Hael is…okay. At first glance, at least. He made an acceptable first impression. While acceptable, it was also ordinary, which is what a devil in disguise would go for.
Not that I’m accusing him of being two faced. I’m just considering the possibilities. And within the possibilities, the only one I favour is winning the lottery, buying the house and living in it alone. As anyone would guess, luck is rolling its eyes at this one.
All things considered, Hael’s personality doesn't matter—unless he turns out to be a tyrant. Were he a saint, and I’d still dread this change all the same. The keyword here is change. I’m not big on that. You’ll never see on my resume: “Adept At Adapting To Change”. Even if I wanted to embellish it with lies. It’s the complete opposite of what I like: Predictability. Call me boring, but that’s my preference, especially when it comes to real life.
My parents imposed on me an ordeal, and tried to make it look like a good deal. They finalized their divorce before announcing the divorce itself. So when they did tell me, it felt out of the blue. Then they told me of their plans to leave the country.
One was tired and wanted to retire to Hawaii—where he’d never see a single snowflake again. The other found love through an online community and chose to marry the man. The man who lives in Germany. Turns out they’d been dating for a year, my parents were already separated then—behind my back. They said their love had gone cold. Cliché? Classic? Or perhaps just life.
But if it got to the point they were comfortable seeing other people, couldn’t they have told me earlier? Leaving that aside, my parents continued to be generous that day with bombshell after bombshell.
They shared how reluctant they were to sell the house, saying it could become the family’s greatest asset in a world where properties are growing out of reach. But the house wasn’t an asset yet, considering they hadn’t fully paid the mortgage. They couldn’t afford to pay from overseas since they’d have new bills there.
In short, they want the home, but not the responsibility. It was obvious, though, that I couldn’t afford the mortgage and the myriad of utility bills of a family home all on my own. So my parents had an idea. To this day, I’m surprised this idea was the result of their many conversations—or so they told me.
Their bright idea—truly the brightest, sharpest tool in the shed—was to rent a few rooms. Because of course it’s fine to leave your daughter alone with strangers. We all know strangers are the most trustworthy beings. The only reason we’re told not to take candy from them is because it’ll rot your teeth. Yes. Just that.
The first stranger I welcomed wasn’t entirely foreign to me or my mom. Hael is my soon-to-be stepbrother. With him came another bright idea. My mom takes full credit for that one. Long story short, he was moving to Canada anyway, had planned to for a while—total coincidence that my mom overheard—then she proposed he move into the house. She offered him a room for half the price. Of course she didn’t tell him it was half the price, but he’d guess it if he were smart.
And thanks to that bright idea, I needed two more housemates instead of one to afford life. And the piece of resistance: There aren’t enough rooms for three housemates. Asking Hael to share a room with a stranger was out of the question. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. So we arranged a room in the basement.
I loved that place; now it’s off limits. It’s unfailingly cool on scorching summer days. It’s isolating in the best possible way since you can’t tell if it’s night or day. The sole window there is so small it barely catches a ray of sunshine. When it does, it shines in a heavenly way on a closet door.
That basement was a no-time zone; now it’s a moneymaker. Despite the lack of lighting, it’s still worth more than the regular rooms because of its broader privacy; its living room, and proximity to the washer and dryer.
It’s thanks to this basement that I’ll afford life without having to scrape by. It won’t make me rich, but I won’t stress at the end of the month. Scratch that. Living with strangers will be stressful enough that I’ll consider taking a loan with 300% interest just to pay off the house and have peace.
***
While Hael was in his room, resting, I was in mine, coping. With cookies. I was eating a cookie per second. Whether stressed or happy, I binge snack. Not my proudest habit, I’ll admit. Crumbs fell on my shirt, and as I picked them up, it dawned on me I was still in comfortable clothes.
II flew to my closet for a change of clothes. There, I caught my reflection in the mirror. My face reddened as I recalled the moment I opened the door to Hael looking like this. A mess. Aside from the water stain, there was also an ice cream stain, which only in front of the glass did I notice. It stared back at me, an oval near my collar. The accomplice to that crime rested on my bedside table, soaking the centre of a tissue. Turns out I carried the spoon with me all the way to my room. How stupid must I have looked holding a spoon up the stairs?
I scoured my closet for clean—bare minimum; I know—and casual clothes. Outdoor clothes would be plain stupid for the night, and while I don’t think patterned pyjamas are childish, I’d rather be bland this time. So I chose a lightweight midnight blue t-shirt and black lounge pants. Then, I brushed my hair into a neat ponytail. How pathetic it is to be careful of my appearance at home? I didn’t need to, but the mortification of that butchered first impression pushed me to it.
This was the last place on Earth I thought I’d share first impressions. It’s why I was against their solution in the first place. Why was I the only one concerned about the prospect of this? My mom met Hael before…but for a mere few days! And she offered him the room before she flew to Germany for the first time. Hence, he was a stranger to her when they made the arrangements.
What if all the good things she heard about him were honeyed and her judgment was compromised by all the sweetness? Let alone that the provider of that information literally raised the man. They’re both biased. One is in love and the other is a father. As for my own father, he worried more about my ability to pay the bills on time. He spent his last days in the house pestering me. I have sticky notes all over my desk with instructions I can’t read because of his doctor-esque handwriting. He’s no doctor, but I’d have to be one to read his notes. Besides the sticky notes, he repeated the same pointers whenever he could. They came before greetings, if not replacing them altogether.
“Pay the bills as soon as they arrive so you don’t forget them.”
“Don’t let them pay you a day late.”
“Keep track of what you pay.”
Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.
They are useful for sure—don’t get me wrong. I just got sick of hearing them so much. A passerby in my dreams mumbled his exact words.
Better clothed, I sank into my beanbag with my hand in the cookie bag. Crumbs don’t stain clothes—they borrow the space until dusted off. No worries there.
It was fairly early to call it a night, especially for a night owl. I wanted to stay copped up in my room, but because I could, not because I had to. I’m no prisoner. This is still my house. I am free to go anywhere at any given time.
One person arrived, and I was already so afraid. So nervous. Was it too late to object strongly and convince my parents to sell the house?
I did object. I never once approved. But it wasn’t my place. The house is theirs. Love was her choice. Tropical rest was his. My choice didn’t matter is all. End of the story, beginning of another one. Both miserable. Just like their main character.
The sound of the doorbell made me pause the “self-pitying”. Now that must be my laptop stand, I thought. That small joy might occupy my thoughts instead. Anything to stop the “self-pitying”, for I didn’t think I’d stoop that low.
The doorbell rang once more while I hoisted myself up from the beanbag. That was grounds for suspicion. It’s unlike delivery drivers to ring the bell more than once. Heck, most just knock and dash. They’re too busy to make sure we open the door and get our package before the porch pirates do. Sure, they need a signature sometimes, but not for a mere laptop stand that cost me $14. It rang again and again, each cutting each other short. I ran out of my room and nearly bumped into Hael, who’d also come out of his room, concern spreading on his face.
“Sorry,” he said automatically. “I was going to open the door. I thought maybe you were occupied.”
His voice was soft and harmless.
“It’s fine. I’ll open the door.” And my tone was rough and cold. I didn’t have it in me to appreciate anything at the moment.
Except I did when he followed me down the stairs. Quietly, I was put at ease. The doorbell ceased, but I was sure someone was still behind that door, waiting impatiently. My spine tingled at the thought, and my hand reaching for the porch light stopped short of shaking—perhaps because someone had my back. I opened the door to eyes void of emotion or energy. Just black-hole-esque eyes, staring blankly at me.