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"Healy!" March calls from the kitchen, demanding and parental enough that Healy wonders at first if he's mishearing Holly. Then it comes again—"Healy, get in here!"—and Healy exhales a little in acceptance, leaving the paper and his glasses on the coffee table before heading into the kitchen. When he gets there, he sees March standing in front of one of the cabinets, looking huffy and holding a jar of Hellmann's.
"Yeah?"
"Healy, what the hell is this?"
Healy frowns, glancing from the jar to the look of mild agitation on March's face. "It's, uh—mayonnaise, March. See? You put it in sandwiches and tuna salad, maybe whip up an artichoke dip if you're feeling fancy."
"I know it's mayonnaise."
"Then why did you ask?"
"I meant, what the hell is it doing here." March tilts his head towards the open cabinet.
Healy's frown deepens. "Here, as opposed to—what, a bowling alley? March, it's mayonnaise."
"I know it's mayonnaise. Stop saying 'it's mayonnaise.'"
"Well you seem confused about why it's in the kitchen, so I'm not sure if it's the underlying concept that's foreign, or—"
"Jesus, Healy, is this a joke to you?"
"What, the mayonnaise?"
"Yes, the mayonnaise. What the fuck else other than the mayonnaise?" March gives a short, sharp exhale through his nose. It's barely 11AM and somehow he's already rumpled enough that the front of his shirt is half-untucked. "I mean, what's it doing in the cabinet instead of the fridge?"
"Because it's mayonnaise."
"Swear to god, you say it's mayonnaise one more time, I'm shooting you."
"With what? You back to keeping guns in the cookie jar?"
"Are you trying to poison my daughter or something? You can't keep mayonnaise in the cabinet. It'll go bad."
"You don't need to refrigerate mayonnaise."
"It's got eggs in it. Eggs rot."
If this goes on any longer, Healy's going to need sustenance. He reaches for the elephant-shaped ceramic fruit bowl on the counter and fishes out a satsuma, then obligingly tosses one to March when he holds out a hand. "It's also got lemon juice and all sorts of preservatives. Homemade mayo is a different story, but store-bought stuff is fine."
"Who home-makes mayonnaise?" March asks, a little muffled as he bites into a wedge.
Healy shrugs. "I don't know—mayonnaise chefs. Maybe the Amish. Look, it'll be fine. I've been doing it this way for years."
"Sure, because that always holds up in court."
"You see me coming down with food poisoning anytime I make a BLT? I know what I'm talking about here. And anyway, the fridge was full."
"How is it full?" March asks, frowning. "We don't shop."
"My beer, your beer, takeout containers, some science project of Holly's—wait a second." Healy cocks his head as March's words catch up with him. "What do you mean we don't shop? I shop—do you not shop?"
"Yeah, no," March says, clearing his throat. "Of course I shop."
"Even Holly picks up groceries. What, you can't find fifteen minutes here and there to swing by a corner store?"
"I know Holly picks up groceries. She's the only one who buys lemon-flavored yogurt."
Healy rolls his eyes, brushes some of the pith and juice from the satsuma onto his jeans as he swallows the last slice. "How about this—you finally start pulling your weight, and I'll clean out some of the trash in the fridge and make sure the Hellmann's can go back to living in the door. Deal?"
March snorts. "I pull my weight."
"You're not even pulling a Radio Flyer."
—
Healy's lived with women here and there over the years, but he hasn't had an honest-to-god roommate since he moved out of his mom's place when he was fifteen. Once the literal and metaphoric dust from the auto show had settled, he'd gone back to his place above the bar—still trashed with broken glass and plaster shards and blue dye—grabbed some clothes and driven to the closest motel he could find. Ordinarily, he'd have planned to stay there for a few weeks while his apartment got cleaned up or he found somewhere new, whichever happened faster, but he hadn't counted on Holly. His second night at the Sunny Sepulveda Inn, she'd shown up on her bike with a four-pack of Yoo-hoos, walking through the door and getting settled before Healy'd had a chance to invite her inside.
"You know this is stupid, right?" she'd asked, perching on the dresser and wiping a film of chocolate milk from her lip. "You're living out of a motel and Dad's trying to pretend that the palm tree through our front door is normal decor."
"Knowing your dad, I'm sure he's gotten used to weirder."
"Come on, Mr. Healy, why don't you guys get a place together? It'd be a temporary thing, just until your apartment and our house don't look like disaster zones." Holly had swung her heels lightly against the drawer fronts, watching Healy as he'd pulled the corners of the bedsheet tight. "He's not gonna be the one to ask, but I know that if you bring it up, he won't say no. Besides, there's no way he's taking enough jobs that he doesn't need help with the rent. Or bar tabs."
"You remember I'm the one that broke his arm, right?" Healy had asked, folding back the top of the comforter. "You sure you want me living down the hall?"
"That was before. You saved his life a whole bunch after that, and I know you guys are like, basically friends now."
Healy see-saws a hand back and forth. "Sure. Basically."
"Aren't you going into business together?"
"Plenty of business partners aren't friends."
