Leanne Sublets

Chapter 1: Roommate Wanted

The door slammed so hard behind Patricia that the walls seemed to rattle, or maybe that was just me. My chest was still heaving, my palms damp as I braced them on the edge of the kitchen counter. I stood there, staring at the chipped linoleum, trying to catch my breath and not burst into tears. Not yet, at least. Not while the echo of Patricia’s parting words still hung in the air like smoke.
“
You’re such a control freak, Leanne! Maybe that’s why you’re single and broke.”

God, the nerve. She’d actually said that. As if I were the problem here. As if I hadn’t spent the past six months picking up the slack every time she “forgot” to pay her share of the rent or conveniently “needed” an extra week because she just had to buy that $200 skincare set. I’d been patient—too patient, really. And now? Now I was just mad.

“Good riddance,” I muttered, running a hand through my light brown hair.

I’d said it out loud, as if saying it would make it true, as if it would make me feel better. But as the minutes ticked by and the adrenaline from our fight began to fade, the sinking reality started to set in. Patricia was gone. Finally. And with her went any semblance of financial stability I had left.

I sank onto one of the mismatched kitchen chairs, staring at the table but not really seeing it. My mind raced through the numbers, the deadlines, the bills piling up on the counter. Rent was due in two weeks. A number that had always seemed barely manageable when split between the two of us now loomed impossibly large, a mountain I had no chance of climbing on my own.

What was I supposed to do now? I couldn’t exactly call my parents—they’d helped enough when I moved to the city, and I wasn’t about to go crawling back, admitting I’d failed to keep things together. And my job? Forget it. My paycheck barely covered groceries and utilities as it was. There was no way I could shoulder the rent alone, not even for a month.

I rubbed my temples, trying to push back the headache that was already creeping in. The solution was obvious, wasn’t it? I needed a new roommate. Fast. But the idea of letting someone else into my space again made my skin crawl. What if they were just another Patricia? What if they were worse? The thought of going through that stress all over again made me want to scream. I clenched my fists against the urge to slam them on the table.

I looked around the apartment, taking in the shabby but familiar space. The chipped paint on the walls, the sagging couch we’d found on Craigslist, the stack of dishes in the sink that I always seemed to be the one to clean. It wasn’t much, but it was mine—or it would be, if I could keep it. I wasn’t ready to give this place up yet. Not without a fight.

I reached for my phone, scrolling through my contacts on autopilot. Friend after friend—none of them options. Most of them were already shacked up with significant others or had their own places. The rest? Yeah, no. I loved them, but I wasn’t about to live with them. Not after what I’d just gone through with Patricia.

“Okay, Leanne,” I said aloud, trying to muster some sort of pep talk for myself. “You can do this. You just need to put out an ad. It’s not the end of the world.”

Except it kind of felt like it. The idea of letting some stranger into my home, of potentially repeating this whole nightmare scenario with someone new… it made my stomach turn. But what choice did I have? I couldn’t afford to be picky. Not this time.

I opened my laptop, the screen casting a pale glow in the dim kitchen. The cursor blinked at me as I stared at the blank document, trying to find the words. I ran my hands down my face, rubbing my suddenly tired brown eyes, exhaled and brought my fingers to the keyboard.

“Roommate wanted,” I typed, then paused. Too generic. Too desperate. “Looking for a responsible roommate to share a two-bedroom apartment.”

Better. Professional. Straight to the point. I kept typing, listing the basics—location, rent, utilities. I tried to paint the apartment in the best light possible without outright lying.

“Cozy and charming” was code for small and old.

“Quiet neighborhood” meant nothing exciting ever happened within a five-block radius.

“Close to public transit” was probably the only true selling point.

When I finished, I read it over twice, tweaking a word here, deleting a phrase there. It still sounded like I was trying too hard, but what else could I do? I needed someone—anyone—who could pay their share on time and not turn my life into a circus. Was that too much to ask?

I sighed, leaning back in my chair and staring at the ceiling. The fight with Patricia replayed in my mind, each insult and accusation hitting me like a series of jabs. Maybe I was a control freak. Maybe I was overly critical. But was it really so wrong to expect someone to honor their commitments? To pay their fair share? Was I supposed to be the one who let everything slide while they lived like royalty on my dime? The unfairness of it all was suffocating.

And what if Patricia was right? What if I was single and broke because I was too rigid? Too demanding? I shook my head, as if that could dispel the doubts creeping in. No. That wasn’t it. Wanting stability and fairness didn’t make me a bad person. It made me responsible. It made me someone who deserved better.

“It doesn’t matter now,” I said to myself, shutting the laptop. “She’s gone. Focus on what’s next.”

What was next was surviving. Keeping this apartment. Finding a new roommate who wouldn’t make me regret it. And maybe, just maybe, learning to let go of some of the frustration that had built up over the past few months.

But first? First, I needed to sleep. Tomorrow, I’d post the ad. Tomorrow, I’d start over. Tonight, I’d let myself wallow for just a little longer. Because if I’d learned anything from Patricia, it was that sometimes, you just need a moment to feel sorry for yourself before you can figure out how to move forward.

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