[English] Roomies

Roomies
Roomies Page 30



“What?” is my less than friendly greeting.

“What'd you do?”

How does he know me so well? I guess because he made me. “I just let off a bomb of cheese puffs. Although, technically, I'm blaming it on you since it was your phone call that scared me into dumping the bag over.”

“Your mother is knitting again.”

Eyes glued to the orange blobs on the pale carpet, I reply, “Oh? I'm sure it's marvelous, whatever it is.” Are they seeping into the carpet as I watch, even now becoming an irremovable part of it? Graham is going to majorly freak out over this.

“Looks like a yellow condom.”

I choke on nothing. “I have to go, Dad.”

He grunts a goodbye. I fling the phone away and dive to my knees, hurriedly scooping up the abused deliciousness into my hands. Of course this is when Graham decides to come home—when my ass is in the air facing the door and I look like I'm eating processed food off the floor. I groan and let my head fall forward, smashing a cheese puff with my forehead. He doesn't say anything for a really, really long time, and I refuse to move or look at him, so it gets sort of awkward.

“Never thought I'd come home to this scene. Ever.”

Just to rile him up, I shove a cheese puff in my mouth and chomp away.

“I can't believe you just ate that!”

I get to my feet as I pop another into my mouth. “Mmm.”

Graham's face is twisted with horror, his backpack dropping to the floor. Sweat clings to him in a delicious way, his hair damp with it. “Do you know how dirty the carpet is?”

“You clean it almost every day. It can't be that dirty.”

“I don't get everything out of it!” he exclaims, slapping the remaining puffs from my hands. “Go brush your teeth. No. Wait. Induce vomiting. Immediately.”

I look at him and laugh. “You're crazy.”

“Just...go drink water or something. I'll clean this up.”

“I am perfectly capable of cleaning up my own messes.”

He just looks at me.

“Okay, so not as well as you, but still.”

He remains mute.

“Fine.” I toss my hands in the air and carefully walk over the splotches of orange beneath me. As I leave the living room, I pause by a framed photograph of a lemon tree, sliding it off-center on the wall.

“I saw that,” he calls after me.

“Just giving you something to do!” I smirk as I saunter into the bathroom.

“I'll give you something to do.”

I **** my head at that, wondering if that was meant to be ***ual or not. I'm thinking not. I flip the light switch up in the bathroom and scream. Even with the distance between us, I can hear him laughing. The mirror is covered in what looks like blood, spelling out R – E – D. I put my face close to it and sniff. Ketchup. What a waste of a good condiment.

“Not funny!”

“So funny!”

MY BREATH LEAVES me in a whoosh as I slam upright in bed. Sweat causes my clothes to cling to me and the overactive thundering of my heart is slightly worrisome. Swiping damp hair from my face, I force myself to relax. The room is bathed in black and the evil red numbers on my clock boast that it's just after two in the morning. I wrap trembling arms around my midsection and close my eyes. It was just a dream. I know it was just a dream. Even so, I did not enjoy it. Not at all.

In my dream Graham disappeared. I don't know if he died, but it felt like he did. There was so much grief inside me, so much emptiness. The dampness on my face isn't only sweat, I realize as I sniffle. We were walking and laughing and then he was just gone and I knew I would never see him again. The thought of living in a world without Graham causes a painful ache in my chest. It feels suffocating, ever-growing, and endless. The compulsion to know he is okay is undeniable and I know I won't be able to sleep again until I see firsthand that he is breathing.

Tossing the blanket off me, I stumble from the room and down the short hallway to his. The door is closed and I lightly press my forehead against it, telling myself to go back to bed, telling myself he is okay. But the fear won't dissipate. I quietly push the door open and am enveloped in the scent I associate with Graham—clean clothes and faint cologne.

The bed is king-sized and located in the center of the room with a large window directly behind it. Our apartment building is located on the edge of town, so there isn't much civilization surrounding it. Because of this, Graham's window gives him an awesome view of small hills in varying shades of lime and emerald—my bedroom window gives me a view of the parking lot. Yeah, I totally got shafted that way. On the plus side, I'll be the first to know if anyone ever tries to steal my car.

He told me once he doesn't like walls on any side of him; that it makes him feel claustrophobic. I also know that he likes light colors in his room because he doesn't like the darkness, and when it is nighttime, everything seems black to him, which is why his sheets and all the furniture in the room are either white or pale wood. I know it took a lot for him to even tell me those details, so I never pushed to know more. But I wonder, a lot. What happened to him to make him fear those things?

