No Room for Me

When I finished my bath, my phone screen lit up with a message from the property manager.

[Mr. Dawson, you have a great parking spot. Are you sure you want to sell it?]

I stared at the message for a few seconds, then typed back, [I'm sure.]

His reply came almost immediately.

[Alright. Several people have asked about it. If you're flexible on the price, we could have the paperwork signed tomorrow.]

I let out a long breath. For the first time in months, I felt some of the tension leave my shoulders.

Over the past year, that parking space caused more trouble than it was worth.

My best friend, Ronald Carr, always blamed his driving and said he was worried about scratching my fiancée, Alicia Baker's, car. Somehow, his solution was to park farther and farther into my spot.

Whenever I worked late, I came home to a gap barely wide enough to walk through, let alone park in. I called Ronald to ask him to move his car, but he never answered.

Eventually, Alicia picked up instead. She always spoke quietly, as if someone nearby was sleeping.

"Just park outside tonight. He didn't do it on purpose. I'll remind him next time."

I heard some version of that excuse every time Ronald blocked my space.

He didn't mean to. He already said he was sorry. Parking made him nervous.

Alicia always worried about making him uncomfortable. She never seemed concerned about the walk she expected me to make.

I finished drying my hair and left the bathroom. A delicious spread sat on the dining table, and the two of them were already eating.

Ronald sat beside Alicia, working a bone out of his fish. Without looking over, she put a rib on his plate, then took a napkin from the holder and set it beside his hand.

She did it so casually that it was hard to believe this was anything new.

Ronald noticed me first and smiled. "Hey, Chase. Come eat. Food's getting cold."

Alicia looked up. "Come sit down."

I stayed where I was. Cold air blew against my damp hair, chilling the back of my neck.

"It's cold in here," I remarked.

Ronald still held the remote. He had just turned the temperature down.

He glanced at Alicia. "I was hot from cooking. That's all."

His smile faded. "If this is about the parking, Chase, I already said I was sorry."

Alicia frowned. "Chase, he's been at work all day, and he still made us dinner. Please don't give him a hard time."

I met her eyes. "I said it was cold in here, Alicia. That's it."

She hesitated, then put some food on my plate with a patience that felt patronizing. "Alright. Let's just eat. There's no reason to get upset."

I sat down and picked up my fork. The shrimp was cooked in the tomato sauce I always liked, but I struggled to get through even one bite.

We were sitting at my own dinner table, yet the conversation revolved around their work and people I didn't know.

They laughed at jokes I couldn't follow and finished each other's sentences without missing a beat. Each time I looked up, I felt more like a guest they invited to fill an empty chair.

Ronald settled into our place a little at a time, each change small enough to pass off as nothing. He left a jacket on the coat rack because it was "handy to have around."

He kept his face wash in our bathroom, too. It stayed there long enough that neither of them seemed to question it.

The fridge was always stocked with his favorite yogurt. Whenever I brought it up, Alicia said she just happened to grab some at the store.

He treated the place like his own. I lived there, and somehow I was the one who felt out of place.