Chapter 1: Isaac

Denise and her boyfriend are arguing in the basement. I can’t hear much because the previous owner soundproofed the ceiling really well. The microwave is whirring while it heats my frozen dinner, making it even harder to catch what they’re saying.

Maybe Denise finally realized Matt is a loser and she’s telling him to pack his shit and hit the road. I don’t know what she sees in that guy. We met the day he and Denise moved into my basement six months ago. I read him like a one-paged book because he wasn’t a person of much substance.

A few seconds into the conversation, he went off about how people loved to shit on him and keep him down. That’s why he lost his job at a bike shop for no reason and the apartment he had shared with Denise.

Denise is the daughter of my mother’s partner. Mom has been with Gordon for almost ten years but refuses to marry him, hoping to avoid an expensive divorce if things go sour. Despite that, Denise has become like a sister to me, and I care about her a lot.

She deserves better. She deserves a man who takes care of her. Not some mooching man-child taking advantage of her. Then again, she’s always been a caretaker for the past eight years I’ve known her.

One time, she found a sick baby raccoon and secretly nursed it back to health after her dad told her to get rid of it. A couple years later, she would visit her dying grandfather after school and help care for him alongside the nurse. And she was there for me too, a guiding light during my darkest point after losing my wife.

Matt probably takes care of her in ways that aren’t financial too. Maybe the sex is really good—

The microwave beeping is a welcome interruption on that thought. I yank open the door and take out the hot, limp cardboard box, tossing it down on the countertop. I don’t want to think about Denise’s sex life. Not because of disgust, but because the thought of another man fucking her makes me want to punch something.

I stir the container’s contents, then eat my dinner, listening to what’s going on below. If the argument turns violent, if Matt lays even a fingernail on Denise, he’s a dead fucking man.

Their voices fade, the quiet allowing me to pay attention to what I’m forking into my mouth. Jesus. This is terrible. Denise brought me some chicken alfredo she made the other night and it was fucking delicious. I bought a couple similar frozen dinners instead of shopping for groceries since I’ll be gone for the next few days. This is nothing like Denise’s cooking. Food shouldn’t taste the same as the cardboard container it came in.

I finish eating, then gulp down a glass of water. A loud door slam draws my attention and I move to the kitchen window, peering outside. Denise paces along the perimeter of my backyard fence, her arms folded, her features pulled tight.

Curiosity and the urge to soothe her makes me go outside. She pauses her walking as I approach. I stop just a few feet from her, the October evening breeze carrying a slight chill and her sweet scent. She always smells like strawberries and temptation.

I jerk a thumb behind me at the closed basement door.

“Will I meet a crime scene if I go in there?”

Her face crumples with embarrassment.

“Oh god, you heard us.”

“Not the words, just the rage.”

“I’m sorry you did.” 

“What’s going on? He must have done something pretty bad to piss you off.”

“Yes, it was. That asshole—”

She purses her lips and folds her arms so tight, the action pulls the chest area of her t-shirt taut, pronouncing the shape of her breasts. I fix my gaze on her face, not daring to look any lower.

“What did he do?” I prompt.

She shakes her head. “I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

I step closer. “Did he hurt you?”

When she hesitates, rage lights inside me. My body tenses in preparation to commit justified violence. If there isn’t a crime scene before, there will be after I’m done with Matt.

“Not physically,” she finally says.

“I can hurt him back for you. Physically. Just say the word.”

Her eyes widen. “Isaac, no. You don’t need to do that.” Then she smiles. “But it’s nice to know I have such a good protector.”

She gives my right shoulder a rub, my entire being instantly hyperaware of her innocent touch. Since my righteous anger no longer has an outlet, it morphs into something else, something darker. An urge to push her against the fence and vent the frustration I always feel when I’m around her.

I take a step back and her hand falls from my shoulder. Her smile fades, her gaze holding mine. Sometimes I wonder if she ever senses I feel more for her than I should. I hear a lot of women are good at detecting when a guy is interested in them.

“I’m leaving tomorrow to attend a training conference in Ottawa,” I say to fill the awkward silence. “I’ll be gone for a few days, but I’m supposed to get a delivery the day after tomorrow. Can you sign for it and put it in the house? I’ll leave you a spare key.” At her nod, I pause to consider my next words, then decide to make the offer. “You can stay up there while I’m gone if you want. In case you want some space from Matt.”

“That’s really sweet, Isaac. Thank you.”

“No guests, OK? That’s the number one rule.”

She nods. “Yes, sir.”

Chapter 2: Denise

Isaac’s front porch is a refuge from the basement. The warm morning sun on my skin and the blissful silence away from Matt’s loud video game makes me feel a hundred times better.

