12 Lucas is Nearly Murdered By an Inkwell

July 18th

I had barely opened the door to the apartment when I had to violently twist to keep from stepping on a mysterious dark object in the doorway. I hung off the doorknob, swinging my foot over the object to land on the carpet safely, then hit the light.

What the actual fuck?

Was that an inkwell?

That settled it. My housemate was probably, definitely an alien.

While catching my breath, I stared at the offending inkwell in distaste. What was this even doing on the floor? Carefully, I picked it up—it was filled to the brim with ink. Oh my god—I searched for other landmines—this was brand-new carpeting! If this had spilled ... just think of the amount of baking soda and bleach that would have been needed to clean it up ...

Not to mention the fact that I could've stepped on the damn thing and died.

I followed the inkwells, which did in fact continue (they multiply like bunnies!) like a trail of breadcrumbs into the living room, where—

Papers were scattered everywhere, covering the carpet, where they seemed to have been flung every which way—even the couch was unrecognizable under a messy pile of paper and brushes. Three inkwells and two bowls of inky water, every single one resting precariously on the floor.

Keep calm, don't freak out. Keep calm, don't freak out. It's just a landmine of ink sitting on carpet. No big deal—

VERY BIG DEAL.

I plucked each inkwell off the floor and placed them in a secure and upright position on the coffee table. Now that impending doom was no longer upon me, I could figure out what to do with all the loose papers on the floor. They didn't appear to be in any order, so I knelt to scoop them up, intent on tossing them all (in an organized pile, of course) onto the table.

Then I caught a glimpse of the page in my hand, and paused.

Everything was black and white, and for a moment it felt like I was staring at a horror-genre optical illusion. The pages seemed to be panels of a comic, but I couldn't quite make out a coherent narrative, if there was one. There was barely any dialogue, only some weird, globby, Eldritch monster-type figures drawn in increasingly obscure environments.

There was also ... a penguin?

It was all very well done, clearly drawn by someone with a vision of whatever it was supposed to look like. I had no idea what was going on—I just knew it shouldn't be spread out across the living room floor. How had he even managed to make this much of a mess in twelve hours? I stay over at Darren's for one night and this happens.

I made sure all the papers were facing the same direction before placing the pile inside the first drawer of the coffee table, then the inkwells inside the second drawer. Grabbing a pen and Post-it from the kitchen, I labeled one "ink" and the other "drawing pages." I stuck each note on their respective drawer, then walked to the kitchen.

There was something on the fridge.

The whiteboard that I had purchased now bore a drawing of a fluffy bunny wearing an apron. There was a word balloon hovering over the bunny's head which read, Hello, I'm Martha Stewart! It wasn't quite clear what a Martha Stewart bunny was doing on the fridge, but perhaps there was a note left to explain it.

The note I had left for Armand was still hanging from the clip on the fridge, but now there was a small scribble at the bottom, in a scrawl vastly different from my cursive:

hi

Huh. I turned the paper over to see if I'd missed anything. Nope, that was the extent of the note. I'd written him a whole page.

... "Hi"?!

The fridge was still stocked with the avocados and spinach leaves, so at least Armand had in fact read the note. Good to know. I turned to wash up in the sink and stopped short. A half-filled mug of some murky liquid was placed on the counter, and I had a nagging suspicion that it wasn't tea.

I sniffed the contents cautiously and instantly reeled backward. Nope. Definitely whiskey.

Suddenly, the inkwell warzone made a lot more sense.

I dumped the contents, sighed, and walked to the bathroom. At this point, all I wanted was a nice hot shower before I had to make myself presentable.

In the bathroom was an appalling lack of Armand-owned hygiene products. The only items I could identify as my housemate's were a bar of soap, a toothbrush, and a lonely razor sitting abandoned on the side of the sink.

He was a caveman. An unshaven, non-ocean breeze-scented caveman. Who probably didn't use conditioner, either. God help me.

I turned to the mirror and— Oh no. What. There was, drawn onto the mirror, in marker, a mustache.

A this-only-needs-a-cigar-to-complete-the-image-of-a-stuffy-billionaire mustache.

I should've been panicking that I lived with someone who actually drew on a mirror, but I was struck by an impulse. I lined up my face with the mustache and, upon having to stand up on my toes, realized that Armand was several inches taller than me.