I can hear the faint sound of him breathing, even and steady. “Graham?” I whisper, not wanting to startle him too bad, although I suppose entering his room in the middle of the night may be the wrong way to go about that.

He is sleeping on his stomach with his arms hugging his pillow to him, his face in profile to me. The white of the moon spotlights him. He looks so young—peaceful. I watch him rest, longing to caress his cheek. I realize I can't keep standing here staring at him. Imagine if he woke up and caught me? I am thinking he might be creeped out. I can't seem to force my limbs to take me from the room either. I don't want to go, and I know if I do, I won't be able to sleep, not unless Graham is beside me.

Unsure of what to do, I move to the other side of the bed and slide into it, the sheets soft against my skin. They're the expensive kind, with the bazillion thread count or whatever. I place my head on his pillow and feel safe next to him. If I could be with him every night like this, I know I could keep whatever demons he has from the past out of reach for him. I should write up a proposal saying exactly this. I could give it this catchy title: Why You Should Allow Me to Sleep in Your Bed. That wouldn't seem odd. Not at all.

“Kennedy?” he mumbles, feeling behind him.

I clasp his hand and squeeze. “Who else would be crawling into your bed in the middle of the night?”

“Good point. You okay?”

“Bad dream,” I whisper back. “I'm okay now.”

He immediately rolls toward me and gathers me into his arms. I go still, my breathing turning uneven. His arms are hard and warm around me, the bare skin and muscles of his upper body flush with me. A feather light kiss is pressed against my temple and I can almost convince myself that this is normal and natural for us. Because, intimacy between us actually has always been comfortable. A touch here, a hug, an absent kiss—not on the lips, of course, but we always seem to be physically aware of one another in some way. Maybe that isn't the proper protocol for roommates to have, but then, do I care?

“What was it?” he asks sleepily.

“Hmm?”

“Your dream. What was it?”

I press my cheek to his chest and squeeze him close to me. “Nothing.” Only the tears that trickle from the corners of my eyes call me a liar.

Roomies
Roomies Page 31



His voice is suddenly alert when he demands, “Are you crying?”

“No!”

He moves away and the room is alive with light. Graham faces me, his lips turned down. The cloud of slumber still clinging to him in the form of half-lidded eyes and tousled hair adds a seductive element to him that makes me think of ***. Although, everything about him sort of does that.

“You never cry.”

“Just because you don't see me cry doesn't mean I don't,” I grumble, sitting up.

“What was the dream about? What happened in it that has you so upset?”

Stupid eyes. I dash a hand against them to halt the flow of the waterworks. “I lost you,” I whisper.

The bed shifts and he is closer to me, the heat of his body scorching me. “What do you mean, you lost me?”

I look up and want to cry all over again. The tenderness on his face pulls at me at the same time it shreds me. “It's stupid. We were walking.” I shake my head. “You were with me and then you weren't and I knew something terrible had happened to you. I didn't see you die or anything, but I just knew I wouldn't see you again. It's lame, I know,” I say, taking a deep breath.

“It's not. Dreams can seem very real at times.” His fingers trail down the side of my face and my eyes close as peace wisps through me, blooming in my veins. “Sometimes they are more real than we think they can be, or than we want them to be. But that's all they are; just dreams. You're okay. I'm okay. And...you're not going to lose me.”

A half-smile takes over his mouth, but there is a tinge of sorrow to it. “Not unless you want to.” He's staring at me, his eyes edged in a shade of green dark enough to be mistaken for black. He looks so serious, mature in a way only a person who truly understands themselves and their emotions would be able to pull off.

“I don't. I never want to lose you,” I say with soft conviction.

When I notice the stillness to him, I think maybe I have said too much, but then his arms are around me again, hugging me tightly, and I think I said exactly the right thing.

The only time he lets me go is to turn the lamp off, and then I am cocooned within his arms once more. His chin rests on the top of my head, his strong arms holding me to him. Our lower halves don't touch, and I am not as saddened by this as I would have thought. It is okay for us to just be like this. It feels like he is gathering strength from me, or that I am his lifeline in a storm of black. I know, I really should have been a poet instead of a podiatrist's assistant. Why am I only figuring this out now?

