New Roommate

One of the little miracles of life is how quickly a simple question can send you (me) into a complete and total tailspin.

"What's that?" Fox asked.

There was a definite tone.

In the kitchen of Hemlock House, I paused in my (painfully bad) attempts to tie a bow.

"It's a gift basket," I said.

Fox stared at the basket. And then they stared at me.

"For Bobby," I said.

Silence.

"You know, like, to welcome him to Hemlock House."

Fox didn't say anything.

"As a roommate," I said.

Nothing.

"You know," I said, "and as a friend."

And somehow, against all odds, Fox still didn't say anything.

"I read about it on the internet," I said. "It's totally a thing." And then, because I am perpetually Dashiell Dawson Dane and cannot help but undermine myself, I added, "It's super normal."

"Which," Fox murmured, "is what everyone says when they do something normal."

Even though I didn't like it, I had to admit Fox might have a point. I glanced at the plate of chocolate chip cookies that Indira had generously made for me to include in the basket. Chocolate chip was Bobby's favorite, I was pretty sure. And it was definitely one of my favorites. And chocolate helped with heart health, blood pressure, um, antioxidants. Plus everyone knew the brain ran on glucose.

That was the moment when Keme stepped into the kitchen. He stared at the basket.

"It's a welcome basket for Bobby," Fox told him. And then—yes, to answer your question, there was a tone —"It's super normal."

Keme snickered. Then his expression changed, his eyes widening. He moved closer to the basket and reached out a hand.

"No, don't, I've got it just the way—" I began.

But Keme ignored me and plucked out a framed photo. He stared at it for a moment, and if anything, his eyes got wider. Then he turned and displayed the photo for Fox.

"What in the heck—" (And Fox did not say heck .) "—is that?"

"It's a picture of Bobby," I said. "He doesn't have any decorations in his room. Nothing personal, I mean." When no one said anything, I added, "Keme told me to!"

Keme's look suggested pure disgust and a complete disavowal of any responsibility.

I looked at the cookies again.

No, I told myself. They were for Bobby.

"I'm guessing Keme didn't mean for you to download his photo from the sheriff's website," Fox said.

"Well, what was I supposed to do? Use one of those pictures where he's sleeping? He always has his earbuds in—"

Fox looked at me.

Keme made a scoffing noise and set about opening the back of the frame.

"Not," I said carefully, "that I have any of those."

Fox snorted.

Without hesitation, Keme took the photo of Bobby out of the frame and proceeded to tear it into tiny pieces.

I grabbed one of the cookies. One. Just one. For my blood pressure.

"Okay," I said, "good feedback. No photo—"

Before I could finish, Fox interrupted, voice rising sharply as they said, "What does that candle say?"

"Oh." I managed a chuckle. "Isn't that cute? I found it—"

"Smells like the best roommate ever?" Fox picked up the candle for closer inspection. "With notes of movie nights, pillow fights, and cinnamon?"

I knew, in my head, that it wasn't as weird as Fox was making it sound. It was just the way they read it.

But I said weakly, "Everyone loves cinnamon."

Fox looked at Keme. Keme held up his hands in a what-do-you-want-me-to-do kind of gesture.

"It was on the internet," I said. "It was from a cute shop."

"I'm sure Bobby will enjoy it when he immediately packs his bags and goes to a motel," Fox said.

"Come on," I said, but before I could stop myself, I grabbed another cookie. "It's not that bad."

"What's not that bad?" Millie asked as she joined us. "Dash! That basket is SO CUTE!"

"Don't encourage him," Fox said.

"Millie, will you please tell them that they're overreacting?" I gestured at the basket. "They're making me feel like I'm some kind of psycho stalker—"

"With a dash of Hannibal Lecter," Fox put in, and Keme chose that moment to give them a high five.

"—but I'm just trying to be a good friend and help Bobby feel—" I grabbed a third cookie. And maybe it was just me, or maybe Indira's baking game was a tiny bit off, but the cookies seemed…dry. Like, crumbs clogging my throat. I had to force the word out: "—welcome."

"Don't be silly," Millie said as she set about redoing my failed bow. (And doing a much better job than I could.) "You're not a psycho stalker."

I coughed to clear my throat and grabbed another cookie. Still for my blood pressure. "Thank—"

"I mean, look at these socks. They're PRECIOUS! Like you're HIS MOM!"

I swear to God, Indira must have overbaked them or something, because I inhaled a lot of cookie dust on my next breath.

Everything got even worse, though, when Keme picked up the key to Hemlock House, which I'd attached to a little keychain shaped like handcuffs (because of Bobby's job, duh). Keme's eyes got wide. And then wider. He held the key between two fingers like he didn't want to touch it. And his face turned a remarkable shade of red.

"No," I choked out through the cookie crumbs. "No. No!"

Indira strode through the door. "What in the world is happening in here? I could hear you all the way outside."

"Keme found Dash and Bobby's sex handcuffs," Fox said.

"No!"

"Just the key," Millie clarified.

Nose wrinkling, Keme dropped the key back into the basket.

I grabbed another cookie because at this point, they were the only thing keeping me from a stroke.

Indira seemed to take in the scene for a moment. Then she said, "Get rid of the picture frame—no, Keme, I don't want to know. Fox, take care of the candle."

"I shall perform an exorcism," Fox announced.

"Yes to the socks, I think."

For some reason, that made Millie cheer.

Indira slapped my hand. I hadn't even realized I was reaching for the plate until she said, "And those are for Bobby. I'll order you a pizza, and there's beer in the fridge, and—good idea."

This last bit was for Keme who was in the process of removing the key from the, uh, incriminating keychain—to judge by the look on Keme's face, it was the single grossest thing he'd ever had to do.

The sound came of the front door opening.

"Everyone out," Indira said. "He's here."

So, I was alone in the kitchen when, a moment later, Bobby appeared in the doorway. His T-shirt was damp with sweat. His mesh shorts hung low on his hips. He'd worn some of his old sneakers, not the fancy ones he collected, and he was covered from head to toe in dust and dirt.

"That was the last of it," he said. And then, "What's that?"

"Oh, uh, um, uh, um—"

(It went on and on like that.)

After about fifteen seconds of it, he came over and glanced in the basket. A smile spread across his face as he took a cookie and bit into it. He made a sound of pleasure that would have been illegal on broadcast TV, and his eyes closed halfway.

"God, I'm starving." He took another bite and asked, "Did you do this?"

"Indira made the cookies," I somehow managed to say.

"Socks!" He plucked them out of the basket, sounding—believe it or not—genuinely excited. "You remembered my feet get cold!"

"Oh, yeah—"

"And a key." He touched the basket's handle and looked at me. He seemed to be struggling with what to say. "Thank you."

"I know you've had a few hard weeks." It was difficult to believe it was my voice, sounding so steady. "And I want you to be happy here. Oh! And I ordered pizza."

(Okay, the I part was a white lie.)

That earned me Bobby's big, goofy grin. His hand came up, and before my brain could process what he was doing, he brushed a crumb from the corner of my mouth. Then he took another bite of the cookie, and, if anything, his grin got wider. "Thanks, roomie."