He knows it. People will talk when they hear about us.”
I bite my lower lip. I told nearly everyone in the office that I was looking for an apartment.
Erik stops and gazes at me, serious. “Sol. If you want this to work, you need to think about the holes in your story. Either we fill them properly or we don’t go ahead with this.”
I take a deep breath. “What about just saying we met when I called you about the apartment? That’s what we need to work with, I guess. The truth, or part of it.”
Erik doesn’t say anything, but his forehead creases. I’m also not a fan of this. Telling the truth—or that part, at least—means I’ve only known Erik for a few weeks and we are already together. It’s a fragile relationship. It doesn’t give me the look of roots and stability. It will make me seem impulsive and naive for moving in with someone so quickly.
But better that than no boyfriend.
“We tell them we started texting each other when I got your number,” I say. “We met at that pub to talk about the apartment. We had a lot in common. We talked all night and, well...” Shucks, it’s embarrassing to make up this story about someone far from fictional who is standing right in front of me. I turn my face to the water, feeling my cheeks heat. “We fell for each other and decided to go ahead with moving in because you needed someone to help you pay the rent and I needed a room, so it was the perfect deal. No one needs to know any details. Just that we are in love and it’s all going great.”
I glance at him. His forehead is still wrinkled, but he nods.
“Good. That’s decided then,” I conclude, feeling calmer. We resume walking. “Oh, and I guess we should tell each other some facts about ourselves in case we’re asked about each other’s favorite food, drink, sport, TV show, game, flower, color, and so on. I’ll start,” I say, professional and objective. If this is business, let’s treat it as such.
“Beans, a Brazilian soda made of guarana, volleyball, Gilmore Girls, The Sims, violets and cactuses, light blue.”
I stop and stare at him, wide-eyed. “What? How do you know all that?”
Erik looks at me with an expression of This is so obvious I shouldn’t even explain.
“You have so many cans of black beans stocked in the pantry, one might think we’re preparing for the apocalypse.” I laugh. He goes on. “There’s always a can or two of this foreign green soda in the fridge—where do you find that, by the way?”
“They sell it here, can you believe it?” I tell him with excitement. Gee, I was happy to find my good old Guaraná.
“You have a signed volleyball in your room that looks like it’s special to you,” he continues. “You often watch Gilmore Girls or play The Sims on your computer while eating at the dining table. You have violets and cactuses at your windowsill and a lot of your clothes and accessories are light blue.”
My jaw is on the pavement. He actually pays attention to me. I’m not just some ghost roaming around the place.
“So, I’m not a mind reader,” he says with a shrug and a carefree smile. “I simply have eyes.”
“It seems like we’re more prepared than I thought.” I smile back, and we turn a corner when we reach the end of the lake to continue walking by the water.
“Well, not really, when you still don’t know about my favorite things,” he says.
“I know that your favorite food is oatmeal.”
He laughs. Erik’s breakfast is always a bowl of pure, dry oats that he soaks with milk and gobbles down with pleasure as if it’s as tasty as Frosted Flakes. Oatmeal is often his night snack too, and he sometimes eats it as a porridge.
“I eat that a lot, yes, but to say it’s my favorite food is a bit of a stretch.”
