[English] Roomies

Roomies
Roomies Page 10



“Nathan, how’s your mom and dad?” Dr. Olman asks in a booming voice, shooting a look my way and completely interrupting my daydream.

My face burns and I fiddle around with the mouse pad. I suppose I can at least try to look like I'm working, and straightening the mouse pad counts in my book—which is yet to be written. I would so buy that book. Because, I mean, if the mouse pad isn't straight, then the mouse on top of it won't be, and how will I get anything done in the chart with an imbalanced mouse sitting on a crooked pad? Exactly! Aligned mouse pads are key to a productive workday. That could be the opening line of the book.

“They’re doing really good. Their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary is this weekend. You should come. There’s an announcement in the paper; everyone’s welcome. They’d be thrilled to see you—as long as you don’t bring your scary instruments.” He and the doc laugh. I somehow refrain. “It’s at the country club. Tomorrow night. Seven o'clock. Bring your staff,” Nathan adds and wiggles his eyebrows at me when the boss man isn't looking.

My mouth drops open—not because he can wiggle his eyebrows, or even that he did so at me while in the presence of my boss, but because I think maybe he just flirted with me. My boss and I exchange looks. I try to shrug discreetly, but I have a sneaky suspicion I look ridiculous bobbing one shoulder up and down, so I stop.

“Sure, sure. We’ll try to make it.” Dr. Olman gives me a pointed look. I pretend I don’t see him, which is hard to pull off as he is standing directly before me.

“So, uh, Nathan has some callouses on the soles of his feet that he'd like treated,” I rush to tell him.

“We'll shave them off for you, how's that sound?”

“Sounds good,” he tells him, fairly oozing self-confidence from where he sits in the patient chair.

“We'll numb the areas up first.”

“Nah. I'm good. Go at it.” He puts his hands behind his head to show just how good he is.

My boss and I look at each other, and then he shrugs. “Kennedy, where is the scalpel?”

“Uh…” I force my gaze from Nathan and try to think. Scalpel. Where's the scalpel? What is a scalpel?

Dr. Olman gives me a look of disgust. I lift my hands, palms up. I can’t help it. He’s really good at making my brain mush, to the point where words I should know, I no longer do.

“I'll get the scalpel,” he says.

I nod, not really paying attention. Nathan's smiling at me. Why does he keep smiling at me? It makes me want to smile back, especially with him looking all cute and into me. And then I realize, on top of all of this, we're about to shave callouses off his feet. My smile dims. I mean, the whole experience seems odd. Here, flatter me and make me blush while I watch my boss remove hard, dry skin from your feet. Yeah. Weird. I have an epiphany as I am mulling this all over—I so could not date him.

Well, at least I know. It would just—feet, him, me? No. I'd be thinking of his feet while kissing him and that is totally gross.

“I'll get the scalpel,” Dr. Olman says again, and his voice sounds ominous.

Then he waves at me to follow. With a sigh, I do. Once in the hallway, he wordlessly points to the lab. I enter and twirl around to face him. He closes the door and leans against it, crosses his arms, and waits. I wait too, wondering what we're waiting for.

“Something you want to tell me?”

“Um…your scrub top’s on inside out?”

“What?” He glances down. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

I shrug. “It was funny.”

He quickly pulls the article of clothing off, rearranges it, and shoves it over his head. “Anything else?”

I look him over, but no, I don’t find anything else to point out to him—at the moment. He has two facial masks hanging around his neck, but I’ll mention that when he tries to put them both on—as he’s done in the past.

“Noooo. Why?”

He jerks his head at the door behind him. “What was that in there with Nathan? Is he hitting on you or something?”

“I really don’t know,” I say, quite honestly too.

I don’t know what that was about. I can count on one hand the number of boyfriends I’ve had (and the most recent before I moved in with Graham. Sad, I know. He has kind of ruined other guys for me). I’m pretty much clueless about men and have almost no experience. Especially when nothing serious happened and I didn’t really like any of them. Except for one, and that was lukewarm.

When the silence gets awkward, I say, “I think we should get back to the patient.”

He nods, looking relieved.

Amid lots of blushes and restrained giggling (completely out of character for me), I get through Nathan’s appointment. Dr. Olman looks ready to shoot either me or himself by the end of it. My mind has wrapped around, and won’t let go of, Nathan’s parting words: “See you Saturday?” He said this to me, while looking at me, and waiting for me to answer. So I nodded. Of course. I'll just try to keep the image of his feet out of my head from this moment on.

“I’m glad I don’t have kids,” my boss says as we await our final patient of the morning.

“Why’s that?” I ask, leaning against the counter in the lab.

“I feel like I need to protect you, or give you some advice, or ground you.”

I raise my eyebrows.

He gets a helpless look on his face. “Do I?”

I vehemently shake my head. “No. No way. You just don’t worry about a thing with me and boys, okay?”

A curious expression forms on his features. “What would your father tell you in a situation like this?”

I think of my dad, a manly man with black hair pretty much everywhere but on his head, brown eyes, and an inclination to call me on a whim. He wanted a boy to hunt, fish, and watch football games—and let's not forget, burp and fart—with, but got me instead. Poor guy. Or rather, poor me.

I laugh. “He wouldn’t say a thing. He still thinks I’m a guy.”

He looks perplexed.

“Never mind.”

“Okay,” he says slowly.

The bell chimes from the waiting room, saving me from explaining my dad’s curious view on life, and saving Dr. Olman from the confusion of listening to it all. I give him a cheeky grin and head for the front of the building.

I’M TURNING OFF the last of the lights in the office. The day is finally over and the weekend is about to begin. Hallelujah. Dr. Olman and Sally are up front, conversing in lowered voices, and Phoebe is following me around like my more perfect shadow, bombarding me with questions.

“He really asked you to go to his parents' party? Like, he asked you on a date?”

I flip the light switch off in the examination room. “No. Not like a date. He was talking to Dr. Olman and said we should all go.”

“Even me?”

I look at her. “Yes. Even you. He said to bring his staff. That includes you.”

Phoebe smiles widely. “Oh. Wow. How cool. Want to go together?”

I walk the length of the hallway and end up in the reception area. The inflatable organ is limp and falling to the side. I place my hands on my hips and scrutinize it, aware that Dr. Olman and Sally both fell silent when I entered the vicinity.

“Sure,” I absently tell Phoebe, knowing without even looking that she’s hovering over my left shoulder.

“Are you two going to the anniversary party?” she asks Sally, totally unaware of the undercurrents in the room.

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Dr. Olman straightens from where he’s practically folded over the countertop in an attempt to get closer to Sally without actually going around the desk. She sits upright in her chair, too straight-backed and frozen to be natural—or comfortable. They wear identical expressions of guilt. I almost want to tell them to knock it off and quit acting all mysterious ‘cause I already know what they’re up to. But I don’t. It’s too much fun watching them nervously jump around and fumble about trying to cover up their tracks. Stealth-like, they will never be.

“What do you mean by that? By us two?” she asks suspiciously.

Phoebe looks confused. “Because we’re all invited.”

“Yeah, the four of us. Are we all going to show up together or…in pairs?” I raise one eyebrow and stare at them.

My boss straightens his tie, avoiding my gaze.

Sally looks like she’s torn between glaring at me and ignoring me all together. She thinks I might know, I can tell. She’s more astute than her lover boy. She flips her feathered hair and states, “Let’s all meet here at 6:30. Then, the four of us, will ride together. How’s that sound?” Her blue eyes bore into mine.

I smirk. “No can do. What if I get lucky? We’ll need to take two cars. Phoebe might have to hitch a ride home with you two.” I’m completely joking, but apparently they don’t know this.

Phoebe gasps.

Sally’s eyes narrow.

And Dr. Olman, well, he looks like he’s having a hard time swallowing.

“I was so kidding,” I tell them when the silence gets awkward.

Phoebe giggles nervously.

Dr. Olman gives me an injured look, like, how could I joke about such a thing?

Sally does glare at me this time. “Not funny,” she clips out.