Stop being amused by this! He drew on the mirror! He'd better hope this isn't permanent marker!

A little soap, water, and elbow grease later proved the ink to be temporary. So after a nice long shower, I shuffled back to the living room and scrolled through my playlists. Normally I would pop on some classic Taylor Swift, but now I was stressed, so I reached for Lizzo instead.

"Hey, guys." I sighed, tossing a pinch of food into Gaston and LeFou's tank. "Apparently I'm rooming with a monosyllabic alcoholic named Armand who refuses to use hair products and sits around drawing cartoons on the floor." My fish were peering judgmentally from behind the coral reef, so I hurried to explain. "Okay, I know that sounded mean. His drawings are actually really good." I watched Gaston nibble at the food and then chase LeFou around the castle. "I haven't even met the guy yet, so if you two could keep an eye out and just, you know, take notes. Let me know what he's like."

LeFou seemed to mouth at the coral in an agreeable manner. Gaston was aloof as usual and could not be trusted to go along with my plan.

Time to get dressed—I was not about to leave Darren and his friends waiting. This was the first time he'd ever offered to introduce me to the people in his life. I walked back to my room and stood staring at the contents of my closet for the better part of ten minutes, struggling to make a decision.

Do I wear the light-green, patterned button-down to match my eyes and that screams fun and personality, or the solid peach that says "take me seriously as an adult person who could definitely fit in with a group of young and fancy lawyers"?

Since I was meeting Darren at one thirty rather than in ten years from now, I chose the peach and called it good.

A fifteen-minute drive later and I blinked up at the gratuitous awning in front of Cresson Cher, which seemed a bit excessive for a lunch. But any excuse to get all dressed up was a good one, so I took a deep breath and headed inside.

The intoxicating aroma of high-end food I wouldn't be able to eat wafted over me as I stepped inside. I basked instead in the warm, dim glow of the pretentious chandeliers as I checked in with the hostess. She indicated that the McKinley party was already seated, and I was escorted to a corner booth where Darren was waiting.

His chestnut hair was immaculately gelled, the way it always was when he was being Professional. It didn't matter that I had been with him earlier—my heart was making up for lost time after our week apart by flipping over in my chest and sending shivers down my arms as he stood, pulling me in for a sweet, chaste kiss.

"Thanks for inviting me to meet your friends," I said, leaning into his touch.

He pulled me back and surveyed my ensemble. "Good shirt choice. I was worried we wouldn't be able to hear the conversation over the stuff you usually wear."

I touched my fingertips to the bland peach I'd picked. Boring and soulless. But mature. "Har har. You assume lawyer conversation is worth listening to."

I scooted over in the leather booth to make room for Darren to slide in. The rest of Darren's posse arrived shortly after as one—was it customary for lawyers to travel in packs? Darren rolled through the introductions, and I was met with a firm handshake from each of them in turn.

After several minutes of what appeared to be chummy work banter, they all got to ordering, and I was pleased with my own resolve in ordering a garden salad.

"So, lovebirds," Teresa Lombardo—one of the few names I remembered—addressed me and Darren during a brief break in the nonstop conversation, "I think we're all dying to hear the sweeping love story that is how you both met. We've only ever heard bits and pieces."

I reached for Darren's hand, giving it a squeeze. "Yeah, Darren, how did we meet?"

He glanced out at the table at large. "We were friends in high school," he explained in what I had come to recognize as his lawyer voice. "I was class president and he was a horse nerd. Bit of a chubby duckling the first four years, but then ..."

"He turned into a swan," Marcia Lopez finished with a sigh. "He did, look at him."

I flushed, waving away the compliment. Less a swan, more of a crested mallard.

"We danced around each other for a few years after that, slowly discovering that there was something else between us," Darren said with a dazzling smile. "And now here we are. I realized a few months ago that it was time to grow up and settle down."

The lawyers present all but swooned at his tale, and I swatted his arm. "I'd tell you to quit lying, but this version is flattering, so I'll allow it."

He painted such a pretty story; his friends couldn't have any idea how we really happened. And how he told it was almost—mostly—true. Except the suggestion that Darren had waited until I lost weight and had a growth spurt near the end of college. He'd had my virginity by the time I'd turned sixteen.

But even that hadn't made it official between us—Darren would come to me when he wanted, and I would hold out hope that maybe this time he'd want to make our arrangement more permanent. It had taken years before I finally won.

