‘My eldest sister is terrified of thunder,’ Cleo says. ‘She used to hide under the kitchen table when we were kids.’
‘I never understand that fear,’ I say. I’m a fan of big weather. Scorch my eyeballs out or snow me in, just don’t bore me with endless grey days. My life has felt like a series of endless grey days since I moved into that damn condo. ‘How’s your head?’
She tips it from side to side, testing it before she answers. ‘Clear as a bell. I don’t get hangovers.’
‘Wow. You’re already my most annoying neighbour.’
Her eyes flicker along the bold white chalk line that seemed like such a good idea last night.
‘I know you might think it’s stupid now we’re both sober, but I want to keep it.’
I won’t lie; in the cold light of day I think it’s impractical and untenable, but the subtle rise of her chin suggests determination and it’s not a battle worth fighting as long as she leaves next week.
‘Fine,’ I say.
‘And I’d like to suggest a few other house rules too,’ she says, watching me through narrowed eyes. It feels as if she’s pushing against the edges of my patience to see if she can get a rise.
‘Go for it.’
Her shoulders slide down and she clears her throat, like someone stepping on stage to give a TED Talk.
‘Okay,’ she says. ‘So, as you know, I’ve come here to be on my own, and you being here makes that almost impossible.’ She pauses and I don’t interrupt. ‘But I have to at least try to make it feel authentic for work, if nothing else, and to that end I’d appreciate it if we could imagine the chalk line is more of a … well, more of a brick wall.’
‘A brick wall?’
She nods. ‘Rock solid.’
I think about it, trying to decide if she’s serious, if it matters enough for me to care.
‘So,’ she says, ‘if I’m on my side, no chatting, no “Can you pass me this?” or “Fancy a coffee?”， that kind of thing.’
And there she goes again, pushing at my patience, the look on her face somewhere between apologetic and confrontational. I wonder if it’s the case that while she doesn’t get hangovers, she does get super fucking cranky.
‘And the bathroom?’ I deadpan. ‘Would you prefer some kind of booking system?’
‘Are you poking fun at me?’
And now she sounds hurt and I feel like a dick. ‘Cleo, this is hard work with a headache,’ I sigh. ‘Just write your rules on a sheet of paper and stick it up on the fridge. I’ll give it my best shot,’ I say. ‘I’ll be out of the lodge working most of the time anyway, so you’ll get it pretty much to yourself.’
She narrows her eyes again, looking for the catch. At some point I might tell her that she wears her emotions too close to the surface, that she’d make a terrible poker player. I’m not used to it; Susie is adept at keeping me in the dark, especially lately. She’d probably say something similar about me, to be fair. We’re not exactly at the ‘talk to my lawyer’ stage yet, but we’re not enough steps away from it either. It breaks my heart just thinking about it. I mentally write the next few hours off and drag the quilt up over my shoulders, turning my back as I work out what time it is in Boston. Early hours. The kids will be sleeping; Leo spread-eagle in the full-size bed we upgraded him to a year back after a monumental growth spurt, Nate curled into a tight ball around Stripes, his beloved and bedraggled tiger from a birthday trip to Franklin Park zoo years ago. I can still see his chubby little hand reaching out from his stroller to snag it from the store display, refusing to give it up even for candy. Jeez, I’m in even worse shape than I realized if I’m having sentimental thoughts about a stuffed animal. I shove my head under my pillow to block out the storm and close my eyes, hoping for both a clearer head and clearer skies by the time I wake up.
I think I might have been too hasty when I said just stick the rules to the fridge. It seemed like the fastest way out of the conversation at the time, but I’m standing here now reading through Cleo’s list and it feels as if I’ve handed the cards over to someone else again. I’ve been following Susie’s rules for the last year; I didn’t come here to play someone else’s games. One, no idle chatting. Two, no possessions across the line. Three, no judging. Judging? What’s she planning on doing that I might have cause to get judgemental about? I see from the list that I can at least use the bathroom as required without cause for a booking system, and that chatting is permitted as long as we’re both in the shared kitchen space. Well, whoopdee-fucking-do, Cleo. I pull a thermos out of the cupboard and fill it with coffee, swallow a couple of ibuprofen. It’s stopped raining at least. I’ll head out for a walk, see if the wind can blow the cobwebs away.