The b side perspective s.., p.1
The B-Side (Perspective Series Book 1), page 1
The B-Side
B Harmony
Contents
Song Playlist
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
The B-Side
Copyright © 2020 -- B. Harmony
All rights reserved.
B. Harmony asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work of fiction.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in book reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover Created with Canva
Formatting by Leslie Copeland, LesCourt Services
Editing & Proofreading by Julie Withaeger
Beta Reading by The Lusty Literarians, V. Domino, & Alley Ciz
To my munchkin.
Don’t ever let anyone forget that you are the B-Side and worth loving exactly as you are.
Song Playlist
Side A
Shake It Off by Taylor Swift
3 by Britney Spears
Castle on the Hill by Ed Sheeran
Hand Clap by Fitz and the Tantrums
Sweet But Psycho by Ava Max
Sleeping In by All Time Low
Sweetness by Jimmy Eat World
Just The Way You Are by Bruno Mars
I Like Me Better by Lauv
I Want You To Want Me by Cheap Trick
Welcome to Paradise by Green Day
Body Like A Backroad by Sam Hunt
Happy by Pharrel Williams
Free Bird by Lynard Skynard
Stereo Hearts by Gym Class Heroes ft. Adam Levine
Side B
Just Like You by Three Days Grace
Curious by Mike Taveria
Let You Down by NF
A Little Bit Off by Five Finger Death Punch
Strife by Trivium
I’m Not Okay (I Promise) by My Chemical Romance
Sober by Bad Wolves
Before You Go by Lewis Capaldi
Quiet Now by Cold
I Am A Stone by Demon Hunter
Gravity by Holding Absence
Talk to A Friend by Slaves
Listen on Spotify
Chapter One
It’s official. I. Am. Desperate.
No, that’s not enough. What’s a stronger word for desperation? I don’t know, but whatever that word is, that’s me. Because there is no other reason I am standing here in front of this house unless I have exceeded desperation.
Personally, I blame my sister. I love her, but this is one hundred percent her fault.
I’m—I cringe as I even think the word—homeless. Well, I will be unless I walk up this path and knock on the damn door.
There is nothing intimidating about this house, not in the slightest. It’s an adorable two-story Cape Cod style home; white siding with navy blue shutters on all the windows. The door is bright red and even has a mail slot on it. The yard is clean, the grass neatly mowed, and the porch is surrounded by colorful flowers. Seriously, this house looks like it rolled right off a 1950s housewife’s dream board.
So why the fuck am I so scared?
Well . . . it all started with my sister and an ad on Craigslist. I know what you’re thinking, yes, I know it’s dangerous to search for a roommate there, but as I was saying . . . I. Am. Desperate.
Three hours ago, I was content to be spending the day with my sister and her husband, Kyle. I know it’s a complete d-bag name, but he’s sweet and perfect for my crazy sister; he keeps her calm.
My landlords just informed me a few days ago that they had decided to sell their properties and move to Florida to be closer to their grandchildren. While I can’t begrudge them for that privilege, I can be pissed over the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Garvey gave me a one-week notice to vacate as they have an interested party who will pay double to close immediately.
Good for them but fuck my life.
I’ve lived in the same rental home for close to three years. I have no desire to purchase for myself because I like the ability to pick up the phone when something breaks without having to foot the bill. I’m a mathematician not a contractor or handyman by any definition.
Having no friends and no family other than my sister and her husband in their “tiny home”, I was immediately on the hunt for a place to live. Sadly, this podunk town is not LA and rentals are scarce unless you are looking to shack up with a college kid—pass—or the “bread and butter” citizens of the Coal Shores Apartments—hard pass. With only seven days to find a place to live, three of which have already passed, I am desperate.
Sigh. Back to the ad.
It was my sister’s brilliant idea to look on Craigslist for rental or roommate ads for a temporary living arrangement—only until I either find another place for myself or decide to buy. Not even twenty minutes into her creating an account for me and running a search does she squeal like a damn pig and thrust her laptop in my face.
“Chance look at this. I’ve found the winner!”
I practically growl at her, “This is stupid. One of the worst ideas you’ve ever had. I can’t live with people.”
She rolls her eyes at me. “Yes, you can. You are not socially inept, you are . . .” she takes a deep breath, “particular. But that doesn’t mean you can’t live with people. Besides, this is a person, not people, singular. It’s temporary, and you can handle it. Just look.” She moves the laptop back towards me.