“Sorry,” I say, still smiling. “But we probably should have two cars. In case some of us want to leave before the rest.”

“Good idea,” Phoebe agrees.

“All right. Have a good night,” Dr. Olman says.

“See you tomorrow,” Sally adds.

They’re obviously waiting for me and Phoebe to hit the road. Fine. I can take a hint. Phoebe, not so much, I realize, as I drag her from the room. I wonder if they’re gonna get it on in the office after we leave. I shudder. Please, no.

“Why are you in such a hurry?” she asks, pulling her arm out of my firm grip.

The sun beats a warm path on my head and I squint. It’s gotta be about ninety degrees out. I like it. I close the front door and look at her. “It’s Friday.”

She perks up. “Oh, yeah. What are you going to wear tomorrow night?”

We walk to our cars, mine a blue Ford Focus; hers a black Jeep Cherokee. Her vehicle is much cooler than mine. An ABBA song about money flitters through my mind.

“I don’t know. Probably a sundress or a skirt. You?”

She ponders my question, taking it way seriously. “I have a black mini skirt I’ve been dying to wear and a new silver wraparound halter tank top. Oh! And these black open-toed stilettos that I haven't worn yet. What do you think?”

I think I want to groan. But I don’t. She can’t help that she has long, tanned legs and a Skinny Minnie frame that will look ***y as hell in an outfit like that. I should be happy for her. I almost snort. Yeah. Right.

“I think you will look amazing,” I tell her.

“Really?” She gives me a blinding smile, looking pleased. Wow, I’m actually a pretty nice person. I had no idea.

“Really.”

“Do you want me to stop over and help you pick something out?”

She’s trying to be nice, knowing there’s no way I’ll pick an outfit out even close to being as cool as hers, but I am not a charity case and I do know how to dress myself.

“Come over at six and you can give me your opinion on what I’m wearing.” And then I’ll most likely keep wearing whatever it is I’m wearing.

“Five or five-thirty would be better. To make sure we have enough time,” she says in all earnestness.

I squint my eyes and negotiate. “Five forty-five.”

She jumps up and down in excitement, much too worked up about this. “Cool. I can’t wait! This will be so much fun. We haven’t gone out together in forever.”

The last time I puked. “Yep. Should be fun.” Hopefully not as much fun as last time.

“Oh, it will be. See you then!”

“’Bye.”

With a little wave, she gets in her car, blares the stereo system, and peals out of the parking lot.

Mine is a much more subdued exit.

I’M FRETTING ABOUT Graham’s brother, whom I should meet in about two minutes. The inevitable confrontation was in the back of my mind all day—as Graham always is. There’s not enough room in there for two Malone boys. It made my head hurt. I don’t like this at all. I chew on my lower lip as I park my car. He better not be a punk. ‘Cause if he’s a punk, I am so saying the word red.

It’s about five o’clock and I’m mentally exhausted from work, which usually transmits to physically exhausted as well, since the two seem to go hand in hand. I need to exercise, though, so I tell myself *****ck it up. I haul my purse out of the backseat, lock the doors, and trudge up to the entrance of the apartment building. It’s a brown, rectangular-shaped structure with thirty apartments in it. We lucked out, or I should say, Graham lucked out, when he filled out an application for the apartment. You open the door, turn to the right, and voila! There’s our apartment. It rocks.

I steel myself for video game noises and a voice hitting puberty but am surprised to hear neither. I close the door, and take in the living room. A stranger that is so obviously not Graham’s brother sits on the couch. He is leaning forward with his head bowed, elbows on his knees, moving a beer bottle back and forth between his palms. Something about his pose tugs at me. He looks despondent. I am not a nurturing person by nature, so he must look really pathetic to get a reaction out of me. He appears to be Graham’s age and has shaggy hair so dark it might be black. He looks up and I suck in a really blatant deep breath, then outwardly, yes, outwardly, cringe. Subtle I am not.

But, his eyes. I’ve always been an eye gal. I’m drawn to them, eyelashes and all; the color, the shape, the expression in them. The eyes really are the window to the soul. And this guy’s eyes are way intense. He’s stabbed me in place with one glance and I can’t move. I force myself to take in the rest of him. His brows are slanted low over those expressive gray eyes, his nose is hawkish, cheekbones carved by a knife, his lips are on the thin side, and there’s a cleft in his chin. I’m usually not attracted to clefts in the chin, but his fits. The guy’s pale too, like he hasn’t been out in the sun enough. He’s like a ***y (possibly vampiric) bad boy with a deep soul within.

Holy guacamole, I’m spouting poetry.

From what I can tell, with him slouching and all, his frame’s lean and long, and covered in a black t-shirt that says 'Nirvana' on it with worn jeans gracing his legs. I **** my head, thinking he seems familiar, but knowing I’ve never met him before.

“How's it going?” he murmurs in a deep, quiet voice that has a slight derisive cast to it, like he really isn't the greeting kind of guy.

I hear him perfectly well, but feel like I need to strain to hear him anyway. I straighten, unaware until now that I’d actually been leaning in his direction. I bet I looked really dumb too.

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“Hey.” I nod. “Who are you?”

A smile quirks half of his mouth and I find it oddly attractive. “I’m Blake. You’re Kennedy?”

“The one and only.” I feel like I should strike a pose. But I don’t. I glance around the room, knowing Graham’s not in it, but double check anyway. “Where’s Graham?”

“He’s in the shower.”

I nod again. “Okay then. Nice meeting you.”

The almost smile makes another appearance. “You too.”

I have an intense urge to whistle as I leave the room and just barely restrain myself. I get into my bedroom, slam the door shut, and lean against it. Graham didn't decorate this room—which is why it's an eclectic mess of colors and clothes. I don't really have a theme, unless you count the three winter-ish landscape paintings that Graham got me and the silver and plum curtains that match my bedspread. Otherwise, it looks like a rainbow vomited in my room, in the form of clothes and accessories.

My knees are weak. No idea why. I take a few deep breaths—loud ones—and try to get myself under control. I must seriously be overly hormonal right now. Graham, Nathan, Blake. Attractive men are doing funny things to me lately and I swear it’s because I’m the oldest virgin alive. Possibly. Okay, so not the oldest, but one of the older ones, for sure. Although, I mean, I just plain love Graham. To death. Forever and ever and until the day after infinity. He’s it for me. Really. I know this.

But Nathan is available and likes to flirt with me, which makes me feel good and is also awesome for my ego. He would definitely be a fun time, if I was of the mind to have an uncommitted-not serious-wouldn’t last long fun time. That is, if I could not envision myself making out with his toes as I was kissing him.

Of course, I just saw this Blake guy for the first time ever, but he seems like he could induce some heavy, deep, passionate, soul-searching feelings.

And what would Graham think of that? I tilt my head as I ponder this. Would he be jealous? He probably wouldn’t even notice. I frown. Plus, he might be pissed if I messed around with his friend. And why hasn’t he ever mentioned this Blake guy before? Maybe he just started working with him or something.

I’m sure all my current thoughts are the product of the fact that I haven’t had ***, like, ever. Except for the deal with Graham—the infatuation with him is real.

I shrug out of my work clothes and leave them in a pile on the floor near my dresser. Where the heck is Graham’s brother? Did he not show? I can’t say I wouldn’t be slightly, okay, ecstatically, happy to learn this is the case. I pause with my black workout shorts halfway up my legs. Am I a bad person? Nah. Maybe less than good. But not bad. I nibble my lip. But if I have to keep asking myself this, it’s not really an encouraging sign, is it?

I finish pulling my bottoms up, squeeze into a purple and pink tie-dyed shirt, and dig my running shoes out of the closet. I tighten the ponytail holder in my hair and am ready to exercise, after I find my iPod and earbuds, that is—which I do in record time.

I open my bedroom door, which is directly across from the bathroom door—and I squeak. There stands Graham, with nothing but a towel around his waist. Steam billows out of the bathroom behind him, surrounding him like he’s a magician and just appeared out of thin air. And he could be. ‘Cause he’s got me mesmerized. Hypnotized. Feeling magical. Under a spell. Blah blah blah. You get the point. I feel a zing! in my stomach and slightly lower. I want to lick the water from his body. Run my hands up and down his stomach and chest. Press my body against his and never move away—my naked body.

