Chapter One.

Beeping sounds drive me crazy. Trucks backing up, alarm clocks, car alarms, the sound the ignition makes when you leave the key in and the car door is open, you name it, it makes me want to throw something. It was 6:45 in the morning and a garbage truck was backing up just outside my window.

“Stop it!” I yelled in the general direction of the ceiling.

My roommate, Dean, appeared at my door. He looked down at me, surveying my status as a half-asleep, deeply annoyed civilian, took a bite out of his apple, and laughed. “The truck driver’s not going to hear your cry of indignation, Elena.”

I threw him a dirty look as I got out of bed. “Shut up.”

“Nice comeback,” he said, tossing me his apple. I took a bite out of it as I walked past him to the living room.

“What are you doing up?” I asked, throwing myself on the couch.

“Elena, I have to be at the airport at 9.”

“Oh. Right. And I’m—”

“—Supposed to give me a ride, yes.”

“Do I have to change?”

“No. I’m sure that if we get in an accident and have to be pulled out with the Jaws of Life, the paramedics will love your ensemble.”

I looked down at my white wife beater and boxer shorts. “You’re right. I should probably put on a bra.”

“Yes, you should.”

I smirked. “Well, now that you mention it, maybe I won’t.” He was one of those southern gentlemen, covering his eyes when I got out of the shower in a towel and whatnot. None of the gentleness came out when he was out bar hopping and cruising for chicks, but he always acted as if I were his 15-year-old sister who just hit puberty.

“Change.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m driving and I can’t help but look at your chest instead of at the road when you’re in the passenger seat.” Okay, maybe not.

“You are such a guy.”

“Your mother fed you well.”

“Asshole.”

“Slut.”

“Sadly, you’ll never know.”

“Sadly? The wall between our rooms is made of foam, El.” He wiggled his eyebrows and blew me a kiss.

“Right. Anyway. Gather your shit while I go change and then I'll whip us up some breakfast or something.”

“By breakfast, do you mean granola bars, bananas, and beer?”

I threw a shoe at him and he left, laughing.

I locked my bedroom door and turned on the stereo. Led Zeppelin’s Zoso blasted through the speakers as I tried to make myself decent. Short jean skirt, an old Pink Floyd T-shirt I had inherited from Dean during a laundry mix-up, and flip-flops. I had cut my hair earlier in the summer and now it was just a mess of curls that refused to be tamed. A couple of barrettes usually did the trick, though. Make-up came last, as it always did. I never used to wear make-up but after living with a boy who had a constant slew of friends over every night, I had learned that a little concealer goes a long way to ensure my status as the roommate that, dude, you should so bang.

I met Dean Lucas just after I moved to New York City. I was staying at a cheap hostel while I looked for an apartment and a decent, good-paying job. I found the job first, as a bartender at a bar in Chelsea. And I found Dean when I answered an ad for an apartment on 53rd Street.

A knock on the door. A young man answered, possibly in his twenties. “You must be Elena. I’m Dean Lucas” He held out his hand for her to shake.

She looked at him, still shaking his hand, all six feet of him. His hair was brown and shaggy. His eyes, partially obscured by his hair, were green with specks of gold- inviting, friendly eyes. He had the biggest smile she had ever seen. His baggy jeans hung low on his hips and his shirt proudly proclaimed that he was ‘Class Clown Class of 1973.’ “Hi. Elena Cruz.”

“Cruise?” He asked, inviting her in.

“No, Cruz. C-R-U-Z. It’s Spanish.”

“I thought I heard an accent. You’re from Spain?”

She laughed. “No, Puerto Rican.”

“Ah. Sorry.”

“No problem.” She looked around. The place was a mess of beer cans all over the floor and tables and clothes strewn haphazardly on the couch. “So. Nice place.”

“Sorry about the mess. I got back from a trip last night and my friends decided to throw me a party.”

“In your house?”

“They’re—ah—special.”

“Nice. Anyway…”

“Oh yes. I’m not very good at this. My roommate moved away before I came back and this is sort of last minute. Let me show you around.” He started pointing out stuff. “This is where we keep the TV, this is the couch, this is the dinner-slash-kitchen table with two chairs, this is the stereo, that over there is the kitchen, that door next to the la-Z-boy leads to the bathroom, the door beside that is my room, and,” he pointed to the door next to the couch, “that is the door that leads to your room.”

She looked at him, clearly amused. “Can I…?” She looked at the door that led to, apparently, her room.

“Help yourself.”