I trace my thumb along the ridges of the front door key. I’m supposed to put Isaac’s delivery inside after signing for it, but he won’t mind if I wait in the house. He already said I could stay there if I wanted space from Matt.

When I let myself in, it’s like Isaac is still here. The fading scent of his woodsy cologne lingers in the air. I breathe it in and imagine him standing close to me. Complicated feelings I never acknowledge rise to the surface. I push them back down, slip off my shoes, and wander through the house.

It’s clean and spacious. The dark leathers and woods give it a masculine vibe. It’s nice, but his old house was warmer, more inviting. Though that was back when he had a warmer personality too.

In the kitchen, I caress the granite countertop, taking in the sleek appliances and the openness of the ground floor. I can’t help feeling envious. Isaac is thirty-six, fifteen years older than me. He seems more like an adult than I’ll ever be. At my age, he already had a decent job, a car, and an apartment he could afford on his own. Meanwhile, I’m struggling to balance my life like I’m riding a tricycle with one wobbly wheel.

I head back to the living room and sink into the dark grey leather sofa. Something hot pink wedged between the cushions catches my eye, its colour out of place in a room of dark tones.

Is that a pair of panties? Ewww.

I’m dismayed, disgusted, disappointed. Though, why would I feel disappointed that Isaac got laid? It’s not as if I missed a chance to have him, or even wanted one at all. He’s like a brother to me, and I have a boyfriend. Also, it’s been three years since Camille’s tragic death. I’m sure it’s been hard for him to put himself out there again. I should be happy for him.

“Good for you, Isaac,” I say, though the words feel hollow.

I edge away from The Thing That Looks Like A Thong, but curiosity gets the better of me. I need to confirm my suspicion. My upper lip curled, I pinch the fabric with the tips of my fingers and tug it free. I let out a soft laugh. It’s not a thong, it’s my scrunchie!

How did he get this?

I turn the ruffled hair tie over my fingers. It’s one of my favourites. When it disappeared a few days ago, I searched everywhere for it. Isaac must have found it and forgot to give it back.

A muffled trill breaks the quiet. I toss the scrunchie on the glass coffee table and pull out my phone.

“You win some, you lose some,” June says when I answer. There’s a familiar rumble and hiss of a bus in the background. She must be on her way to work.

I smile. “What did you win?”

“Twenty dollars from a scratch card.”

“That’s nice. Lucky you.”

“Want to know what I lost?”

“The twenty dollars you won because you bought more scratch cards with it?”

“Yeah, and a boyfriend too.”

My smile falls. “What happened?”

“Tyler’s been sexting other women. He swears he didn’t sleep with any of them. Part of me believes him, but part of me doesn’t, so I dumped him.”

“Damn, that sucks. I’m sorry. He seemed like such a sweet guy.”

“He is, but clearly he likes giving away the sugar to other girls like he’s a candy man.” We share a laugh and then she continues in a sadder tone. “I was starting to fall in love with the jerk, but I couldn’t risk being with him. Not after seeing what my cheating father put my mother through for years. Even if it is just sexting, it’s only a matter of time before he goes all the way. When you see red flags, you run. Don’t wait around and hope they disappear or that maybe you can paint them green or whatever. You know what I mean?”

We talk some more until we end the call when she’s at her stop. I recline on the sofa, my mind on June. We were in the same class in high school, but we ran in different circles. June and I became good friends when we ended up living in the same apartment building and started seeing each other regularly.

When you see red flags, you run.

June was talking about herself, but it feels like a warning too. Good advice that applies to my relationship with Matt even if I don’t want to accept it. I’m not ready yet. Matt and I depend on each other. He won’t survive on his own without me, and the thought of leaving him feels like abandoning safety for the scary unknown.

My phone beeps twice with text messages. They’re from Matt, as if he senses I’m thinking about him.

Baby wehee r u

wheree

In Isaac’s house, I text back, then immediately regret it. He might want to come up here. I should’ve told him I’m out on a walk instead.

Why u there

I’m collecting a delivery for him.

I got a big long delievry u cna collevt ;)

My face remains deadly straight as I reply with a laugh and a heart emoji, then silence my phone.

It’s my day off from work and I can’t enjoy it in my own space. Once again, Matt is jobless, so unless he’s out with friends, he’s always home. Always there. Making his presence impossible to ignore.

Isaac’s basement was a godsend when landlords kept rejecting us because of our poor credit scores, my low income as a new hairstylist, and Matt’s unemployment. Six months later, the studio feels like a prison cell, and I’m not sure if Matt is my cellmate or the warden. It’s terrible to think this way. If you love someone, aren’t you supposed to always enjoy being around them?

I close my eyes, letting my mind drift. The sofa is so comfortable, I barely notice I’m slipping into a light doze until loud pounding jerks me upright.