His hair is wet and clings to his scalp as rivulets of water make a trail down his neck. My eyes follow them to his chest—his tanned, nicely sculpted chest. I swallow with difficulty and jerk my eyes back to his face. He’s watching me with a quizzical smile on his lips. Like he’s wondering what I’m doing. Good question.

“Hi,” I croak.

His smile turns blinding and I almost choke. “Hi, Ken. Going for a walk?”

I’m about to demand how he would know such a thing until I realize what I’m wearing. “Yeah.”

“Cool. You want to get a pizza with me and Blake when you get back?”

I stare at him.

“You met Blake, right?”

“Yeah,” I answer slowly. “Are you two hanging out tonight or something?”

It’s his turn to stare at me.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Yeah, remember? He’s staying here for the next couple of months, so yeah, we’ll be hanging out tonight. And many nights to come.”

My brows lower. “Um. What?” I’m just not grasping what he’s trying to tell me. Why would his friend be staying here? What about his brother?

Graham grabs at his towel and my attention is drawn down to the fabric unraveling at his hip. I couldn’t be so lucky. “You feeling okay?”

Does he know what I’m thinking, that I’m anxiously anticipating the complete slip of his towel to show me all his naked glory? My eyes snap to his face. No. He’s adorably unaware, as usual. Or annoyingly unaware. Whichever.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just…where is your brother? Did he decide not to come?”

He lets out an incredulous laugh, jams a hand through his hair, and then lunges for his towel as it loosens up more. He leans against the doorframe, one hand tightly clasping the two ends of his towel together. Pity, that.

“I think we’re having a miscommunication,” he tells me, looking amused.

“I’m not following.”

“I realize that.”

“Okay.” I wait.

“Blake is my brother.”

I blink at him. “Say what?” I blink some more. What is he talking about?

“He’s my brother.”

I laugh. “No he’s not.”

“Yes.”

“Nuh-uh.”

He leans close to me and gazes into my eyes. I can smell his shampoo and soap and it's a wonderful moment. “Blake is my brother. Blake Malone, same last name as me. My brother.”

“No way. Your brother is, like, sixteen. You said younger,” I accuse.

He straightens. “He is younger.”

“How much younger?”

“A year.”

“How is that possible? How can you only be a year apart?”

“Well, you see, when a man and a woman…”

“He looks nothing like you!”

Graham presses his lips into a thin line. “Yeah, well, he’s my half-brother. Same dad, different mom.”

“But…but,” I stutter as he patiently waits. “I didn’t even know your parents were divorced. I just assumed you had a mother and a father and that they are married—to each other. I feel like I don’t even know you!” Okay, slightly melodramatic, but it’s true. How could I not know this?

Graham's mom lives in Texas, having moved there after Graham graduated from high school, so I've never actually “met” her, but we have skyped plenty of times. She's a feminine version of Graham, so of course she's beautiful and lovable. (She loves me. Obviously.) I can't believe I never realized there's never been a guy on her end of the screen. I am so ignorant. How can I call myself Graham's friend and not know this significant detail of his life?

He gives a slight smile. “You don’t know everything about me.”

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“I should know that.” Maybe I shouldn’t, but I really feel like I should. Graham’s pretty much the most important thing to me; I should at least know his family history. He knows mine. Well, most of it. Some of it. Enough...

“Now you do. Are we done? I really need to put some clothes on.”

“But…you said he was in school,” I finish lamely, my voice dropping to a whisper.

“He’s in college.”

I scowl at him. “You purposely led me to believe that your brother was some pimply teenager who was going to mooch off you for the remainder of the summer, not…not…” I jab a finger in the direction of the living room.

“Not what?”

“Not some hottie!” I blurt out, and then wish I hadn’t.

Especially when Graham rears back and gets a funny look on his face. “You think my brother’s hot?” His voice is even, but his eyes look weird. Like, angry or something. A thrill goes down my spine at the thought of my comment having that effect on him. Could he be jealous?

“Yes.” I nod firmly.

“Huh.” He looks away.

A dash of regret has the audacity to chase the little thrill away. I wonder if I’ve upset him, but then decide I haven’t. Why would he be upset? Unless he doesn’t know I think he’s hot too. So I figure I should tell him. It would be rude not to.

“You’re also hot.”

He gives me a look; part incredulous, part I don’t know what. “Thanks,” he says faintly.

“Yeah.” I start to feel dumb about pretty much the whole conversation. “Okay. ‘Bye.”

“’Bye.”

I glance back at him. He is staring at me with a frown pulling his mouth down. “You should put some clothes on.”

“Right.”

I enter the living room. Blake is studying a fake plant in the corner of the room, which pretty much confirms that he was listening to our complete word exchange. Wonderful.

He glances up as I pass. I see some teeth with this smile. “We’ll wait till you get back to order pizza. If you want.”

Yeah, like I could endure an evening with the Malone men, feeling awkward and ridiculous, knowing they both know I think they’re hot.

I make a sweeping gesture with my hand. “Uh, no thanks. You guys go ahead.” I avoid his searching eyes and race from the apartment.

I cannot believe what a fool I just made out of myself, I think as I walk the circular length of the high school track. (Isn’t a sign of insanity doing the same thing over and over expecting different results? Why am I walking in a circle? Even better question: why do Nascar drivers do it?) There is no breeze and the air is damp with humi***y, making me think I should have foregone the whole walking thing today. Surrounding the track is a fence, and beyond that is the high school and trees—lots of trees. Trees cause humi***y, therefore, at the moment, I loathe trees. Never mind that they also produce oxygen, which, ya know, we all need to breathe. It's a moot point.

I don’t really care that I thought Blake was going to be young and obnoxious and found out he isn’t. What I care about is that Graham thinks I’m a moron and Blake most likely does too. Well, really, it’s not my fault. So I assumed something and was wrong. Big deal. My face feels like it is on fire, telling me that, yeah, it is a big deal. I start lap three. The music in my ears is doing nothing but annoying me so I turn the iPod off.

They’re probably sitting at the apartment, drinking beer, eating pizza, and laughing at me. I scowl. I know Graham implied that the guy was a kid and still in high school. Didn’t he? Didn’t he? I search my brain. Crap, I can’t remember. By lap twelve I’m tired and feeling slightly better about the whole situation. I’ll just pretend like that bizarre conversation never happened. Everything will be fine. Really.

I walk the seven blocks back to the apartment complex, my legs wobbling like Jell-O. It’s a good feeling. I pass by familiar houses and establishments, feeling like I'm at home in the town I've lived in since I was five. Lancaster is sort of lame, coolness-wise. Don't get me wrong—it's a super awesome decent town, it just...what is there to do in Lancaster? Not much, that's what.

On the plus side, there are more women than men. Wait. Maybe that's not a plus side? Either way, there's more women than men living in Lancaster. 2% more, to be exact. There are also two historically noteworthy facts about the town that are not lame.

The town received the first ever Civil War monument dedicated in 1876.

Pleasant Ridge, located on the edge of town, was a home for free slaves and one of the first integrated schools in our nation.

So there's that.

I stop outside the apartment building, eyeing it like a potentially deadly disease is waiting inside for me. I’m sweaty and smelly and self-conscious about it. I’m also breathing funny. I usually just hightail it to the bathroom before Graham can catch too much of a whiff or glance of me, but now there’s two of them to look out for. This really sucks. How am I going *****rvive like this for the next few months? I’m not, that’s all there is to it. I’m going to have to stay at my parents' or something. Or not. Only a life or death situation would take me back to my parents’ doorstep. And this, so far, is not that dire. But it could turn into that. Oh, yes, it could.

I throw the door open before I lose my courage, relieved to find that the living room is empty. I'm almost disappointed—all that near hyperventilating for nothing. My eyes take in the off-white couch with the light green blanket on the arm of it, the matching chair, the TV that is off, and the stereo system that is silent.