“You know what I thought the first time I saw you?”

“That you couldn't believe someone as gorgeous as me existed?”

His grip tightens. “That I couldn't believe I'd gone so long without knowing you.”

Every part of my being sighs. A contented smile takes over my lips as sleep beckons. “You know what I thought the first time I saw you?” I mumble under the lull of slumber.

“That you couldn't believe someone as gorgeous as me existed?”

My smile deepens. “Yep.”

His soft laughter pulls me the rest of the way into the nothingness of sleep.

SUNBEAMS AND THE scent of java awaken me. I open my eyes to the sight of Graham and a cup of coffee; two of my favorite things. Slowly sitting up, I attempt to smooth down my hair and then give up. It is too thick and heavy to cooperate. I eye him, not understanding how he can get up so early every morning and be happy about it, but here he is. His work ensemble is in place and his hair is artfully out of place. Today he is being a rebel and wearing a white polo shirt. And the shadow of stubble on his jaw? Totally thigh-clenching.

I didn't hear the alarm clock go off, but that's because he never sets it. Graham subconsciously knows when it's time to wake up. It's almost weird, like, vampire-ish weird, only in reverse. The sun comes up and so does my roommate.

“Hi,” he says, as he customarily does.

“Hi.” I feel like maybe I should get out of his bed, but I don't really want to. I like it here. Only thing missing is Graham. Plus he doesn't seem too upset about me being in it, I would like to point out.

The coffee mug is outstretched toward me. “Did you sleep okay? No more bad dreams?”

“Yes. No. Thanks.” I salute him with the cup before taking a sip. It is hot and smooth.

“Am I fun?”

His question surprises me enough that I choke on the coffee I was about to swallow. “What?” I gasp out once I can breathe again.

He shrugs, not looking at me. “You said you wanted to hang out with Blake because he was fun. Am I not fun? I mean, do you have fun with me?” When he raises his eyes to mine, they are darkened with insecurities that make my chest squeeze.

I set the mug down on the nightstand with a hand that has a tremble to it. “Of course you are, and I do, yes.” Fun is a frivolous word, and while it is important to enjoy the time you spend with someone, there is so much more needed in a relationship than how entertained you are in someone's presence. There has to be a connection; an understanding.

Whoa. What has happened to me?

“But?”

I frown, still stuck on how reasonable I am being lately. “What?” I ask, blinking at him.

“I'm fun and you have fun with me, but?” The look on his face is one of determination, like he has convinced himself he can take whatever I am about to tell him.

With a shrug, I say, “But it isn't everything. It's good to have fun, don't get me wrong, but that can't be all there is. I mean, fun is good for a while, but even that will get boring after so long.”

“How can fun get boring?”

“I don't know. Don't argue with me. Don't you have to go to work or something?”

Graham laughs. “Yeah. So do you. Are you doing anything afterward?”

“I thought I'd get my walk in and then vegetate.”

“Want to do something after your walk, instead of being a slacker?”

“Only if it's boring instead of fun. And I'm good at being a slacker.”

“Like, staring at a curtain blind kind of boring?”

“Exactly. That would be super slacker-ish. We should do that. Or we could contemplate why an ocean is called an ocean.”

“We could stare at the fake plant in the living room.”

I grin. “What about cleaning? That's always dull.”

“I like cleaning.”

“I know,” I say with a sigh.

“Or we could go roller-skating.”

My mouth opens and closes. A grin curves my lips. “That would be really boring, but I don't know if that qualifies as slacking. It might mess up my non-productive vibe.”

“Sometimes you have to step out of the slacker box. You up for it?”

I squint my eyes and nod. “Yes. We should do that. I can take one for team and do something that requires physical movement.”

He smiles back. “See you then.” Pausing near the door, he says, “You look good there.”

“Where?”

“In my bed.”

Duuuuude.

The beat of my heart and my breaths take a little while to get back to normal after those parting words. I flop onto my back and stare at the ceiling, not sure how I am supposed to take what he just said. I mean, obviously he meant it—how, exactly? I am just full of answers this morning. A glance at the clock shows me I'm going to be late for work if I don't start moving my butt.