Holly rolls her eyes. "If my dad didn't like you, you'd know it. He'd be trying to get your car impounded, or signing up for credit cards in your name or something."
"Jesus, would he really?"
"And you know what a baby he can be. You think he does anything that he doesn't want to?"
"Kicking and screaming, probably, but sure."
"Well, this isn't one of those times." Holly pauses, her mouth twisting a little. She sets down the bottle and looks at Healy steady, a new slant of desperation in her tone. "Please, Mr. Healy? I'm tired of feeling like the only grown-up in the house."
Of course she'd had an ace waiting up her sleeve. Goddamn March probably taught her that before showing her how to ride a bike. Healy sighs, but they both know that Holly's got him sunk. He holds up his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. I'll talk to him. But anytime someone shows up with a bone to pick because your dad owes them money, he's on his own."
At that, Holly's whole face shifts on a dime from fucking Oliver Twist to Mary Sunshine. Christ, let every dealer and dipshit in Vegas start shaking in their boots for the day she turns eighteen. "Sure, Mr. Healy," Holly says, and he can't decide on feeling pride or annoyance at how well she can already see through his bullshit. "Whatever you say."
—
"March!"
Holland hears Healy shouting and comes busting into the bathroom with his gun out and at the ready. "Healy? What's wrong?"
"We need to talk—" Healy says, standing in the middle of the room. Then, "Wait, why do you have a gun?"
Holland lowers it a little, shrugging. "You sounded, you know, distressed or whatever."
"I call your name and your first thought is to come running half-cocked—literally—into our bathroom? What the fuck did you think was happening, Psycho?—I mean the movie, I'm not calling you crazy. Though given this, maybe I should start."
"Jesus, Healy, I don't know. See if I try to help next time you're in trouble." Now it's Holland's turn to play catch-up, only just registering that Healy's got his belt half-unbuckled. He blinks a few times. "Why were you taking off your pants?"
Healy looks pointedly to the toilet, then back to Holland. "There are people out there who pay you for your detecting skills. Fuck, I pay you to be a detective. You can't figure this one out?"
"No one's needed my help taking a shit since Holly was coming out of diapers. You in diapers, Healy?"
"No, I called you in here about this," Healy says, picking up a stack of papers from the top of the tank.
"What—your taxes?"
"It's a case file. One of our case files—that woman in Glendale who swears her husband ran off with the gardener."
"Yeah, I remember. What about it?
"What's it doing in here?"
Holland clears his throat. "I was—you know, mulling it over."
"On the shitter?"
"Well it's not like I was cracking it open in the shower. I could've been reading it in the bath, I guess."
"Okay," Healy says, setting the file down and massaging his thumb across his brow. "How about this—and I don't actually think it's asking too much."
"Here we go."
"What if, going forward, we don't bring vital information for our work into the bathroom. That way, I don't have to think about you with your pants down whenever I'm going over the facts. Sound like a plan?"
"Sure," Holland says, considering. "But hear me out—what if I need to light a fire in here and I'm short on kindling?"
"You can't burn toilet paper?" Healy asks, then frowns. "No, no, back up. Why are you lighting fires in our bathroom?"
"I don't know, say some heavy breaks into our apartment. I need to buy myself some time, so I hide out in here and light a fire to trigger the smoke alarm."
The divot between Healy's brows might become permanent. "We don't have a smoke alarm in here."
"We don't?"
"Also, there's a window. Why wouldn't you just leave through there?"
"We're on the third floor."
"Yeah, you hop out the window, then shimmy around to the fire escape."
"What, am I goddamn Spider-Man? I'd fall!"
Healy shrugs. "Wouldn't kill you from this height."
"Anyone ever tell you that you're a heartless prick?"
"Yeah—you, mostly." Healy smiles a little, and Holland exhales out a laugh. They are a fucking pair. "How about this—no bringing case files into the bathroom, or lighting fires in here, or using said case files to light any fires, and in exchange, you can tape a gun to the back of the tank. Or a knife, if you really want to run with the Psycho thing. Scratch that—go with the gun. I'm worried you'd cut yourself."
"Fuck you," Holland says, reflexive. Then, "Worried?"
"Figure of speech."
—
After two months, they end up with a semi-codified list of rules, spelled out across three different colors of Post-It notes on the front of the fridge. (Holly gets orange for herself, blue for Healy, and purple butterfly-shaped ones for her dad.)
- Mayonnaise belongs in the fridge (Unless there's no room) (No, Healy—then you make room)
- Maximum of 6 7 8 guns in the apartment
- March has to go to the store at least once a week, or I'll throw one of his shirts off the balcony until he does (Can you start with the lime green one that looks like wallpaper? Thank you, Mr. Healy)
- No hanky-panky while Holly is in the apartment (Dad, you can just call it 'sex.' Also, gross)
- No case files in the bathroom
- No lighting fires in the bathroom
- No using case files to light fires (Seriously, Mr. Healy? Why does this need to be said?) (Ask your father)
- Look after each other (Holly, you don't have to worry about us) (It's on the fridge—that means it's a rule, and you both have to follow it)