Where are they? I distinctly remember seeing Graham’s black Dodge truck in the parking lot. I tiptoe to the kitchen and dart my head around the doorframe, finding it devoid of human life as well. Only the three empty beer bottles on the counter signal they were ever in this room. I sniff the air for signs of food cooking and smell nothing but the coconut air freshener Graham likes. I frown. No pizza boxes. Hmm. I whirl around to the right and peer out the patio doors. Nothing. I’m starting to get dejected. I do one more sprint and leap into the living room, but there’s still no sign of life.

“What are you doing?”

I whip around so fast I bump into the end table by the couch. I curse, rubbing the tender place on my thigh. Graham is in the hallway, unfortunately dressed in dark blue jeans and a gray and red striped t-shirt. He has a curious look on his face and his head is tilted, like he can’t figure me out. And he can’t. I already know this.

“Uh…nothing.” I put my hands behind my back and try to look innocent. “Run, wine, run!” I blurt out, thinking fast on my toes.

He walks into the living room, coming to a stop at my words. “What the hell was that?”

I shrug, avoiding his eyes. “Tears of a wine? To the world you may be wine, but to me, you are wine. To you, with wine. To infinity and wine.” I clamp my own hand over my mouth to shut me up.

Graham laughs, shaking his head. “You're trying to distract me.”

“I was doing nothing,” I remind him.

“It didn’t look like nothing.” He glances behind me. “It looked like you were trying out for one of the ‘Mission: Impossible’ movies.”

I give a nervous laugh. “Don’t be silly.” I pause. “Those are done now.” I mean, otherwise I would so get the leading role if I ever deemed it worthwhile to try out for it.

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He waits, watching me in that studious way of his.

I glance down the hallway. “Where’s your brother?”

A scowl appears on his face. “Why?”

Whoa. Can we say overreact? “I stink. I need a shower. Is he in the bathroom?”

“He went for a walk.”

“Oh.”

“Apparently, he needed some fresh air. Doesn't like to be cooped up indoors for too long. His words, not mine.” He shrugs, like the notion is inconceivable to him even though he needs to be outside so much he got a career where being one with nature is a given. In the fall, he helps cut and stack wood for various buddies who have wood burning stoves. In the winter, he slaps a plow on the front of his truck and rescues locals from snow. Basically, he's outside as much as he can be, no matter what time of year it is—also, talk about ginormous heart.

“Huh. Did you get your pizza?”

“Blake offered to get a couple on the way back from his walk.”

“Oh.”

“Pepperoni and mushroom. And I knew you’d be hungry, so your favorite too. Vegetable.” He wrinkles his nose. “Mmm-mmm. Delicious.”

Graham loves meat. Vegetables, not so much. He’ll drink vegetable juice and have pizza sauce and spaghetti sauce for his vegetables. Me, I prefer vegetables to dead animals. We all have our flaws. But his thoughtfulness redeems him time and again—it also doesn't hurt that he's nice to look at.

I give him what I hope is a sweet smile and he blinks. “Thanks, Graham.”

He smiles back and it’s my turn to blink. Man, he’s beautiful. “No problem.”

“What’s his deal with not being inside for too long? One of his manias?”

He shakes his head of messy blond locks and I desperately long to smooth his hair from his forehead—or grab it and yank his face to mine to do some lip lockage. Either would do.

“I guess. I don’t know that much about him and I feel bad about that.”

“Yeah, I’m confused about the whole thing.”

One corner of his mouth lifts.

“And don’t you dare say it doesn’t take much for that to happen. Or something similar,” I warn.

“I would never,” he states, putting a hand over his heart.

“You’re so full of it.” I walk into the kitchen and sit at the table. He follows. “I don’t get how you have a brother that’s only a year or whatever younger than you and you barely see him and you don’t know much about him. What gives?”

He sits down opposite me and drums his long fingers on the tabletop. “It’s complicated.”

“Really?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Really.”

“Explain.”

“I will. But not right now. Later.” At my unconvinced look, he adds, “I promise.”

“All right. But I won’t forget.”

“I know. You're tenacious. Like a dog.”

“Or a mountain lion.”

“That was my second choice.”

I stand up and stretch my back. “I’m going to take a shower. Save me some pizza.”

He doesn’t answer and I shoot him a look. He looks away from what I think might have been my chest. Huh. It’s not like there’s much to look at. I double check, just to make sure. Nope. Still the same size as they were when I got up this morning.

“Graham?”

He meets my gaze. “Yeah?”

“Save me some pizza, okay?” I repeat.

He nods, eyes trained on a spot behind my right shoulder that is so obviously not my chest it becomes apparent he really was looking at my bosom a moment ago. I wonder if that was the first time he's ever checked me out. Somehow I doubt it. I'm pretty much a ***y beast. Reow.

“That’s your cue to make some comment about how I don’t have to worry.”

“You don’t have to worry,” he says with absolutely no inflection at all.

“Some people,” I mutter and make my way from the room.

“You really think he’s good-looking?”

I freeze, unsure what the correct answer is. I slowly turn around and look at my roommate. He's chewing on his lower lip in that way of his that signifies something is puzzling him and he needs to figure it out. Do I deny it or admit it? Didn’t we already discuss this? What gives? He must need some reassurance or something.

So I say, “I said hot. I think he’s hot.”

Okay, so I like my confrontations, and annoying Graham. If I can’t have him to hug and kiss and love on, I might as well harass him, right? I see I've accomplished the whole annoying thing when his eyes flash a darker shade of green. There's tightening in his face that if I didn’t know better, I’d think he was super pissed. But I know he’s not, so I just ignore the look and leave.

PICTURE A CREAM-COLORED couch. Now visualize one brooding dark-haired *** machine (I’m assuming, but I have a strong feeling about this) sitting on one end and one golden being of near perfection on the other. Then there’s me, in the middle, literally squished between two yummy smelling men, and…I just want to escape. The pizzas have been demolished (I ate half of one myself) and now an awkward silence has descended. It doesn't help that I keep thinking of pornos and threesomes. I am honestly waiting for corny seventies music to start.

I was here first. I don’t feel like I should have to be the one to move. But I’m awfully uncomfortable. There are other places to sit in the room; a recliner even. Ya know, super comfy, so comfy you can recline. So one of them could move to that. I almost think they’re enjoying this. Like, they’re having fun at my expense because they know I think they’re hot.

Why did I blurt that out?

“So, what’s with the name Kennedy?” Blake wonders in his deep timbre that doesn’t really sound like Graham’s, but reminds me of him all the same.

I turn my head to the right, careful not to move any other body part, and meet his challenging gray eyes. He’s, like, two inches away. So close I can see green flecks in his eyes. I think he’s a little too amused by my predicament, if the upward curve of his mouth is anything to go by. One inky black eyebrow lifts as he waits.

“It’s my name.” I raise a single eyebrow back. I can do that too, the look says.

His smile deepens. “Yeah, but, what were your parents thinking? Kennedy? For a girl? And technically it’s a last name.”

My eyes narrow. Oh, so it’s to be like that, is it? “So is Blake,” I retort and give myself an imaginary pat on the back. “And Graham,” I add triumphantly.

“Leave me out of this,” Graham states from my left.

I notice Blake’s shirt reads ‘blink-182’, and unfortunately, I have to give him more props for that.

“Did your parents have a thing for the Kennedys?” Two eyebrows go up this time.

I get my mental pistols ready—it’s obvious there’s going to be a showdown. I straighten my spine. “What do you mean by a thing?”

My, totally in this moment one hundred and forty-nine percent resented, roommate groans.

He shrugs one broad shoulder. “You know. An infatuation. An unhealthy obsession. Fanaticism. A thing.”

“You really shouldn’t have started this,” Graham intercedes, leaning around me to give his brother a look.

My face is on fire and my hands are in tight fists in my lap. I stare at the television, which is on and no one’s paying attention to, and say very softly, “I’ll have you know, the Kennedys were, and are, an iconic family. I feel it an honor to be named after them.”

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Blake grunts.