Forty-one minutes later, I walk outside in*****nlight and heat, slipping sunglasses on to protect my eyes from my nemesis. Don't get me wrong—I love the sun; I just don't love it blinding me all the time. My hair is pulled up in a messy bun and I got black scrubs on today 'cause I'm badass like that. I chomp on an apple and wish I'd had time to eat something with more substance to it—like a doughnut. I could really go for a gooey, sugary, chocolate cream-filled one. Too bad I don't have time to stop at a gas station or I would so stock up. I take another bite of my apple as I cross the parking lot to my car, trying to trick myself into believing it is a delicious ball of carbohydrates and goodness. It doesn't work.

Roomies
Roomies Page 32



The sight of Blake leaning against my car falters my steps. I swallow with difficulty, although the chunk of apple in my mouth could be partly to blame—I really should have chewed that up better. He certainly knows how to make an impression; even the curl of his upper lip is a perfect mix of sardonic and ***y. The white t-shirt and dark jeans that mold to his muscular frame make me think he may have time-traveled from the fifties or sixties. A trail of smoke weaves up from the cigarette dangling between his lips, caressing his facial features like the loving hand of all that is naughty. Must he be so attractive? He shouldn't be, especially when he has a cancer stick in his mouth, but he manages to pull it off anyway.

“Kennedy,” he greets, flicking his cigarette to the ground.

“That's littering.”

“I'm a bad person. I litter.”

“You know, you're really not.”

He straightens with one dark eyebrow lifted.

“You want people to think you're a bad person, but it's all an act.”

“You've learned this from knowing me all of two days?”

“It's closer to four now, and yes, I have. I also learned that you like to antagonize your brother—and apparently you don't know how to add.” I cross my arms. “You don't want to date me. You're not even all that interested in me. You just want to piss Graham off for whatever reason and you're using me to do it.”

“Now, see, that's where you're wrong. I mean, yeah, maybe I do like to muss up perfect Graham's life with his perfect behavior and perfect perfect, but I am interested in you. A lot.”

“Perfect perfect?” I remark, my head spinning from his comment about his interest in me—his “a lot” interest in me.

He shrugs. “Maybe if I was as perfect as my brother, I would have come up with a better word.”

“Why do you want to hurt him?” I ask in all seriousness, knowing I need to get going so I am not late for work, but desperately needing to know why the brothers are the way they are.

“I just told you he's perfect. Isn't that enough of a reason? And I don't want to hurt him,” he answers slowly. “I just want to—I don't know.”

“Get him to lose control? Aggravate him? Annoy him? Piss him off?”

“Maybe. I guess.”

I hold out my hand. He gingerly puts his rough, warm one in mine. I shake it once before releasing it. “Congratulations. You accomplished what you set out to do. He lost control. He punched you. Now maybe you can move on to the next step of your evil brother plan.”

“Evil brother plan?” His lips twitch and humor flashes briefly in his steel-shaded eyes.

“Or just, you know, try to get along while you're here. I mean, did you even really come here to spend time with Graham, or to just make him miserable for a few months?”

“Why not both?”

My lips thin. “What did he ever do to you? I'd really like to know.”

“Nothing. Not enough. That's the problem.” He steps back. “Anyway, I wanted to apologize for that.” He gestures toward my collarbone. “The last thing I wanted was for you to get hurt.”

I wave his apology away, more pressing matters than my health at hand (I know, I'm always sacrificing myself for those around me). Namely, letting him know how unfounded his views are.

“It was over ten years ago. You were a child. He was a child. You can't blame him for what happened. It wasn't his fault. If it was anyone's fault, it was your dad's. That's who you should be pissed at. Graham didn't stay away because he didn't want to be with you; he stayed away because he couldn't stand to be around your dad,” I tell him heatedly.

His expression closes. “He told you about that?”

I shouldn't have said anything. It isn't any of my business. My protective nature toward Graham just went into growly status and now Blake is glaring at me because I opened my big mouth when I shouldn't have. I shift my feet, the heat of the sun and my own conscience making me uncomfortably warm. That could also be the black garbs I smartly decided to wear on such a blistering day.

“What else did he tell you?”

“He only told me parts. I just know parts. That's all.”

He mutters, “Unbelievable,” and shows me his taut back.

My eyes, of course, have to look down and admire his rear. They have a will of their own, clearly. A will not intelligent enough to look away before he turns, showing me what's on the other side of his body in the same spot. My face burns and I jerk my head to the side, tearing my eyes away from where they want to be.

“I know, it's impressive.”

I want to die. My eyelids slowly slide shut.