I let out an audible sigh. It’s better to just do what she asks instead of arguing in circles. I look down and read the ad.
WANTED: A NORMAL ROOMMATE
Single gay man in search of a normal roommate. Yes, you read that right, I am gay. No, I am not searching for a lover, just a roommate. Shocking—I know.
I inherited my aunt’s house and there is simply too much space for one person, so I am looking for someone to fill up some space, preferably without pets—unless you have a turtle because I love turtles.
You must be normal. I mean it. No crazy fetishes like storing human hair in your closet. No serial killers. No obsessive shrine building. You must love, or at the very least tolerate, all kinds of music from Disney to rock to classical to pop to country. I love to dance, and dancing means music will be on constantly in the house. No, I’m not sorry.
I work from home, so I will be here all the time. Don’t worry I work in my office and only come out for my snacks. I have noise cancelling headphones so no need to worry about your noise.
No, I don’t care what you look like. No, I don’t care if you're single or otherwise, straight or part of the LGBTQ community. All I care about is that you have a job, can pay rent on time every month, and keep all hateful, bigoted, and otherwise unproductive words and thoughts to yourself.
$600 per month includes a room, your own bathroom, 50% of the utilities and lawn care. You must contribute to your own grocery bill—especially if you eat like a linebacker. Keep your hands off my snacks. 50% deposit at move-in.
Did I mention I was gay? Just wanted to make sure you saw that. I will not tolerate another “surprised” or otherwise hateful roommate. Bonus points if you enjoy Disney movies or trashy TV.
Email serious inquiries and references to tyeddowntolife@csmail.com
I look up at my sister’s “cat ate the canary” grin with my eyebrows in my hairline. “What in the hell did I just read?”
“The ad for your new roommate, I’ve already emailed him for you.”
“You did what?!”
“I emailed him for you.” She says this like it’s a perfectly okay thing to do, and she’s not saddling me up with some psycho.
“Why on earth would you think this is a good idea and then email this crazy person?”
“He’s not crazy. His ad is funny, but to the point. Clearly, he’s had his bad share of horrible roommates in the past, and he’s letting you know who he is and what he’s looking for upfront. There isn’t a single psychotic thing written in this ad.”
Damn her and her rationale.
“And he’s gay, or so he said twenty times, and he loves music—just like you.”
I si
I do not like the face she’s making at me right now. Lord, help me.
“Did you or did you not come out to me as bi last year?”
“Yes, but—”
“And did you or did you not tell me that this year you’ve actually decided to pursue dating a man?”
“Yes, but—”
“Don’t ‘yes but’ me, Chance. Those were your words, not mine. And I’m not suggesting that you look into this ad and roommate situation so you can date the man. I’m suggesting that it could be helpful for you to explore your options, get to know other people in the LGBTQ community, and learn to avoid this habitual fear you have of yourself.”
Well, damn. She’s obviously had this little speech prepared for some time. Still, I’m not afraid. I’m . . . just . . . taking my time in owning who I am now that I’ve admitted it out loud to myself and to her.
“That’s not the problem. The problem is, I haven’t lived with anyone in almost three years. I am set in my ways.”
Oh, the eye rolling is back, outstanding. “You’re lying.”
“Look, Ella. Yes, I am nervous about living out and proud. This is new for me, all of it. And I would prefer not to use a roommate listing to test the waters. Can’t you keep looking for something else?”
“No, Chance, I can’t. Not only do I think this is an opportunity for you, this is the only available listing within twenty miles of your job. More than that, the address shows that you could walk to work in nice weather, the neighborhood is well rated, and I’m not taking no for an answer.”
“How do you know that I will even get the room?” I challenge her with enough side eye to rival any hormonal teenage girl.
“Because he already responded that he approves and is available to meet you this afternoon. He said you can move in right away if the interview works out. He’s already checked your reference from Mr. and Mrs. Garvey.”
Oh. No getting out of this is there? It’s hot in here; my palms are sweaty. I look down as I rub my hands on my jeans. I’m not sure about this.
“Chance. Chance. Chance, look at me.” Ella takes my hands in hers and waits until I look up at her. She stares me down, forever holding on to her instinct to mother me. “This is fine. Just go meet him, his name is Tyler by the way, and go from there. If it’s as bad as you think it will be, you can couch surf with Kyle, me, and the kids until you find something else. I promise.”
