The Co-op

Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN

Five Days Later

L A RYNN

One more tiny detail we both neglected to give due consideration prior to agreeing to this arrangement? The logistics of living together full-time.

“How difficult is it to clean your disgusting hair trimmings out of the sink ?!” I howl when I step into the bathroom and see his mess.

“I imagine it’s about as difficult as it is for you to not leave your disgusting, three-foot-long strands of witch-hair plastered all over the shower walls!” Deacon replies, a vein pulsing in his temple, his hair still damp from the shower.

Safe to say, we’re struggling to meld as roommates.

“Alright, lovebirds, we need to be on the road in forty-five minutes!” Elyse calls from the living area. She pokes her head in the doorway. “Deacon, since you appear to be ready, maybe you could go get coffee for everyone?”

“I’ll take an extra shot in mine, mon crétin, ” I purr, low enough for Elyse to miss.

“I’ll be sure to spit in it, sugar, ” he says, parroting my tone, a ghost of that old accent appearing, that R falling off with lazy contempt.

“Looks like you missed a spot on your back, by the way.”

“I don’t shave my back,” he says in confusion. He does a small turn, eyes flitting past me to check in the mirror, even so.

I bark out an evil laugh when I catch him, then shrug innocently before I slam the bathroom door on his freshly shorn face. I turn and lean against it as I try to catch my breath, not even his dumb expression bringing me adequate joy. The scent of his bodywash smacks my senses on a cloud of steam, and I have to remind myself that it is not a Pavlovian response that my clothes start coming off.

In all fairness, the first day and a half went great. We applied for a marriage license and proceeded to tiptoe politely around one another. I went out and got some basic groceries so I wouldn’t infringe upon his food supply, which primarily consists of snacks and a variety of meats anyway, and he went out and had spare keys made. The day after we made our agreement, he had to go over to Santa Sea to work on some things around the grounds. Part of me wanted to ask if he had any plans to tell his mom about this arrangement, but I couldn’t decide how I’d feel about either answer, so I didn’t. This was also the same day I had my first shift at Spill the Beans, and, despite some minor struggles to memorize the inner workings of things—the register, the espresso machine, the optimal way to steam milk for a perfect latte… it was fun . Which might just be because I loved working alongside Elyse, but either way, I was warm and gooey over the sense of accomplishment I felt by the end of my day.

Day three is when things started to get fiddly. I awoke on the couch again, this time with a lovely kink in my neck, and was immediately startled by the sound of Deacon gagging down the hall, followed by him aggressively clearing his sinuses.

“You alright?” I called out, still blinking sleep from my eyes.

He bent his top half out of the bathroom, shirtless, with a toothbrush dangling from his lips. A zing of awareness pinballed through me at the sight of his sculpted chest. “Uh, yeah. Why?”

“Uh, ’cause you sound like you’re undergoing an exorcism?” I said.

He pouted around the toothbrush. “We can’t all suppress our gag reflexes, Larry.”

Pig . “Real nice.”

“Yes, dear,” he said, wagging his brows meaningfully. “It is.”

“You’re revolting,” I muttered, shuffling to the kitchen, in need of caffeine and some sort of armor before engaging with him. The lack of things to absorb sound in this place made it so he still heard me.

“ God, I can’t wait to grow old with you,” he sang.

I tossed back my coffee in the living room and held my pee for forever, until he eventually emerged from his room, fresh and fully dressed for the day. While I sat bedraggled with a full bladder and a ponytail that had migrated to somewhere over my ear in the night.

“I’ll be back in just a bit, sugar lips,” he said. “The shower is finicky, so here are some instructions.” He dropped a note on the counter and blew me a kiss.

“I’ll miss you every minute you’re away, mon amour, ” I replied flatly. I blew him a returning kiss and let it turn into the middle finger.

“Only if you’re a very good girl,” he said, bolting before I could come up with a rebuttal.

As soon as I finally took care of my morning business, I called over to Elyse at the shop. “How can you stand living with a boy?!” I screeched when she answered. “Also, hi, and are you busy? And is this a good time?”

“It’s eight A.M. and it’s a coffee shop. Of course I’m busy. But I’ve also been waiting for this call,” she said with a laugh.

“Elyse, he’s foul! His towels have holes! He’s got one limp pillow on his couch and two flatter ones on his bed. His shower has one bottle of bodywash and one bottle of two-in-one shampoo and conditioner.”

She laughed over the tinkling commotion in the background. “Jensen was like that, too, before he moved in with me. Now he sleeps with a silk eye mask, a sound machine, four pillows to himself, and has the same number of steps in his skincare routine that I do. At least Deacon has a bed frame. Hey! Speak of the devil!”

“What? Who?!”

I’d hoped she meant Jensen, but then I heard the phone shift, and “Missing me already?” came Deacon’s voice. “I told you I’d be back soon, sweet pea. Keep the bed warm and leave the door open for me.”

“Bite me. And maybe install a door!”

“We need to work on your dirty talk game.”

I hung up and screamed into a pillow. It did nothing to muffle me since it’s half an inch thick.

The remainder of that day was spent cleaning out my Honda in a rage, trying to burn off whatever it was that had me flipping through anxiety, aggravation, and (most perplexing) a tenuous sense of excitement before driving it to the nearest Cash4Cars lot. I’d get only a few grand out of it, but I had no idea how long it would take to process the marriage certificate and obtain a check from the trust. At least this way I could pay Deacon back something as a show of good faith, as well as keep a small chunk for a personal cushion in the meantime. Plus, anything I need is within walking distance, and even with the money from the trust, I knew we’d need to supplement it along the way. I’d happily save on car insurance and gas if it meant I could afford health insurance (when my dad realizes I’m still on his and inevitably gives me the boot) and full meals in the interim.