“I didn't decide to get my own place because of Graham. That was all you,” he finally tells me, starting to walk away as I force my eyes open again.

“What does that mean?”

“You'll find out.”

“You're confusing!”

“You're hot,” he calls back.

“You don't know me!”

“I will.”

Flustered, I clumsily unlock my car door—meaning I fight with the key to get it into the lock and scrape my knuckles on the door handle—and fling my purse and half-eaten apple inside, not seeing where the fruit lands. I want to shout out that I love his brother, but I have this suspicion he'll just say he doesn't care. I notice an elderly lady from two apartments down watching me with avid interest, her rheumy eyes flickering to Blake and back to me. She's standing near the apartment building entrance, wearing a yellow and brown checkered housecoat and nylons. I turn away, really hoping that isn't me when I am her age. I could see myself being that lonely, nosy old lady with no fashion sense. As if I needed that thought to make my morning any better.

BEING A MONDAY and all, the day wasn't terrible. The highlight was when I opened the cleaning supply closet and caught Dr. Olman and Sally making out. Busted! At least they were clothed, so I don't think there will be any long term trauma to my brain or eyes. At least, I can say I wasn't instantly blinded, so that has to be a good sign. I guess I won't really know until I attempt to make out with a guy, preferably Graham, and see if I am bombarded by visions of old people groping or not. I should ask him to be my guinea pig and test it out.

It was kind of funny when Dr. Olman said Sally got locked in the closet and he was trying to help her get out, but then he got locked inside too. There is no lock on the door. And even if there was, how would he first enclose himself in the closet and then lock it? I suppose it depends on what kind of lock there is, but still, it is a moot point, as there is no lock on the door. I tried telling him that and then he said the door must have somehow gotten stuck. Yeah. And then they just decided to pass the time by making out. Makes perfect sense. It's what I would do in the same situation. Well, if Graham was nearby.

My cell phone buzzes as I get into the sauna-like atmosphere of my car. I keep the door open so I can at least breathe and pull the phone from my purse. With a groan, I answer. “Hey, Dad.”

Phoebe waves as she heads for her vehicle and I nod in acknowledgment, waiting to see what awesomeness my father is about to bestow upon me.

“Have you seen the TV remote?”

Now, this would be a strange question to ask someone that doesn't live with you and hasn't been to your house in over a week, but this is my father we're talking about. Nothing with him surprises me.

“Why would you think I would know where your remote control is?” Exasperation has put an implied sigh in my voice.

Roomies
Roomies Page 33



“You used it the last time you were here.”

“Haven't you used it since then?”

There is a pause. “Maybe.”

I rub my perspiring forehead and crank the AC higher, grudgingly shutting the door so all the cool air doesn't seep out whenever it decides to become cool. The fake cherry smell of the car is potent, reminding me of cough syrup, and I eye the cherries swaying from the rear-view mirror, seriously thinking about ripping them down and putting myself out of my misery.

“So then it would make more sense that you would know where it is,” I explain slowly.

“Maybe Graham knows. He was here with you.”

“I have to go now. I need to go walking.”

“Walking. Walking is overrated,” he scoffs.

“You're right. We should all never walk again. That'll show our legs.”

“Stop by when you're done and see if you can find the remote. Bring Graham.”

“I have my own plans with Graham after I go for a walk.”

“What are you two doing?”

“Roller-skating.”

My dad laughs. “See you after your walk.”

He just assumes I'll pick him over my walk, like he's more important. I mean, sure, his sperm helped create me, but it isn't like my fitness isn't important too. Tightly clenching the phone in my hand, I force a calming breath and remind myself all the reasons I have to be thankful for my dad.

Number one: Without him, I would not exist.

Number two: If I didn't exist, I wouldn't know Graham.

Number three: There is no number three.

I put the car in drive, realize if I hit the accelerator I'll drive through the front door of the office, and put the car in reverse instead. I call Graham as I drive. I know, shame on me. But it isn't illegal! Although, with the way I drive, maybe it should be—for me anyway.

“On your way home?” his voice greets. Home. His home and my home are the same home. Deep sigh.

“Yeah, but I have a favor to ask.”

“Okay.” This is so like Graham—ready to do anything needed of him without hesitation.

“It's sort of bad.” I pull out in front of a Nissan and wave when they honk at me. It isn't like we crashed.

He laughs. “I doubt it's that bad. What do you need?”