She walked in and saw a queen sized bed, a dresser, a small closet, and a bedside table. She turned to him, surprised. “Your roommate left his stuff?”

“It’s mine. If he’d taken it, I would’ve kicked his ass all the way back to Kentucky and he wouldn’t have had to pay for airfare.”

“I see. How much does it pay?”

“Your share would be $950, utilities included.”

“I’m sold.”

His eyes lit up. “Seriously?”

“Apart from the beer cans, it’s the best I’ve seen. And you seem pretty normal compared to some of the people out there.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think I’m normal?”

“For one, you don’t have your very dead childhood cat stuffed and on display on top of the refrigerator.”

He grinned. “See, I keep Fluffy in the linen closet.”

“Excellent. Anyway. When can I move in?”

“Now?”

“Okay, then. I have to go down to 20th to get my stuff from the hostel and I’ll be back here in about… two hours?”

“Excellent. By the time you come back, there’ll be space for your stuff amongst the beer cans, I promise.”

Dean burst into my room. “Quit staring at yourself in the mirror, El. We’re going to be late.”

“Excuse me,” I said. “We are not going to be late. You’re going to be late. And you could always take a cab down to Port Authority.” I continued getting my purse ready.

He just stared at me. “What? And miss out on driving your VW bug? No way.”

“Well, then. Stop your whining and I’ll make you breakfast.”

“I love you.”

I rolled my eyes as he flung himself unto my bed and crossed the apartment, towards the kitchen. I got out a frying pan and started making us scrambled eggs and bacon.

“Hey, how come your bed is so soft? It smells good, too!” he said.

“Because, Dean, I actually do my laundry. Fabric softener is your best friend.”

“Not mine. I like my stuff to smell like me.”

“That is so gross.”

“The ladies like it.”

“Of course they do, honey.”

He had wandered over to the kitchen by now. “I know the truth.” He paused. “That smells delicious.”

“Making my righteous scrambled eggs is my way of saying ‘you’ll miss me’.”

“Funny.” He got out plates and silverware, and poured orange juice into our his-and-hers glasses. They had our initials and everything. A friend of Dean’s had gotten them for us on the first anniversary of our living together.

“Do we have any champagne left from the last party?”

He rummaged through the fridge and emerged holding a bottle of bubbly. “Mimosas?”

“Booze with breakfast, one of the many services here at Dean and Elena’s.”

We were silent as we ate, the TV offering much needed distraction. Every time he left it was like this. The usual banter before acknowledging that he’d leave again and that I’d be left alone. Again. When I had moved in three years earlier, I liked having the apartment to myself for months at a time. He had grown on me, though, to the point where it almost felt like we completed each other. It was platonic; we’d had drunken nights of clumsy kisses over the remote control but, apart from that, he was the beer provider to my beer drinker. He was messy and I was, well, messier. He was the jokes and I was the laughter. He was the basketball and I was the Yankees fan. He was the ying to my yang. We were, literally, like brother and sister.

“That was excellent, El. Thanks.” He grabbed the dirty dishes and headed towards the kitchen.

“How long will you be gone this time?”

“A month, maybe two? I don’t know the details yet.” He headed towards his room and I followed, watching him gather his bags into a huge pile on top of his bed.

“I’ll miss you,” I whispered.

He crossed his room at lighting speed and hugged me. “Don’t do this now, El.” I lay my head on his shoulder and squeezed him with all my might. “I’ll miss you, too. You know that all too well.”

I pulled away and gave him a tiny smile. “I count on your nightly calls from the road.”

“As always. Now, help me carry these and I promise I’ll send postcards.”

I took two, grabbed my purse from the couch, waited for Dean to wrestle his way out the door, locked it, and walked down the hallway, past the front desk, and out the front door of the building. Living on the first floor had its advantages, especially with Dean traveling as much as he did.

“Stay here,” he said, setting down his luggage on the building's front steps. “I’ll go get the car. It’s on 54th, right?”

I tossed him the keys. “Yeah, right in front of the red building,” I replied, lighting a cigarette.

“Be right back,” he said, lighting one himself.

I sat on the front steps, watching him walk away. I resented him for leaving, sometimes. For being able to pack up, leave for months at a time, and still be able to come home whenever he needed to ground himself. I resented him for being able to leave his roots somewhere, because he knew that there was someone waiting for him back home, wishing and hoping it's sooner rather than later. I resented him for being able to do what I did when I moved to New York... and do it successfully.

I resented him because I had left home and, unlike Dean, I could never go back.



home-chapter two

("time and time again" by counting crows)