Accidental Housemate

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At work, I tried never to be alone and to have someone around me, especially if the scene included Hannah.

Her eyes were on me while she took those photos, undressing me from my skin. The will I used to get through that photoshoot with her was God sent. I was already half-naked, but I felt exposed to her in ways more than bodily. Managing not to have a panic attack in front of her was a wonder. At least she tried her best to put up a professional act around our co-workers.

The times I tried to meet up with the manager alone were uncountable, but she was always trailing behind me, and each time, I failed to scare her in the slightest. All the time, it was me who chickened out and couldn’t defend myself. I was constantly afraid she’d lay her chapped fingers on me again, often hugging my sides to make sure she couldn’t get close.

When my work days were over, I wouldn’t dare to think of entering the toilet, not even when I felt as if my bladder was going to explode, or my makeup was melting all over my face. At the lady’s fitting room, I made sure to drag any co-worker with me for my safety, claiming to need help zipping up something, or simply dragging a conversation.

I hailed a taxi and went home. As usual, Dave was home before me, either finished with cooking or had ordered food already. I took off my coat and washed my hands. I walked up to Dave, and he hugged me briefly as a greeting.

“Welcome back,” he said, rubbing my back up and down.

I replied with a smile and sat down on the stool by the island, drinking water as I watched him move around. Apparently, he had cooked. He served us two plates of what looked like turmeric rice and chicken.

“I’m going out tonight with Kyle,” he announced. His plans for some weekends were to meet up with his friends. He’d invite me to join sometimes, but I had no will after what happened that night when I got drunk.

After I washed the dishes, I told him I’d take a nap. Barely half an hour into it, I heard rustling at the front door. The flat’s design isolated the front door from the rest of the place, so I could hear people talking but not see them. One voice was Dave’s, and the other was… Tiffany’s? I cussed under my breath, already making my way towards the scene, but something she said stopped me and made me want to chill and listen instead.

“If you know this, why do you still keep her around? What does she offer you, huh?”

I held in a gasp as my hand covered my mouth. I prayed her words didn’t mean what I thought they did. If so, I wondered the same thing she did.

Dave snarled, “This is none of your business. Again, if you don’t leave this instant, I’ll call the police. Don’t make me do anything I don’t normally do.”

What was that all about? What did either of them mean? Was I not the only one holding secrets?

“I’m not here for you. I want to see Perrie.” Tiffany’s words came out relaxed. Even if fear stormed her guts, she’d keep a composed demeanour to show her opponent she was unfazed.

“Perrie isn’t here, and I doubt she wants to see you.”

I heard her take a step inside, and then keypad noises resonated. One different tone, then another repeated twice—must be 911.

Her steps halted. “Fine! I’m leaving, but let her know I want to see her.”

Then the door slammed shut, freezing me in my spot for a while. I slouched back to my room, masking my confusion before Dave could see me. As I sat on my bed, I pondered what I had just heard. Did Dave know? If so, since when? Was all his kindness a mask for darker intentions?

The rest of the day was dreadful. I hid in my room and pretended I was still asleep when he knocked on my door to inform me he was leaving. When I was finally home alone, I started thinking properly about what type of mess I was in.

I tried to watch some TV to steer myself away from my thoughts, but it barely worked. An hour into his absence, he sent me a text.

‘What are you doing, Perrie?

‘I’m thinking about you even when I’m away.’

In another circumstance, I’d have blushed at his confession. However, at that moment while I was pondering his intentions, my perspective changed.

‘Watching TV,’ I replied shortly, ignoring his second statement.

‘I think I’m a bit drunk.’

I couldn’t help but think his words came from a different version of him, one who thought of me as something less than a person. Would sober Dave say he was thinking about me, too? To be fair, he had always been nice to me, but maybe it was because he knew all along and had other plans. The thought scared me and brought back early memories from our first times together.

‘Obviously. Who’ll take you home?’

‘I’ll hail a taxi.’

I replied with a thumbs up, trying my best to end the conversation subtly. He still replied, and it wasn’t something I expected.

‘Perrie… I like you.’

I stared at the message, trying to interpret it. His confession could hold three meanings: he merely thought I was a likeable person, he meant it romantically, or he was basically lusting.

Right when I was about to pick the first meaning and base my reply on it, he added, ‘Shit, I shouldn’t have confessed over text. Wait for me. I’m coming home.’

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