“Do you deny it?” I ask the TV.

“Nope. I just wondered about your family.”

I jerk my head around and give him a look full of venom. “We will not discuss my family.”

He holds his hands up in surrender, but there's a gleam in his eyes. What is wrong with this guy? “Easy there, Ken.”

I growl.

Graham sighs beside me.

“Don’t call me that,” I state through gritted teeth.

He looks over the top of my head. “Touchy, isn’t she?”

Graham’s head slumps against the back of the couch.

“So, Blake,” I begin in a sweet voice, “what’s up with you and red?” I go still, holding my breath. Did I really just say that? That was so not nice. I wait with anticipation and dread.

Graham stops moving on the other side of the couch.

Blake stares at me, his lips parted. Then he looks at his brother. “What’s she talking about?”

My about to be annihilated roomie makes a sound of dismay.

I twist around to glare at him. He looks like a young boy who just had his hand caught in the cookie jar; guilty and disappointed that his fun has been halted.

“Don’t say the word red, huh?” I jump to my feet and back away until both men are within my line of vision. “You know what?”

They both look at me, obviously not knowing what.

“This means war!” I jab a finger in the air to emphasize this.

I think I hear Graham make another incomprehensible noise as I stomp to my bedroom and it’s obvious Blake finds the whole situation amusing, if his low chuckle is anything to go by. I close my bedroom door, unable to keep from smiling.

WHAT AN EXCITING Friday night this turned out to be. Not wanting to strain my brain for quick-witted comebacks (and I have a feeling that’s all I’ll do around Blake), I’ve banished myself to my bedroom. He’s like a kindred soul of sarcasm. Possibly. I'm gathering from our one verbal encounter (the first encounter didn't count, as I didn't know what a nuisance he was yet and we barely exchanged words) I have to be at my mental best to spar with him. Now, not so much the case. Work and exercise and hormones and men have exhausted me.

I’m lying on my queen-sized bed, nothing but the glow of a lamp for light and…I’m reading another smut book. I know, I know! But I can’t stay away from them lately. They're so informative—and unrealistic. At least there is an actual story to this one; it’s not just ***. Well, some of it isn’t ***.

“Hey, Dad,” I answer as soon as my cell phone rings.

“Mosquitoes are bad.”

I smile. “Are they? I'm inside, so I wouldn't know. Walls are good that way.”

“**** suckers. I got bit at least fifty times today.” He pauses. “Caught some fish though.”

My smile fades. “Good for you.”

“Going to bed now.”

I say good night and end the call, knowing he only mentioned going fishing to rub it in that I don't go with him anymore. A soft knock on the door alerts me to a visitor. I glance down at my clothes; red and pinked striped shorts and a white t-shirt with hearts on it. My PJs. They'll have to be adequate 'cause I refuse to move from my current position.

“Yes?” I aim a pointed look at the door and wait.

It slides inward, revealing Graham. He’s in his PJs as well, which consist of gray athletic shorts and a yellow shirt with cut-off sleeves. I got him the t-shirt, hence why it reads 'Ken and Barbie For Life' in pink cursive letters. I love that shirt. Proof that he loves me in some form is the fact that he wears it.

He has a sheepish look on his face. He’s been wearing similar facial expressions a lot within the past few days. “Hi.” He ambles into the room, closes the door, and sits down with his back against it.

“What’s the matter? Bored with your brother already?” Do I sound snobbish? It’s possible. I feel dethroned as his hang-out buddy. Which is really just wrong anyway. I don’t want to be his buddy.

“He wanted to go out.”

I tense.

“But I didn’t.”

I relax.

“So he went by himself.”

This arches my eyebrows. “He went to the bar by himself? How…alcoholic of him.”

“He didn't say that was where he was going, but I don't know. I guess I don’t know him well enough to say. I hope not.” He shrugs.

I toss my book aside. “And why is that, exactly?” I rest my arms on my knees and prop my chin on them, waiting.

Graham’s eyes catch mine. He laughs. “Okay, okay, I can take a hint. Time to air the dirty laundry, right?”

“Past time. It reeks.”

He grins, wiping a hand over his face, then looks at me. “Okay. It’s like this—my mom and dad never married.”

“Bastard,” I gasp.

He shoots me a disgruntled look. “Yeah, if it was the 1800s. Anyway. Can I continue?”

I sweep a hand across the air. “By all means. I’m waiting with bated breath.”

“Blake’s mom and my dad were married for a couple years before I came along. And still are.” He waits for me to grasp something.

I squint my eyes and sit upright as I figure it out. “Ooooh.”

“Yeah. My dad was messing around with my mom while married to another woman.”

“Ooooh,” I repeat. “Positively sinful. Does the debauchery have no end?”

He gives me a look of exasperation. “Would ya quit?”

I put my hands up, trying to look innocent. “What?” The devilish glint in my eyes may ruin it though.

He gives a snort of laughter. “You know what is so appealing about you, in a twisted, messed up way?”

“What’s that?”

“You have no idea how tactless you are.”

“Well. I have some idea,” I grumble.

His laughter becomes full-fledged.

“Was that a compliment?”

“Do you see it as one?”

I **** my head and think. “Yep.”

There’s a twinkle in his eyes and I’m glad I put it there. “Then it’s a compliment.”

“Do you want a hug?”

Before he can respond, I’m off the bed and on my knees beside him. Any excuse for physical contact. Although, that probably really did suck growing up. Poor kid. I wrap my arms around him and pull his head to me. Fortunately, or unfortunately, however you want to look at it, his face is pretty much smothered by my breasts. But he doesn’t complain, nor does he pull away. So he must like it, at least a little bit. I suppose there is the possibility that he just can't breathe, but...eh.

“I’m sorry. And you know I'm kidding. You're not a bastard, even if you would have been in the 1800s. I would totally kick the ass of anyone who ever called you that, FYI.” I take a much needed breath of air. “Was it awful as a kid?”

His response is muffled, but sounds like, “I survived.”

The stubble of his jaw scrapes the tender flesh below my neck and above my chest. I pull away and look down at him. He’s got a dazed look on his face and I’m hoping it’s from the carefully placed position of my girls directly in his face.

“Do you have any other half-brothers or half-sisters?”

He shakes his head, his gem-like eyes clearing. “No. I didn’t really know what was going on until I was much older.” He smiles, but there’s a twinge of sadness to it with a healthy side of bitterness. “Apparently, from what my mom’s told me, my mom and dad were in love, but they broke up for a while, he got Blake’s mom pregnant, she miscarried, but not until after my dad felt duty bound to marry her. I came along a few years after that. And then there was Blake after me. No other kids for either mom. My mom by choice and Blake's mom from too many miscarriages.”

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“Your dad married Blake's mom because she was pregnant, she lost the baby, but he stayed with her after that even though he only married her because of the baby she was no longer carrying? Am I getting this right?”

The corners of his luscious mouth tighten and I want to kiss his pain away. “Right.”

“And your mom was, like, his mistress, but he really loved her and not Blake's mom?”

“Supposedly.”

“Your mom was okay with that? With being his woman on the side?”

A grimace steals over his features. “No. She wasn't. But she loved him. I'm sure he had all kinds of flowery words and promises to keep her hanging on. I was twelve when she finally ended it. My mom was fed up with my dad, told him to stay away from her, told me the truth because I didn't understand why she told him to leave and never come back. I mean, my dad is a dick, but he's the only one I have. I didn't want to lose him, no matter what he was or wasn't.”

“Dads,” I say in commiseration.

Graham swallows, looking down. “Yeah.”

“That’s awfully young to try to understand something like that,” I say, placing a hand on his forearm. The muscles constrict beneath my touch.

He looks into my eyes, then glances away. A prolonged silence follows. “I guess. After that I only saw my dad when I had to, once a summer for a two-week stay, which stopped when I turned sixteen.”

“What about every other weekend and holidays?”

“My dad and his other family moved to North Dakota, so that was impossible. I think it was Blake’s mom’s idea to put the extra distance between my mom and dad. She knew about everything, but she couldn't stop it. Blake and I—we didn't know what was going on until we were older. We knew we were brothers, but we didn't understand the logistics of it.”

