We Both Paid the Same Stranger to Sublet the Same One-Bedroom, and Neither of Us Would Move Out novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: Mr. and Mrs. Kowalski
One key opens the same door for Tina and for the stranger behind her, and when the building manager calls up the stairs for the Kowalskis he says 'That's us'.
The key worked for me, and then it worked for the man behind me, and that's how I learned my subletter had rented my apartment twice.
It was six o'clock on a Friday in October, on the third-floor landing of a Chicago greystone.
I had two suitcases, a lamp, and two hundred and twelve dollars and forty cents.
I knew the number because I'd checked my bank balance on the stairs, twice, hoping it would apologize.
The key was brass, with a blue plastic tag that said 3B in Sharpie.
I turned it, and the deadbolt slid back with a clunk so satisfying I almost cried.
Then a boot scraped on the step behind me.
"Sorry," a man said. "I think you've got my door."
I turned around.
He was tall, wide through the shoulders, with a duffel bag on one arm and a tool bag on the other.
His beard was short and his hair was the color of wet straw.
He looked like he could carry the whole staircase up without being asked.
"I think you have the wrong floor," I said.
"Three B?"
"Three B."
He held up a key.
It was brass, with a blue plastic tag that said 3B in the same Sharpie, in the same handwriting.
We both looked at the two tags for a while.
"Try it," I said.
I pulled my key out and shut the door.
He stepped up beside me, slid his key into the lock, and I put my hand on top of his without thinking, to stop him.
His hand turned under mine and I felt every callus on his palm.
It was warm and heavy and it went right through me.
The deadbolt slid back again.
He took his hand away first.
I didn't breathe for a second after that, and I'm not proud of it.
"Corey Pettibone," he said.
"Oh no."
"Twenty-nine, great hair, says 'bro' like a verb?"
"He said he was a photographer who traveled for work."
"He told me he was in sales." The man dug into his back pocket and came out with a folded lease.
I pulled mine out of my tote bag.
We held them side by side under the stairwell light.
Same address, same unit, same three months, October through the end of the year.
Same signature, a big loopy C, in the same blue pen.
"Sixteen hundred a month," he said.
"Plus a sixteen-hundred-dollar deposit."
"You wired it?"
"Thirty-two hundred, Tuesday."
"Same day, same amount." He closed his eyes. "I'm Randy."
"Tina."
I looked at my lease again.
On the line for tenants, it said TINA MORAN, and under it, SPOUSE: RANDALL KOWALSKI.
I looked at his.
RANDALL KOWALSKI, and under it, SPOUSE: TINA MORAN.
"Did he tell you about the spouse line?" I asked.
"He said the building needed a second name on file."
"He said it was his cousin."
"He told me his cousin's name was Tina."
Neither of us laughed.
I had texted Corey about that line on Monday.
He'd sent back a thumbs-up and a little yellow house.
I called him now with my thumb shaking.
The phone rang twice and then a recorded voice said his mailbox was full.
I called again.
Randy was already calling, with the phone held at arm's length.
We stood on that landing and listened to the same recorded voice in stereo.
"I gave up my place in Pittsburgh," Randy said quietly.
"My lease in Milwaukee ended Wednesday."
"I start at the union hall Monday. First paycheck in two weeks."
"I start at a dental office Monday. Same."
"I've got three hundred and seventy-one dollars."
"I've got two-twelve."
A hotel in this neighborhood was two hundred a night.
I did the math twice, and it didn't get any better the second time.
Randy looked at the door, and then at me, and I could see him doing the same sums.
He didn't say we should leave, and neither did I.
So I sat down on my biggest suitcase, right in front of the door, and folded my arms.
"I paid for this apartment," I said. "I'm not going anywhere."
After a second he sat down on his duffel bag, on the other side of the door, and stretched out his boots.
"I'm in no hurry either," he said.
Below us, a door banged open and a bright voice rang up the stairwell.
"Mr. and Mrs. Kowalski!"
Footsteps came across the courtyard tiles, quick and cheerful.
"Corey told me six o'clock! Do you have everything you need?"
I opened my mouth to say there was a mistake, and a woman who sounded about sixty-five and very happy was already on the stairs.
Randy stood up.
He put his hand on my shoulder, warm and certain.
"That's us," he called down, before I could say anything at all.
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