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be an issue. Daylight’s long gone and I’m fucking starving. Now that’s an issue.
    Without shutting down my laptop, I shove it in my bag and head home for the night. Thanks to all the email lists Gabriella added me to I’ll be spending all night catching up.
    I take the stairs down fifteen flights and step outside to the busy street. The brisk April air refreshes my lungs. It’s technically spring in New England yet the bone-chilling breeze reminds me that it could snow at any moment. Not that I mind. I haven’t gotten used to the idea of driving again after walking or taking the subway for close to a decade no matter what the weather. Plus, I need to decompress.
    There isn’t the same energy here as in New York City. Shops and restaurants line the streets, and people bustle by. In New York, you walk in an ocean of people, the excitement and livelihood pours through every crevice. Boston is much smaller in comparison, creating a notion of familiarity. People stop and talk to each other. It’s comfortable, almost homey.
    I’m not sure I like that. I much prefer solitude to solidarity.
    I reach the apartment in less than twenty minutes and take the stairs to the third floor. Once inside the four walls of the brownstone that feels anything like home, I drop my bag on the ground next to the kitchen counter, reach in the refrigerator and crack open a beer. I’m relaxed for the first time all day. That is until I hear my roommate and some woman moaning in the next room.
    Four days of living together is all it took for me to figure out his routine. I don’t have to look to know exactly what’s going on, down to the position. Alright, so he told me his lineup, but I would have figured it out relatively quickly.
    Monday’s and Wednesday’s are some girl named Molly – she’s a bartender at a pub near Faneuil Hall. Then there’s Shannon - Ms. Thursday. I’m sure he told me what she does or how they met but thankfully my brain is blocking out the details. On the weekends it’s whatever random girl he finds worthy of bringing back, puts on a cheesy movie and then makes out with them on the couch like they’re in junior high. I’m no saint but he’s definitely a pig. I can only imagine what a black light in the living room would reveal.
    Why anyone would juggle more than one relationship when even that’s more trouble than it’s worth is beyond me. Guarantee it’s only a matter of time before they find out about each other and shit blows up in his face.
    That’s another reason I cut my losses with Dara before moving. I don’t cheat. Never have, never will. And I avoid complications at all cost…which is damn near impossible when it comes to women. Despite my arrangement with Dara, which stemmed from convenience—or rather my drive to excel in my career instead of chasing tail and still satisfy my more primitive needs—I at least know that.
    I head to my room, lugging my bag and guzzling my beer along the way. Annoying as it may be, this situation is only temporary and I plan to spend as little time here as possible. I can manage anything for a couple of months.
    As if I need one more distraction, my phone buzzes with a call from an international number. Just what I need. Scowling at my phone is a waste of time. I wouldn’t know what to say even if I wanted to answer, which I don’t. It’s been eight years and nothing can undo the past.
    Nothing.
    I send the call to voicemail and set my phone on my dresser. I’ll have to remember to delete the message when I get out. The last thing I need is another reminder of how relationships of any kind are more trouble than they’re worth. Even the ones that are supposed to come naturally.
    I hang up my clothes, grab an old T-shirt and some sweats and take a shower. By the time I’ve finished, the apartment is nearly silent, save for the faint squeaking of my roommate’s bed. At least the living room is safe for another ten minutes. I grab another beer from the