“That is all seriously messed up.”

“I know.”

“Why did you stop going?”

He gently rubs his forehead against mine, back and forth, smooth skin on smooth skin. I close my eyes. “Because I wouldn’t go anymore. My mom tried to make me, my dad demanded I go, and I wouldn’t. I said I’d run away if she tried to make me go and she believed me. My dad was furious and pretty much hasn't talked to me since I went against his wishes. He's the bastard.” He takes a deep breath.

I open my eyes and pull back to look at him. “Was it so terrible there?”

He shrugs, avoiding my eyes. “I was the outcast, the interloper, the one who didn’t belong. Blake’s mom hated me. My dad acted like I was a possession more than a son. My dad wants to control everyone and everything around him. Blake had his own problems dealing with it all.”

I nod. “Oh yes, the mental issues and suicidal tendencies.” I pause. “What’s that all about?”

He rubs his face, looking agitated. “The first summer I didn’t go there he tried to kill himself.”

Uncomfortable with that admission, I shift my position. “How? What happened?”

“Took some pills, had to go to the hospital to have his stomach pumped, counseling, all that fun stuff. My dad blamed me.”

“What a prick.”

He smiles wanly and pats my arm. Really? The arm? Why not get crazy and go for the shoulder? “Said it was my fault for staying away when my brother needed me.”

I feel my face droop in sorrow. “Graham. That’s awful.”

“It’s fine. It was a long time ago.”

“You know that’s not true, right? About it being your fault?”

He shrugs. “I guess. But I still feel responsible. I did stay away. And Blake probably did need me.”

I grab his face, his unshaven skin rough but welcome to my fingertips. “Look at me.”

He does.

“You know I wouldn’t lie to you, right?”

He nods, the faintest of smiles on his face.

“It wasn’t your fault,” I state slowly.

He stares into my eyes for a long time, then oh so slowly, nods. This time he gets it.

I let go of his face and clasp my hands together in my lap. “What else?”

He examines my features. “How do you know there’s a what else?”

I grin. “I just do. Call it intuition.”

He sighs and straightens his back against the door. “All right. This doesn’t leave this room, right? As far as Blake knows, unless he tells you himself, you have no knowledge of what I’m about to tell you. Right?”

I shiver in excitement. “I love secrets.”

He gives me a look.

“Okay, okay. Right. I know nothing.”

“I never thought I’d hear you admit that.”

“Funny.” I resituate myself so that my back is against the bed frame. I put my feet on Graham’s legs and motion for him to continue, holding completely still so as not to spook him away when his thumb absently draws a circle into the top of my foot.

“He got into drugs when he was seventeen. Had to go to juvenile detention until he was eighteen for numerous petty thefts and to be rehabilitated. I don't know if going there helped at all. I don't think it did, but I don’t know a lot about what was going on then and he’s never said much about it. It’s hard to get him to talk about any of this. I guess he was in love with this girl, they were drinking, he was driving, they wrecked, she died.”

My mouth drops open.

“He gets into drugs again.”

“Do these drugs include alcohol? 'Cause, you know, he was drinking here earlier, and he did maybe go to the bar by himself. Aren’t you worried?”

He drops his head against the door, eliciting a thud from the wood. “Yeah. But he’s a big boy and he doesn’t need or want me looking out for him.”

“Right.” I don’t know if this is true or not, but whatever. “So he gets into drugs again and?”

“He overdoses.”

“What the hell?” I exclaim, ready to jump to my feet in frustration. “Does he never learn?”

“He says he didn’t mean to that last time.”

I snort, showing what I think of that.

“To make a long and sad story short, he checks himself into a private rehabilitation center, stays clean, and goes to college. The end. Those beers you saw him drinking? They were non-alcoholic.”

“Yeah right.”

“They really were.”

I lean forward and give him the evil eye.

“What?”

“The whole red thing? Not very nice.”

Graham winces. “Sorry about that. You’re just so obtuse about, I don’t know, human things sometimes that I can’t help but pick on you a little.”

“There you go, complimenting me again.” I roll my eyes. “Keep it up and I’ll think you like me.”

“I do like you.”

My smile falters. Yeah, as a big brother would like a kid sister.

“You’re not seriously pissed, are you?”

“No. I’m not. But I have to get you back. It's a law.”

“Really, Kennedy?” He sighs. “A law?”

“Really. It's in my book of laws.”

“I'd like to see that book. Fine. Knock yourself out.” He unravels his lanky frame and stands. He holds out a hand and helps me to my feet.

“I can’t believe you never told me about any of this before.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“Dysfunctional might be a better word.”

“Thanks.”

“Sure.”

“Want to make some hot cocoa?”

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I look at Graham; my best friend, my roommate, the love of my life, and something inside me melts at the sort of, maybe hopeful, look in his eyes. Obviously he needs comfort, he doesn’t want to be alone, and he's asking me to be with him.

“Of course. But only if there’s marshmallows.”

“Well, yeah.” He gives me a Duh look and I fear I may be rubbing off on him.

“And popcorn.”

“You can’t have hot cocoa without popcorn.”

I follow him into the hallway. “Not the microwave kind. The stove top kind.”

“For you, anything.”

“You can’t have popcorn and hot cocoa without a movie. It's just wrong.”

He laughs. “Definitely.”

“Oh, and one more thing.”

Graham turns and waits, both eyebrows raised.

“If I ever see your dad, I am so going to punch him in the face. Just so you know.”

He looks at me for a moment, then nods, smiling a sweet smile. “I would expect no less from you.”

“Just so we’re clear.”

“Yep.”

“Good. Because I mean it.”

He reaches into a cupboard, pulling two mugs the color of pumpkins out. “Kennedy?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you shut up now? Just for a minute?”

I sit down at the table and prepare to watch him make magic in the kitchen. “Okay.”

IT’S THREE IN the morning. Graham went to bed a while ago, but I couldn’t sleep, so I stayed up and watched 'The Golden Girls' for a while. One of Graham’s flaws is that he refuses to watch this epic show with me. It’s a good thing he has so many other good qualities.

I turn off the TV and lamp in the living room, scowl at the blanket and pillow Graham set out on the coffee table for his elusive brother, and creep into the kitchen. I fumble around in the dark until I find the light switch on the wall, blinking in the sudden brightness. I feel dumb tiptoeing around to see whether or not Blake is drinking, especially in my own place. It’s not my problem. None of my business. But like either of those details has ever stopped me.

I open the pantry door and direct my gaze down. The recycling bin is where it should be and so are the beer bottles. I snatch one up, sniff it (I don’t know why), and examine the label. O’Doul’s.

There’s a clicking sound to the right of me and I spin that way. Blake is standing on the inside of the patio doors he obviously just shut, a closed expression on his face. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing. Why?” I feel guilty. I hate feeling guilty.

He nods his head down one time.

I follow his motion and look at the non-alcoholic beer bottle in my hand. Son of a! I almost let go of it, realize it’s glass and will break, and very carefully, slowly, put it back in the recycling bin. I’m hoping when I turn around Blake will be gone.

No such luck.

I go on the offensive. “What are you doing?” I gesture toward the patio, like it’s off limits and he was doing a terrible thing by being on the deck. Anything to direct the attention away from my misdeed.

“I was sitting outside, smoking.”

“Smoking what?”

His eyes narrow. “Cigarettes. Is that okay?”

“I suppose.”

“What were you doing with that beer bottle?”

“What were you doing with that beer bottle earlier?” See how I turn everything around? I’m suave in unimaginable ways.

“Uh, drinking it.”

“You were drinking a beer bottle?” His silence confirms he doesn't want to laugh too hard for fear of never stopping. It's okay—I get it. “How long were you outside?”

“How long were you and Graham making googly eyes at each other and flirting?”

I straighten my spine. “Excuse me? What were you doing, spying on us? Weren't you supposed to be at the bar?” I crinkle my nose, like that’s the last place I’d ever be, even though I plan on being in one tomorrow night.