I blink back to my current situation, square my shoulders and walk up the path to knock on the door. Here goes nothing.
Chapter Two
Ping.
My eyes navigate away from my drafting table and over to my computer screen. Ugh, another email response to my roommate ad. Here we go again. At this point, I should just admit defeat and delete the ad.
Fine, I will admit it. The ad was a little over the top, or completely idiotic if you ask my bestie, Del. Sure, it was lengthy and showing a bit too much of my outgoing personality, but I was sick of the gross and asshole roommates I had dealt with since Aunt Dee passed and I tried to fill her absence with a roommate.
First was the guy with the horrible B.O. and incessant need to clip his toenails in the living room and just leave them there . . . barf. Then there was the girl with the obsession over the latest boy band—normally not an issue—except that she built a shrine for them in her closet and then set her clothes on fire “by accident” via candle. Fortunately, the room, closet, and house survived; her tenure as my roommate did not.
Finally, there was Brett. At first, he seemed like a decent guy, down on his luck but otherwise no red flags. We lived together for two months without any issues. Well, no issues until he discovered I was gay. I’m not sure how he missed it when he moved in or in the ensuing seven weeks—I’m not exactly subtle—but bringing a date home was apparently the final straw. This seemingly nice, quiet guy erupted into the biggest and most aggressive hate speech since the last Westboro Baptist protest I saw on YouTube.
My date scampered off in the middle of his rant, not that I blamed him for doing so. As for me, I endured with a look of pity and then politely explained my life choices had nothing to do with him and welcomed him to leave if it was an issue. Needless to say, he packed up his stuff and moved out within hours of that delightful conversation, and I decided to write the most honest ad I could in search of a new roommate.
Regardless of what Del thinks, the ad should remove any “mystery” about me and suss out any bigoted assholes. Unfortunately, it has so far only resulted in the creepiest responses for ill-suggested love matches. Those have been deleted without response, and a few made me want to scrub myself clean and bleach my eyeballs.
I don’t need a roommate. This house has been paid for since Aunt Dee passed, most of my expenses are still covered under the home care trust she established, and I make a decent living for myself. But this house is too big for me. Four bedrooms, four bathrooms, an office, baker’s kitchen, living room, and a sunroom. It’s the perfect family home, for the one Aunt Dee never had.
God, I miss her so much. She was the mother figure I always needed in my life. Aunt Dee stepped in when coming out to my parents resulted in infinite cold shoulders and eventual homelessness. She breathed life into me when I was low, she welcomed me without judgement and more love between her arms than I ever thought possible.
I have lived with her since I was sixteen years old, and I wouldn’t change a single moment of my time with her. They diagnosed her with stage-four breast cancer last fall, and she declined quickly. No amount of aggressive treatment could have saved her.
Watching her life end was probably the most difficult thing I have ever done in my life. I was there for every appointment, every blood draw, every scan, every broken moment of hope, and I held her hand as she took her last breath.
Her passing has been excruciating, fighting with my “family” over her trust and will has been painful, but this house is mine. She wanted it for me. She wanted me to continue living my best life, so I will.
I will live here, even if I need to find someone to share the space with so I don’t die of loneliness.
Ok, that was dramatic. But even so, I don’t enjoy being in this big house alone. I enjoy people, and if having a roommate is what it takes to keep me sane, then so be it. I click the email subject line with a little more gusto than necessary and read over my most recent applicant, Chance Arden.
I skim the email, and it turns out the applicant’s sister sent the email. Whatever. So far everything seems fine, although he only has one reference, but the dates show he’s lived there for almost three years, so I guess that’s normal. He’s a teacher at the local middle school—bonus points for a steady job. He’s single—not a concern of mine. He’s twenty-six, only a year younger than me.
Rather than waver for an extensive period, I pick up the phone and call his reference.
Mrs. Helen Garvey is such a sweetheart, she spends the next fifteen minutes absolutely gushing over Chance. He’s the best tenant ever. He’s never late on the rent. He’s trustworthy. He’s got a good head on his shoulders. He’s a fantastic uncle. And so on.
Well, I guess there isn’t much else to do except meet him in person and find out if he is just as wonderful as Mrs. Garvey claims him to be.
I type out a quick response to the email and let them know I am available anytime this afternoon to meet in person. If all goes well, he can move in sooner rather than later. This house is far too empty for me.
Several hours later, I hear a slow but forceful knock on the door. This must be Chance Arden.
