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These pictures, and the emails, suggested that while Frederick might be a lot older than me, he probably wouldn’t steal all my stuff the day after I moved in.
I could handle an awkward roommate who was maybe in his seventies as long as he wasn’t going to rob or kill me.
Then again, you could only tell so much from tone in an email.
From: Cassie Greenberg [[email protected]]
To: Frederick J. Fitzwilliam [[email protected]]
Subject: Your apartment listing
Frederick,
Okay, those pictures are amazing. Your place looks great! I definitely want to see it, but I can’t come by in the evening tomorrow until around 8. Is that too late? Let me know, and thanks.—Cassie
His next reply came in less than a minute.
From: Frederick J. Fitzwilliam [[email protected]]
To: Cassie Greenberg [[email protected]]
Subject: Your apartment listing
Dear Miss Greenberg,
Eight o’clock tomorrow evening works perfectly with my schedule. I will make sure to tidy up so that all looks as it should when you arrive.
Yours in good health,
Frederick J. Fitzwilliam
Sam came by my apartment that evening with a bunch of moving boxes and two venti Starbucks coffees.
“Pull up a chair,” I deadpanned, gesturing to where my old secondhand La-Z-Boy used to be. I’d sold it on Facebook for thirty dollars the day before, which was about what it had been worth.
Sam smirked and gingerly spread a flattened moving box on the ground before sitting down on it cross-legged.
“Don’t mind if I do,” he said.
“Thanks for bringing those over,” I said, nodding at the boxes. Even if I didn’t end up moving into Frederick’s fully furnished room, all I planned to bring with me from this place were my clothes, my art supplies, and my laptop. Just the essentials—but I still needed boxes to pack it up.
“It was no problem,” Sam said. He handed me the coffee I’d asked him for. He’d said he’d get me whatever I wanted, but I’d felt guilty about asking for the pricey rainbow-coloredsugar bomb Iactuallywanted and just asked for a plain black coffee.
“I can’t wait to live someplace with Wi-Fi again,” I mused, taking a sip. I winced at the bitter taste. How could anyone actually enjoy drinking coffee black? It was something I asked myself every time I worked at Gossamer’s. “I missDrag Race.”
Sam looked affronted. “I’ve been keeping you posted on the winners, haven’t I?”
I waved a dismissive hand. “It’s not the same.” Reality television had long been a guilty pleasure of mine, and Sam’s dry summaries just didn’t cut it. “Anyway, you’re coming with me tomorrow night, right?”
“Of course,” he said. “This was my idea in the first place, right?”
“Itreallywas.”
“If you’re meeting him at eight, I should pick you up around seven forty-five. Will that work?”
“Yeah. I’ll be just getting off my shift at the library.” The library hosted special activities for kids on Tuesday evenings, meaning it would be all hands on deck until seven-thirty. In all honesty, I loved Tuesday nights at the library. There was usually some kind of arts and crafts–related activity, and I could pretend for a little while that creating was still a significant part of my life.
I’d made a mental note to leave out mySesame Street–themedReading Is for Winners!T-shirt when I started packing. The library liked us to dress up for the kids on Tuesdays.