“You’re really something, you know that?”

It doesn’t sound like a compliment, but I decide to view it as one regardless. “Thank you.”

Blake shakes his head, looking incredulous.

I stare back at him, crossing my arms over my hearts.

He takes a step closer, bringing the scent of tobacco and his body heat with him. “Why would I want to spy on you? Kennedy?”

I take a step back, trying to appear nonchalant, but my heart is pounding really fast and I feel just a smidge too warm. “Because you’re lame?” I offer up.

He stops moving, his gray eyes roving up and down my face, and then dipping past my neck. I shift uncomfortably, wanting his eyes away from my womanly parts so as not to confuse them into thinking they like his blatant perusal. Of course they don’t.

He laughs, sounding surprised. “You are something else,” he says again, softly, but this time his tone is different.

“Yeah. That’s me. Something else.”

Blake ****s his head, causing his too long bangs to partially cover the upper part of his face. Somehow, it makes him look even ***ier. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

I blink. I swear he said, “Why aren’t you in my bed?”, but no, he didn’t. “Why aren’t you?”

“Insomnia. Plus I didn’t want to break up your touching scene with my brother.”

“How long have you been back?”

“Long enough to know you two are more than just roommates.”

I will not even bother to comment on that. “We’re just roommates who happen to be good friends. It’s allowed. Not that it’s any of your business.” I guess I will comment on that.

He is somehow closer to me than he was a moment ago and I stumble back.

“How good of friends? The kind with benefits?” he murmurs, his voice a sinful caress against my frazzled nerves.

I clamp my lips together so I don’t respond. “No! Just friends.” Okay, so that didn’t work.

“Hmm.” He dips his head, eyes intent on my face. “Prove it,” he whispers, his lips too close to mine.

I know he’s going to kiss me. Why is he going to kiss me? I’ve known Graham for over a year and he’s never tried to kiss me on the lips. Blake shows up and in one day is already putting the moves on me?

Why can’t this be Graham?

He goes still. Something must show in my expression because he pulls back and puts distance between us. He runs a hand through his hair of disarray, not looking at me when he says, “You got a thing for my brother, huh?”

My silence is my admission.

He turns to look at me. “But let me guess, he’s clueless?”

I chew on my lip and stare at my purple-painted toenails.

“He always was slow to figure things out,” he says, sounding amused and disgusted as well.

My head shoots up and I glare at him. “Graham is one of the smartest people I know.”

“Graham’s a damn genius,” he agrees.

I gaze at him, full of wariness. I don’t understand him at all. Granted, I just met him, but still, I should have an inkling of some kind about him, right? There’s nothing. He’s like a blank canvas and I am without a paintbrush. And again with the poetry?

“Good night,” he says as the silence intensifies.

I scowl at him as I hurriedly walk from the room. Dismiss me, will he? Obviously he will, because I’m walking to my bedroom at this very moment. My steps slow outside of Graham’s bedroom and my fingertips lightly trail across the door. Longing stabs me. I swallow and pick up my pace.

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Once inside my room, I take a deep, calming breath. I turn on the light and move to the dresser to stare at the face in the mirror above it. It's flushed with shining eyes. I enjoyed that. I mean, Graham’s fun and I love him to death, but he is not mine to have. With Blake—I felt like I was with an equal tossing insults back and forth. Am I so fickle in my feelings to quickly overturn my emotions from one brother I can’t have to the other I probably can have? Of course not.

I think...

“HI.”

I halt in the perusal of my closet and look at Graham. As always, a buzz goes through me at the sight of him. “Hi.”

His hair looks windswept and there’s fine stubble on his face that accentuates his cheekbones, making him look even more delicious. He’s got on straight-legged jeans with a couple tears in them, a red shirt, and gray Pumas. He’s dressed down, but looks better than most men at their best. And he smells really, really, really good—manly, but also sweet. So good I want to sniff him all over.

He shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “What are you doing tonight?”

“I got invited to a wedding anniversary with the gang from Dr. Olman’s. How about you?”

He walks into my bedroom more. “Actually, I was too. At the golf course country club; the Mezeras, right?”

“That’d be it, yes. Why are you going?”

“John Mezera is one of my students.”

“Oh.” One of his legitimate ones.

“Why are you going?”

I fiddle with a hanger. “Well…” I don’t want to mention Nathan. Why? Because, I don’t know, it seems like I’m betraying Graham. Which is ridiculous—I do know that much. Doesn’t stop the way I feel. I toss the hanger on my bed. “Do you know Nathan, their son?”

“Yeah. What about him?”

“He invited us.”

He looks taken aback. “The whole office?”

It is my turn to nod.

“Why?”

“Um…he likes us?” It seems like I’m asking him if Nathan likes us and that’s not what I wanted to do, but whatever.

“Huh.”

I go back to searching my closet for something to wear. I want to look hot tonight. I’m thinking trashy—only I don’t own anything trashy. I whip another hanger onto the bed in frustration.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” I mumble, staring into my closet like a killer outfit is going to magically appear. Maybe if I stare long enough…

“I was going to invite you to come along with me and Blake, but I guess I’ll see you there.”

I glance at him, too distracted by my lack of clothing to get worked up about spending the evening in the same vicinity as his brother. “Yeah, okay.” My eyes flicker to the clock. It’s almost five. There’s no way I have time to go anywhere to try to find a worthy ensemble. Why didn’t I do this sooner? Like, five hours ago.

“Kennedy?”

“Yes?”

“Would you look at me?”

I turn around and frown at my roommate. “What is it?”

He opens his mouth, closes it, and then shakes his head. “Never mind. I’ll see you there, okay?”

“Sure.”

Two minutes later, there’s a shout from the bathroom. “Really!”

I smile. Apparently Graham just looked at the sink countertop full of (unopened, of course) tampons and pads. Score one for me.

I WILL NEVER admit it out loud, but I am seriously ecstatic when Phoebe shows up at 5:15, even though I told her to be here much later. I need help. Desperately. She looks smoking hot with her teeny tiny clothes on her teeny tiny body and I’m instantly envious. I sigh and show her to my bedroom.

She claps. “Oh, I’m so excited! This is going to be so much fun. What do you have picked out?”

“Nothing.”

Her smile disintegrates. Poof. It's gone. “But…it’s almost time to go. You don’t have anything picked out?”

I give a helpless shrug. “I can’t find anything. I want to look good, really good, and all I have are boring clothes.” I grab her hands and stare into her large eyes. “I need your help.” That sounded melodramatic, but she doesn't seem to mind.

She presses her lips together and nods firmly. “Yes. You do. Go do your makeup and hair and I’ll find something. Go on, go.” She shoos me from the room.

Thankfully I have good skin, so all I need to apply is a bronzer to give my somewhat already tan skin a healthy glow. I put on glittery purple eyeliner, mascara, and peach lip gloss. And I’m done. I’m just not fussy about makeup.

My hair, now, that’s another matter. The thick layers hang halfway down my back and usually have a mind of their own; flipping this way and that and never in sync. My hair requires a lot of attention. I brush it out, pull the sides and front back and give them a poof (bouffant-like). I insert two dozen hairpins into my hair and spray it with a couple gallons of hairspray. When I’m satisfied it won’t be going anywhere, I head back to the bedroom.

Phoebe is sitting on the floor, surrounded by pretty much all of my clothes. She looks up, her teeth sunk into her lower lip. “I just…I don’t know, Kennedy. I can’t seem to find anything. I mean, you have nice stuff, but nothing flashy.” Flashy…trashy—same thing.

“You gave it your best shot,” I tell her. “Chin up, soldier.”

That seems to spark some determination back into her. She puts her shoulders back and starts digging in the clothes with renewed fortitude. “There’s…got…to…be…something.”

“It’s okay, Phoebe, really.” I’m getting concerned as clothes start flying everywhere.

“Ah ha!” She stabs her arm in the air, looking triumphant. Off her finger dangles a skimpy hot pink stretch dress that I will never, ever, ever wear. I bought it on a whim once and have forever regretted it. There’s nothing to it. It is way form-fitting and strapless and short. I can’t believe I ever bought it. I think I was drunk shopping at the time. It happens.

