Page 17

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There is a rotting smell in the kitchen.

I’ve been noticing it more and more over the last month or so. But today, as I step into the kitchen to grab a beer to help me unwind from another truly awful day at my temp job—during which I almost went to battle with the jammed copy machine—the stench is overpowering. I have to clasp a hand over my nose.

My first thought is it’s Whitney’s fault .

It’s been two weeks since I confronted Whitney about the thumping noise in the middle of the night. I heard it one more time a week later, but the sound again stopped the second I got into the stairwell, and instead of having another frustrating encounter with a smirking Whitney, I instead went downstairs to the first floor and passed out on the couch watching television.

Sadly, it wasn’t even the worst night of sleep I’ve gotten in the last month or so. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but my sleep has been shit. I’ve got a permanent pair of bags under my eyes.

So I’m not in the mood to deal with a mystery smell in my kitchen. I look around the countertops, trying to figure out the source. A swarm of fruit flies whirls around my face. That’s another thing. The fruit fly situation in the kitchen has become almost unbearable. I asked Krista if she would make cookies a few days ago, and she said she didn’t want to because there were too many flies in the kitchen.

I yank open the refrigerator, trying to see if I can find the culprit in there. The smell is definitely pretty bad in here. I crouch down, peering inside. It’s the usual mix of condiments, a loaf of bread, some cold cuts, fat-free yogurt, and a dozen eggs. But then I notice a few of those Styrofoam containers in the back of the fridge—the kind that Whitney brings home from the diner.

I take them out, and as soon as I have them in my hands, I have no doubt that this is the cause of the smell. They smell awful . Like there’s a tiny rotting carcass inside.

I stare down at the containers, not wanting to even touch them without gloves on. Yet I can’t stifle a sick curiosity. I need to know what’s inside. I need to confirm that these really are the source of the smell.

So I open the first box.

I’m immediately sorry I did. The contents of the Styrofoam box are enough to make my stomach turn. It used to be french fries and a chicken sandwich, but the bun has turned almost completely green with mold. The french fries had also been slathered in some sort of sauce, which has clearly turned, and the fries themselves have also gone green. The stench is unbearable.

Damn it, Whitney.

I don’t bother opening the other two containers, because I’m pretty sure what’s in them is just as bad. I toss all three right in the garbage, and then I seal the bag and take it outside. I don’t even want this crap in my house anymore.

When I get back to the kitchen, it smells just as bad. There are about a dozen fruit flies on the counter, and I kill as many of them as I can with my bare hand. But I’m not sure how easy it will be to get rid of them.

“What are you doing, Blake?”

Krista has materialized at the kitchen, dressed in her clothes for work. She caught me smashing the life out of a fruit fly that was perched on the refrigerator, using more force than technically necessary.

I turn around, taking a breath to calm myself. “Whitney left rotting food in the fridge.”

She crinkles her nose. “Yeah. Wow. It smells terrible.”

“No kidding.”

She brightens. “I have that air freshener in the bedroom. I could spray it around the kitchen.”

I know the air freshener she is talking about because she sprays it in the bathroom sometimes. It smells overwhelmingly of flowers and makes my eyes itch. In general, I hate it, but it’s better than the way the kitchen currently smells. Anything to cover up the smell of rotting food. But we have a bigger problem right now.

“I don’t want Whitney to live here anymore,” I say to her.

“Because she forgot about some rotting food in the fridge? You do that all the time, Blake. Are you sure it wasn’t yours?”

“It wasn’t mine. Trust me.” My jaw ticks. “Why aren’t you more bothered by this? It smells like death in here.”

“It’s not that bad.” She shrugs. “Just open a few windows and spray the air freshener. I bet it’ll be fine in a couple of hours.”

“It’s not just that, okay? She’s just… She’s toxic. She woke me up twice in the middle of the night doing God knows what…”

“I didn’t hear anything.”

“That’s because you sleep with earplugs!” I throw up my hands. “Trust me, she’s doing this to torment me. And she keeps looking at me like she wants to slit my throat while I’m sleeping. I’m not comfortable with her here.”

“I think she’s really nice.” Krista blinks at me. “I don’t get it. You don’t like the way she’s looking at you?”

I grit my teeth. “She hates me. Do you know what it’s like to live with somebody who hates you?”

“She doesn’t hate you.”

“She does!” A fruit fly dances in front of my face, and I swat at it in frustration. “She absolutely hates me. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if she left this rotting food in the fridge just to torture me!”

The fruit fly finally gets out of my face and lands on the kitchen counter. I reach out and slam the palm of my hand down, smashing the life out of it. I feel a brief flash of satisfaction.

Krista takes a step back, blinking quickly. “Are you okay, Blake?”

“No, I’m not okay!” I shoot back. “There’s a psychopath living in my house, and I want her out!”

And now my stupid eye won’t stop twitching.

“The last several months have been really stressful for you,” Krista says gently. “I know it was hard on you to lose your job that way, and I know you hate your new job. And I know you aren’t sleeping well. But Whitney is not the cause of all your problems. I promise you that.” I start to protest, but then she raises her hand. “And I need to remind you that the money Whitney is paying us for the room is the only thing keeping us afloat right now.”

She has a point. We need the money. And it’s not like there were any other amazing candidates lining up.

“Fine,” I mutter. “I got rid of the rotting food at least. She needs to know she can’t do it again though.”

“I’ll talk to Whitney about the food,” Krista says. “You stay out of it. You’ll just make things worse.”

That’s for sure.

“And we can get rid of the fruit flies,” she adds. “I was looking it up, and you can build a trap using dish detergent and apple cider vinegar!”

“Fantastic.”

I wait for Krista to wrap her arms around me in a tight hug—I could really use a hug right now. At least level seven or higher. But instead, she goes upstairs to fetch the air freshener. It’s hard to imagine that it will do anything to help get rid of this terrible smell, but it’s worth a try. We have one window in the kitchen, so I throw it open; then I go into the living room to open some windows, because the whole place is starting to smell. Even poor Goldy looks kind of green in her little bowl. Thank God at least the weather is decent so we can keep the windows open.

I feel sorry for our poor fish, so I toss her a couple of pellets. She must be hungry, because she immediately rises to the surface to gobble them up. Eating is literally the most interesting thing that she does. It’s sort of cute. I feel a weird rush of affection for our little pet. It’s nice to have something to take care of.

As I idly scratch my chest, which feels itchy again all of a sudden, I hear the sound of footsteps thudding on the steps. I raise my eyes from the fishbowl to the stairwell. Someone is standing at the top, and at first I think it must be Krista with the air freshener. But it’s not. It’s Whitney.

I don’t say anything, and neither does she. She just stands there, dressed in her usual jeans and hoodie, looking down at me. I wonder how long she has been standing there. I wonder if she heard our entire conversation.

Then she tucks her hair behind her ears and smirks. She heard every word.