One of the other lawyers whose name had escaped me in the flurry of introductions addressed me directly. "So Lucas, what have you been up to lately? How's work?"

I grinned at them across the table. "Well, I just got back from my cousin's wedding in Vancouver, which was great, but I missed it here. I took some great photos to add to my portfolio, though—"

"They want to know about your work, Lucas, not your hobby." Darren's arm snaked around my shoulders as he smiled at me.

I gave them the tried-and-true The End is Neigh spiel, figuring that brevity was probably the move here. There were polite oohs of interest, but no follow-up questions.

The food arrived shortly after that, and I did my best to keep up with the conversation that Darren had re-launched, but was subsequently lost in a sea of legal jargon as they discussed whatever it was that copyright lawyers usually discussed.

The waiter returned to our table to collect our plates. "Can I interest anyone in dessert today?"

I bit my lip as everyone else ordered chocolate cake, or crème br?lée, or tiramisu. Cresson Cher was infamous for its rich desserts, but ordering one would be an absolute nail in the coffin of progress I'd made this month. "A plate of fruit please," I requested when the waiter turned to me. "Raspberries and grapes, if you have them."

"We just got some fresh ones in today," he said, scribbling in his notepad. He flashed me a grin. "Are you sure you don't want to go with something more indulgent, sir? I could tempt you with a sinful chocolate pots de crème? It's one of our standards."

God, that sounded delicious. But the final button on my peach shirt was hanging on by a thread, which meant that I already owed myself another two-hour session at the gym if I had any hope of Darren—

"Honestly, as much as I'd love to be tempted, I'm good with the fruit, or my personal trainer'll kill me." I lent the waiter a bright smile, because it wasn't his fault I had little to no self-control. "Thank you, though. I'll let you tempt me next time."

The waiter shrugged, smiled, then returned to the kitchen.

"Wow." Darren was staring at me, his wineglass halfway to his mouth.

"What?"

He shook his head, swallowed the rest of his drink, and rejoined his coworkers' conversation.

After the meal, everyone began shuffling toward the door, each person shaking my hand again before they left as a group.

Darren walked me to my car, and I grinned widely at him, unable to keep the note of smugness from my voice as I said, "I think they liked me."

"Well, not as much as that waiter." Darren's hands flexed at his sides. "When'd you get so flirty?"

"Flirty?" It took me a moment to think back on our interaction, and my cheeks warmed. "I was just being friendly. You think he thought I was flirting?"

"‘I'll let you tempt me next time'? Is that a thing non-flirty people say to service workers?"

It was always weird when Darren got like this, but I couldn't pretend it wasn't sweet to see him jealous. Even if he was being ridiculous. There was still a shadow on his face, so I gently tempered my reply. "I was trying to be friendly and likeable for your friends ... I guess I must've overcorrected and the waiter got caught in the crossfire. I'm sorry."

"Never mind. Of course everyone liked you." Darren softened, running his hands down my arms and kissing my forehead. "That actually reminds me. The boss is doing a cocktail party at the end of the month for the partners' anniversary. Today was a trial run, but you did good. Maybe if things keep up this way, I could bring you as my plus-one, what do you think?"

I flushed with excitement. Going to one of Darren's big work parties would be huge—it would mean that he was officially introducing me as his boyfriend to the rest of his cohort. We would be indisputably out together, like he was showing me off—"That sounds great! You don't have to worry, I'll knock 'em dead."

"I certainly hope so." Darren smiled, then pursed his lips. I held my breath, wondering if he'd invite me back to his place. But instead, he checked his watch and sighed, leaning back to adjust his perfectly knotted tie. "I should probably get home. I still have work to get done on the Jameson case before Monday. It's making me want to literally die."

I laughed but reluctantly agreed that we should both head home. "And I still haven't met my weird roommate yet, so maybe I can catch him at home today."

I stole one more kiss, savoring the tingle of Darren's lips before sliding into my car and pulling away, waving to Darren in the rearview mirror until I turned the corner back onto the highway.

It was only late afternoon and not the middle of the night, when it seemed that the cryptid known as Armand did most of his cryptid-ing, but already my body was locked and ready for whatever nonsense he had planned for the apartment. More drawings on the mirror? More near-death experiences walking through the door? Where will it end?