“I don’t know how I missed it before,” she murmurs, brows lowered.

“I do. It’s microscopic. I can’t wear that.”

Her face transforms into something scary. “You’re wearing it.”

“No. I’m not.”

She takes a menacing step toward me. “You’re wearing it and you’re going to look hot and you’ll thank me when Nathan asks you out on a date. Put it on.” She tosses it toward me and I catch it, disturbed by the fanatical gleam in her eyes.

“All right, just calm down.”

“I am calm.” She smiles sunnily. “I’m gonna go smoke.”

I look down at the flimsy material in my hands and sigh. Go out of your comfort zone and into your slutty zone. Right-O.

I SELF-CONSCIOUSLY TUG at my dress, for which Phoebe rewards me by slapping my hand. I give her a look.

She gives me a look back, but she's smiling. “Stop messing with your dress. You look amazing.”

“My ass is almost hanging out.” I point my leg out and look at my strappy three-inch silver open-toed heels. “Although, I really love these shoes and have been wanting to wear them for forever.”

She draws on her cigarette and squints at me through the smoke. “Your ass looks hot. Trust me.”

I sigh and nod. This is what I wanted, right? I just need *****ck it up and not think about it. Have fun. But it’s hard not to be self-conscious when I feel like I’m baring all and I don’t like the feeling. This dress is like a second skin against my curves—and lack of. I added a wide black belt to feel not quite so naked, but you know what? For some reason, it didn’t help too much, probably because it’s a belt.

Roomies
Roomies Page 19



She puts her cancer stick out and weaves her arm through mine to pull me inside. “Where’d Dr. Olman and Sally go?”

I look around the country club. It’s filled with drinking, laughing people, but I don’t see anyone I know. My boss and the receptionist are most likely off in a corner necking. They pretty much deserted us the second we got here. Which is fine ‘cause if they hadn’t ***ched us we would have ***ched them; if for no other reason than what my boss is wearing. FYI: red and green striped shirts and navy blue pants do not go together.

There’s a DJ playing, so we have to shout to hear one another. “I don’t know where they went. Do you see Nathan?” I ask loudly, feeling majorly dumb when the song stops just as I say ‘Nathan’. I avert my eyes and hope no one knows I was the one shouting his name.

An elderly lady is casting a censored look my way and I jerk my head toward an unsuspecting Phoebe and mouth, “It was her.” I even add in a shrug when her eyes narrow.

The country club, generically called Lancaster Country Club and Golf Course, has a large banquet room, which is what we’re in. The lights are low, tables and chairs are set up around a dance floor in the center of the room, and the bar runs along the whole far wall of the joint. The place is packed and it’s hard to make heads or tails of any particular person.

“No. Oh, hey! There’s your roommate.” She waves, smiling prettily. Almost immediately, she grabs my arms and squeezes painfully. “Who is that super broody yet crazy attractive guy next to him?” Her voice got really high and breathless as she said that.

I stare at her for a minute, wondering where those intelligent words came from before I follow her gaze, already knowing who she’s talking about. My eyes land on Graham and my stomach flip flops. He’s talking to some pretty chick I imagine he gives lessons to. I want to be jealous, but try not to think about it, since I have no right to be. He’s a good-looking man. We women like good-looking men. I just have to deal. Plus, you know, he’s not mine or anything.

Then I shift my attention to Blake. He’s staring back at us. Or rather, at me. I feel my face heat up under the directness of his smoldering eyes. I swear he knows what I’m thinking at all times just from looking at me. He’s wearing a gray t-shirt with the 'Ghostbusters' logo on it, faded jeans, and black boots. It's annoying that he keeps wearing shirts that appeal to me. It's like he knows me or something.

I turn away from his gaze. “That’s Blake. He's Graham’s younger brother.” I carefully extricate my arm from her fingers.

Her mouth is a perfect O. “Why haven’t I heard of him before? Where does he live? What does he do? You have to introduce me.”

“He’s staying with us for the summer and working here with Graham. I don’t know where he lives and I guess he’s in college. For what, I don’t know.”

“Mommy likey.”

I give her a look, but she’s engrossed in her eye candy.

Hands cover my eyes, smelling faintly of cologne. I go still, wondering if I should be alarmed or not. “Guess who.” The voice is male and deep.

“I don’t have a clue.”

“Come on, guess.”

“Nathan?” I pull the hands away from my face, turning around to see exactly that person’s smiling face.

“Hey, Kennedy. Wow. You look great.” He nods, his eyes going up and down the length of me.

“Thanks,” I say breathlessly. I sound a lot like Phoebe did when she was drooling over Graham’s brother. I don’t like it. And should I be feeling good about him singling me out of the crowd and approaching me? Because I do.

His hair of unruly waves is especially messy tonight, but it looks good. His brown eyes twinkle at me and a dimple says hello. My heart races in response as my eyes coast over the length of his muscular body, taking in his blue and white striped buttoned down shirt, khaki pants, and end at his brown shoes, then go back up to his eyes. Visions of calloused feet swim in my head and something inside me dims. I feel I should admit defeat—I'm just not getting over that.

“Thanks for coming.” He looks amused, like he totally knows I was checking him out.

“Thanks for inviting us!” Phoebe trills next to me, flashing a megawatt smile his way.

Nathan’s dimple deepens. “Hey, no problem. How are you, Phoebe?”

“Wonderful!” She’s practically hopping up and down, she’s so wonderful.

He turns and searches the room. “Where’s your boss and the secretary? Did they come?”

I shrug. “Yeah, they came. But I have no idea where they went.”

“We’ll find them.”

“Do we have to?”

He laughs. “I guess not, no. You ladies in for some dancing tonight?”

“Definitely!” Phoebe exclaims. Does she have to be quite so excited?

He blazes me with his chocolate eyes. “What about you? You gonna dance with me?”

I give a nervous laugh. I can’t think when he’s looking at me like that, mostly because his head just turned into a big, dry foot. “Sure.”

“Don’t sound so happy about it.”

“Okay.” I almost groan. Sadly, I’m not even trying to sound sarcastic.

He laughs again. “I know you can't wait. I can tell. Can I get you ladies something to drink?”

“Are you playing host?” I ask, smiling. There, that’s better. I didn’t sound quite so ridiculous.

“Sure. Come on, the bartender’s a friend of mine.” He places a hand around my wrist and gives me a gentle tug. Phoebe, not wanting to be left out, attaches herself to my remaining arm. Our three person train weaves through the throng of people and ends up at the bar.

Nathan looks at me expectantly.

I’m a picky drinker. I like wine and a few mixed drinks. The only beer I drink is Leinenkugel’s. But I don't like other people making my drinks because they usually mess them up and I like fruity wines, which are hard to find at your everyday establishment. Therefore...Leinenkugel's it is.

“Leinenkugel’s Berry Weiss?”

His full lips curve up. “Good choice.” He turns to Phoebe. She simpers at him. “What would you like?”

She strikes a pose and announces, “I would like a Cosmo.” I mentally roll my eyes.

“Cosmo it is.” He talks to the bartender, who is red-haired and gorgeous. I can tell they’re flirting. She must be a good friend.

I pull my co-worker toward me. “Have you ever even had a Cosmo before?”

“No. But I’ve always wanted to try one. Have you?”

I shake my head.

A hand snakes around my waist and I’m pulled up against something hard. I look up and am staring into green eyes. “Hi, roomie.”

My heart sighs. “Hi. Having fun?”

He releases me and takes a drink of his beer. “Sure. You?” His eyes go from me to Phoebe to Nathan’s back.

“Yep.”

Graham’s eyes scrutinize me from head to toe. “You look…”

I smile expectantly.

“Different.”

I scowl. “Gee, thanks.”

He rubs the back of his neck, laughing. “Sorry. You just…I didn’t know it was you at first when I saw you across the room. You normally don’t dress like this.”

I clench my jaw. He is so not making it any better. “Like what?”

He silently gestures to Phoebe.