Page 2

Chapter Two

Storm

I stare at the email without a single fucking clue of how to respond.

This guy is concerned about me leaving the toilet seat up… how often does he sit on it? And why would he sit on it without looking at it first? Is he blind or something?

My thumbs hover over the keyboard on my phone, wanting to tell the guy that he’s a psycho and should get some help, but I shouldn’t do that. Not only is it mean, but the neighborhood he lives in is perfect. It’s spacious with privacy, and close enough to my mother that seeing her won’t be a problem. Which is the reason I moved here in the first place.

Money is no problem, but my credit is shit, so renting something myself or even buying, is out of the question. I only have myself to blame for that, but I’m working on it. Staying with a stranger will only be temporary. Besides, I don’t plan on staying on the west coast forever, so renting or buying out here would be stupid.

I minimize the email and go back to the photos of the house. It’s set in a quiet, family-oriented neighborhood. There’s a garage at the end of a driveway that could fit three cars front to back. The front yard is raised from the sidewalk about a foot, and there is a porch that is adorned with colorful flowers and decorations. The house sits further back on the property than the others beside it. Meaning, more privacy. Which is what I need in my line of work.

Everyone else I’d applied to room with had a million questions about my self-employment . Questions I wasn’t comfortable answering. Though it turns out my non-answers get as much judgment as my truthful ones, so at this point, I’m not sure which is better to give.

This guy didn’t ask me any of that, though. He doesn’t care what I do for work. He only cares that I put the toilet seat down. That won’t be so hard to do, right? I’ll have my own bedroom, and my own space. It would be stupid to deny this over a freaking toilet seat.

The listing says there are no pets in the house and no pets allowed, so he can’t be worried about an animal drinking from it. Is this guy fucking with me? A basket case? Is he looking for someone to move in so he can kill them? Does he want to break into my room, steal my underwear and wear them? If so, he’s going to have to pay for that, just like everyone else.

I go back to the email and respond—because I need this. I have to be close to my mother, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make that happen.

Hi Gabe-

Are you asking about shared bathrooms or the one that would be mine?

I stare at the line I’m sending him, wondering if it sounds rude. I don’t think it does. The listing states I have my own bathroom, so I can’t imagine why he’d be worried about what I do in there. It’s all really weird.

I hit the send button and run a hand through my hair. I’m getting a headache. I spend too much time on electronics—it’s starting to mess with my eyes. I’m supposed to be taking a break from life today, but I’m tired of staying in this stupid hotel room. There’s nothing to do and I’m going stir crazy. Being new to town, I have no friends to hang out with, and I’m stressed between finding a place and everything going on with my mom that I don’t want to go out in the first place. I’m so backed up on work it’s not even funny.

I look around the spacious hotel room. It’s a good place to make content, so I should use this to my advantage. But I just… can’t. It’s hard to get your dick up when you’re stressed out, despite what some people think.

My phone chimes and I pick it up from the bed beside me.

An email from Gabe. That was fast.

Hello Storm,

Please call me Gabriel.

I was asking about all bathrooms, just in case.

-Gabriel

I stare at the email for a very long time. Like most of his emails, I don’t know how to respond. How am I supposed to live with this guy if we can’t even communicate via email? And I’m a friendly guy. I’m social. A people person. If he’s making me speechless, how is this going to work?

Okay, Storm. Focus. Think.

He’s three blocks from my mother. I’ve spent too much time away from her to begin with, and now there isn’t much time left.

Three blocks from my mom…

I say those words at least ten times before answering him.

Gabriel, sorry about that. I’d be happy to abide by any rules you have in place, including putting all toilet seats down.

Hope to hear from you soon.

Best regards, Storm.

My phone alerts me that it's at 20%, so I plug it in, get comfortable on the bed, and turn on the TV.

I used to enjoy staying in hotels while traveling. I like checking out new places, plus the content gets me bonus money. But I’m not here for work—something I usually love doing. I’m here, uprooting my life, to be close to my mother because I fucked up.

I scroll through the movies and settle on Pineapple Express. I order a shit ton of room service, because why the hell not? The food comes a short time later, and I eat as much of it as I can. Steak, potatoes, chicken tenders, fries, and even applesauce because I love that shit.

When it hits nine and I’m not the slightest bit tired, I get out of bed and move to the balcony. Seattle is a beautiful place, and I wish I’d come here sooner. Or on better terms, I guess. I haven’t visited my mother once since I left at eighteen, though I always told her I would. Now I’m almost thirty-one. I was busy with work, or just having fun. Living my life and worrying about myself for once. Now it’s my biggest regret, and I find joy in practically nothing. I hate regretting things. I hate fucking up. How the fuck is it possible to live with so much guilt? Doesn’t seem like it is.

A cool breeze blows over me, rustling my hair, reminding me I need a shower. It’s been a few days. While washing up, I decide I need to get the fuck out of this room before I do lose my mind and start freaking out about toilet seats being up and other crazy shit that doesn’t matter. I pull on black jeans, a dark red t-shirt, my Vans, and throw my cap on backwards before heading out to find a bar.