A strange sense of finality had come over me when the Uber carried me away from the car lot after. Acquiring that car was one of the first things I’d been forced to figure out on my own, selling off my furniture piecemeal so I could buy the Honda and still make rent for the nice apartment my dad had paid for until then (with a lease too expensive to break).

I’d walked back through the (absence of a) door that evening with my head held high, found Deacon lying on the couch watching ESPN on his phone, and placed four thousand dollars on his chest, keeping one for myself.

He frowned at it and then me. “What have you been up to today?” he asked.

“I know it’s only a small portion, but.” I nodded at the wad. “In good faith.”

“Did you rob a church or something?”

“What? No, Deacon,” I said impatiently. “It’s an expression. It’s a gesture to show you I’ll be good on my end of things, as in, like, I’m committed .”

“I’m kidding, Larry. Don’t burst a blood vessel,” he drawled, eyes tracking back to his phone. “Where’d you come up with it? Sell some hexes? Kill a man?”

Not yet. “I sold my car, like I told you I would.”

At this, he sat up, swung his big legs around the edge of the couch, and looked up at me with a perplexed frown.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I asked.

“Uh, because I don’t think that was necessarily the move?”

“What do you mean? I told you this was my plan the first day I got here!”

“That was also before we knew you’d be getting money from the trust,” he said. “How are you going to get around town when we inevitably need something, like, for the renovation? You planning on hanging gallons of paint from a two-by-four and carrying them on your back like some medieval laborer?”

I took in a deep breath and channeled my dwindling patience. What was it that he’d said? “Play house”? Right. “Well, mon coeur, in those rare instances that a vehicle proves entirely necessary, I figured I would be able to borrow my dear, sweet husband’s.”

“Oh yeah? You learned to drive a stick?”

I blinked a few times. “No.” Dammit. “Does that mean you still drive the Bronco?” I realized in that moment I hadn’t seen his car. He couldn’t. No way it still ran.

“Sure do.” He let out a long-suffering sigh. “I suppose I could provide lessons. Only for my darling wife.” He made it sound like invasive dental work. “Especially since she’s so good at including me in big decisions,” he muttered under his breath.

“I want a bed, alright?” I snapped. “I have no clue how long it’ll take for them to process the marriage certificate and I’d prefer not to keep sleeping on a couch like I have for the last six months!” Though, when I thought about it, I realized that the last two nights here were the best sleep I’d had in as long as I could remember, even if my back and neck pinched in places. I’ve always had my best sleep here. “And it’s awkward and humiliating to wait to use the bathroom just to get changed every day. I want some sort of divider or something. I need some semblance of privacy.”

He set the cash on the coffee table and gave me a stern look. “Why have you been sleeping on a couch for six months?”

My neck and chest went taut. This was my issue. I never could keep things safely surface level with Deacon. I’d try to keep up pretenses and end up handing him all my weaknesses. “It doesn’t matter,” I said, brushing it off. “I’d just like to be reasonably comfortable.”

His jaw ticked. “Okay” was all he replied, before he retreated to his room for the rest of the night.

Yesterday, I got the email notifying me that we had a marriage license, which led me to make an appointment at the San Francisco courthouse today.

When I finally emerge from the bathroom in head-to-toe black, Elyse frowns.

“I don’t feel like I’m doing my job as your friend unless I tell you to go get changed. You can’t wear black to your wedding.”

“Don’t call it that,” I groan.

“Call it what? Your wedding?”

“Yes, that. Stop it. This isn’t my wedding wedding. I refuse to think of this as my wedding.” I need to stop saying “wedding.”

“Well, you can’t look like you’re going to a funeral.”

“Aren’t I, though?” I say grimly.

She blows a sigh my way. “Alright, LaRynn. Enough. The last thing I want to do is gaslight you here, so I’m sorry if that’s what I’m about to do. I get how you’re feeling and it’s valid. But you know what, if I’m being honest, I really can’t muster up much sympathy for you. I don’t feel sorry for the fact that you have to temporarily marry an attractive man, all so you can eventually be the co-landlord for a beautiful beachfront property, or, in your worst-case scenario, sell it to collect a very large amount of money. Call me crazy, I just don’t.”

“Elyse—”

“Nope. Listen, I know how you’re feeling. But one man’s control is not the same as one man’s partnership. Jensen and I aren’t even married and he is still my partner, and a damn good one at that. I think that’s how you need to look at this, if you’re going to get through it. You get to have a fresh start, to figure out what you want to do with your life, and you get to have a partner while you do it.”

“Yeah, but you see, one thing that likely makes yours a good, supportive partner? He’s motivated. You have sex with Jensen.” I make an apologetic face.

She gasps like she’s scandalized. “Says who?!” she laughs. “Honestly, with that poor man’s rotation schedule and me at the shop so much lately, that happens less than you’d think.”

Still. She should be the one getting married, and for real. With flowers and a lovely ceremony and champagne. But I know they’re waiting for Jensen to finish medical school, and that he’s been putting himself through it financially, with the help of some hefty student loans. I study her for a moment and note the little signs of strain I haven’t seen before. Half-moon circles under her eyes, a heavier, more tired look to her grin. I’m suddenly gripped by the fear of being anything that could add to that stress. Anything that might cause her more annoyance or worry. She’s given me a job and her endless, persistent friendship, and I do not know what I bring to the table in return.

“I guess I can look at this as marrying myself,” I say with false bravado. “I’m choosing myself today—without worrying about disappointing anyone else.” It’s a stretch, but it’s also a start.

She smiles, only mildly surprised. “That’s my girl,” she says. “Now go get changed.”

I draw the line at that and keep the black ensemble.