Chapter 1: Breaking the ice
The fireplace crackled, its orange glow painting shifting patterns on the living room walls. Outside, a late autumn wind rattled the windowpanes, but inside Carolyn’s bungalow, warmth seeped into the bones. The scent of rosemary chicken, long since eaten, still lingered faintly in the air, mingling with woodsmoke. Carolyn curled deeper into the worn velvet armchair, her phone’s harsh blue light stark against the room’s soft amber tones. Family photos smiled down from the walls – graduations, beach trips, Mike’s arm slung easily around her shoulders.
Day 1, she typed, thumbs jabbing the screen. The letters felt sharp, accusatory.
He landed hours ago. Safe flight text received. Silence since. Typical Mike, diving headfirst into the new time zone, the new project, the new everything. Leaving her here. With him.
A floorboard groaned overhead. Carolyn froze, listening. Silence resumed. She exhaled, a shaky breath fogging the phone screen for a second.
Chad’s being… Chad, she continued texting Mike. Like, glacial. Worse than usual. Came home, grunted something vaguely resembling ‘hey’, vanished upstairs like I’m radioactive. Didn’t even look at the chicken. Which was amazing, by the way.
She paused, chewing her lip. How to articulate the oppressive chill Chad carried? It wasn't just silence. It was a physical thing, a force field of disdain radiating from him whenever she entered a room. Six months. Mike insisted Chad crashing here while his condo was renovated was temporary, a favor between best friends. Six months felt like a life sentence.
It’s like living with a ghost who hates me, she typed, the words spilling out faster now. A really tall, scowling ghost who leaves muddy boot prints by the door and uses all the hot water. I swear, Mike, the way he looks at me sometimes… like I’m something unpleasant he stepped in.
Another creak from upstairs. Closer this time. Carolyn’s head snapped up. Footsteps descended the stairs – heavy, deliberate. She quickly locked her phone, shoving it face-down on the side table, and grabbed a discarded knitting project, feigning intense concentration on a tangled skein of yarn.
Chad appeared in the arched doorway to the living room. He filled the space, broad-shouldered in a faded grey hoodie, dark hair tousled. His gaze swept the room, landing everywhere but on her. He moved with a contained energy, like a predator reluctantly sharing territory. Headed straight for the kitchen.
Carolyn heard the fridge door open, the clink of glass. Water running. The silence stretched, thick and awkward. She focused on the yarn, willing herself invisible.
He emerged moments later, a glass of water in hand. His path back to the stairs took him past her armchair. Carolyn kept her eyes glued to her knitting, her fingers suddenly clumsy. She felt the shift in the air, the subtle displacement as he passed close. Too close. She caught a whiff of soap and something else – cedar? Leather? Something clean and masculine that momentarily cut through the rosemary and woodsmoke. It was jarringly pleasant.
Then, it happened. His elbow, swinging slightly with his stride, clipped the edge of the small table beside her chair. Her half-full mug of tea wobbled violently. Carolyn lunged, but too late. Lukewarm tea sloshed over the rim, soaking the knitting project and dripping onto the rug with a soft plop.
“Shit,” Chad muttered, stopping abruptly. He didn’t sound apologetic. Annoyed, maybe.
Carolyn snatched up the soggy yarn, tea dripping onto her sweatpants. “It’s fine,” she said tightly, not looking at him. “Just tea.”
He stood there for a beat, radiating discomfort. She could feel his eyes on her now, finally, but it wasn’t concern. It was that familiar, unnerving scrutiny. Like she was a malfunctioning appliance he didn’t know how to fix. Or wanted to throw out.
“Need a towel?” His voice was flat.
“Got it.” She stood up, clutching the wet mess, and brushed past him towards the kitchen linen closet. Her shoulder barely grazed his arm, but she felt him stiffen, recoil almost imperceptibly. As if her touch burned. The rejection, swift and visceral, stung worse than the spilled tea.
In the kitchen, she grabbed a towel, pressing it hard into the yarn, trying to absorb the stain spreading through the pale blue wool. Disgusted. That was the word. He looked at her like she disgusted him. Why? Because she was Mike’s? Because she existed in the space he temporarily occupied? Because she dared breathe his air?
Back in the living room, Chad was already gone. The only evidence was the faint damp spot on the rug and the oppressive silence settling back over the room, heavier than before. Carolyn sank back into the armchair, the damp towel cold in her lap. She picked up her phone again. Mike’s last text glowed: Landing now! Talk soon. Love you.
She unlocked it, her fingers trembling slightly.
Seriously, Mike, she typed, the frustration bubbling over. How am I supposed to do this for SIX MONTHS? It’s only Day 1 and I want to scream. Or throw his stupid boots out the window. He acts like I’m contaminating his precious atmosphere. I need… something. Strategies. Ways to not feel like I’m sharing my home with someone who finds my existence offensive. Help?
She hit send. The message whooshed away into the digital ether, towards Mike in another hemisphere. The fire popped. The wind howled. Upstairs, a door clicked shut. Firmly.
Her phone buzzed almost immediately. Mike.
>Oof. Day 1 blues. Deep breaths, Care. Chad’s… Chad. He takes time to warm up. Especially to new people.
>New people? Mike, he’s known me for three years!
>Known OF you. Different thing for him. Trust me. He’s socially… challenged. Awkward turtle mode.
>Awkward? This isn’t awkward, Mike. This is hostile. He recoiled when I almost touched him grabbing the towel!
>Okay, okay. Hostile turtle mode. Look, try not to take it personally? He’s got walls thicker than that bungalow’s foundation. Maybe… try disarming him? Kill him with kindness?
>Kindness? He spilled tea on my knitting and looked annoyed at me!
>I know, babe. I know it sucks. But humor me? Small gestures. Offer coffee in the morning. Don’t engage if he’s grumpy. Give him space but… be persistently pleasant? Like sunshine on a grumpy cat. Eventually they have to blink.
Carolyn stared at the screen. Persistently pleasant. Like sunshine on a grumpy cat. The image was almost laughable. Chad wasn’t a grumpy cat. He was a feral wolf tolerating proximity under duress. Kindness felt like throwing pebbles at a fortress wall.
Another buzz.
>Just try? For me? For sanity? Six months. We can do this. Think of the stories we’ll tell. Love you.
Carolyn sighed, a long, weary sound swallowed by the crackling fire. She looked towards the stairs, towards Chad’s closed door. Sunshine on a grumpy cat. Fine. Kindness. She’d try it. Tomorrow. Because tonight, the only persistent thing she felt was the damp chill seeping through her sweatpants from the ruined knitting, and the echo of Chad’s unmistakable revulsion vibrating in the quiet house.
She leaned her head back against the velvet, closing her eyes. The cozy room suddenly felt less like a sanctuary and more like a very comfortable cage. Six months. Day one down. Only one hundred and eighty-two to go. Fine. Kindness. Starting… tomorrow. Maybe.