“My dad called me. He wants us to come over.”

“All right.” Answered immediately and without any snark. He is a good man.

“I'm supposed to find his remote while you get to endure his worshipful eyes admiring your every move.”

“I can handle that.”

“I know. My dad loves you. He wishes you were his son instead of me.”

“I don't think that's it.” He pauses. “And you're not his son.”

“Oh. Right. Silly me. How could I forget that?”

“It'll be fine. I promise.”

I nod even though he can't see me, feeling better just from our short conversation. “We'll probably be there a while. I don't know about roller-skating tonight. I'm sorry. I suck.”

“You don't suck.” Do not respond to that, Kennedy. “I like your family,” he adds.

“I know. You're weird.”

“I like you too.”

“Exactly my point.”

I pull the car into the parking lot of the apartment building and turn it off. Only the key won't turn off. I glance down at the gear shifty thing and note that it isn't in park. Muttering to myself, I put it in park and it shuts off.

“What was that?”

“I forgot to put the car in park again.”

His laughter washes over me and I find myself grinning. “I take it you're at the apartment?”

“Yeah. Where are you?”

“I'm pulling into the parking lot now.”

I get out of my car just as he pulls up beside me. His smile is wide and unburdened. It is the usual Graham smile. I have missed seeing it. Honestly, I have missed him during the time we have been apart. I can almost delude myself into thinking we are dating, in love, and this is a normal happy day for us. But I am not that far gone, so I have to accept that the dream is not reality.

He bumps his shoulder against mine as he reaches me. His cheeks are tinged red from being outside all day and he smells like sunshine. “I'll get ready while you go for a walk. Want me to pick anything up from the store to bring?”

“Well, my mom will probably make something for supper.”

“I should get something then?”

“A whole meal would be nice.”

We walk toward the apartment building. I am hoping to get inside before I melt.

“Do you think she suspects?”

The door opens, cool air flowing out and coating me in a layer of bliss. “That she is a terrible cook and we get out of eating her food by bringing our own food all the time?” I tilt my head and watch as he unlocks the apartment door. “Nah. I mean, if she was going to figure it out, she would have at some point during my teenage years. I was never hungry when she asked 'cause I'd always already eaten. I lived on popcorn and fast food.”

“While I'm thinking about it...there's this thing at work and I wondered if you wanted to go.” Graham tosses his keys in the red square dish on the kitchen counter, not looking at me.

“A thing? What thing?”

Rubbing the back of his neck, he says, “Like bring a date for a fun-filled day of golfing and drinking extravaganza thing.”

I blink at him, but he still isn't looking at me. “Date?” I echo.

Graham is blushing. I have never been witness *****ch an occurrence before. “I mean, yeah. That's what it's called, but we're just friends, so...it won't really be a date. But I thought you might have fun. I know you've never golfed before and I could teach you some things. You might like it. Plus there will be drinking and I know you like drinking. I don't want to go alone and you're the only one who will make it bearable, the only one I can imagine having any fun with. If you don't want to go, I understand. But it's mandatory for me. I can ask someone else—”

“I'm going,” I practically snap at him. There will be no other female companion for Graham, not if I can help it.

Relief transforms his features and his shoulders relax. “Thank you. It's next weekend. Sorry for the short notice, but I just found out about it today.”

I turn to leave the kitchen. “Sure. No problem. It's a non-date date.”

A strong hand wraps around my bicep, halting my steps. “You were crying last night.”

I go still, unable to face him, not when he just threw that at me. “Yes.”

His hand drops from my arm as I face him. “For me.”

“Yes.”

“No one’s cried over me before.” His green eyes are dark with emotion.

“Do you want people to cry over you or something?” I’m not sure where this is going.

He studies me, then shrugs. “It’s not that. I just don't think I've ever mattered enough to anyone for that to even be an issue.”

“You've had lots of girlfriends,” I argue.

“Nothing serious.”

“You have a mother.”

“Mothers don't count. They have to love you.”

“Not necessarily.”

He just looks at me.

“Come on,” I scoff. “You're a great guy—good-looking, you have a huge heart, you're funny, you are an extremely likable guy—and loads of people care about you.”

“You think all of that about me?”

Crap. I said too much, revealed too much. I shift my feet and say, “Not just me. Lots of people.”

“I only care what you think about me,” he says softly. His hands move up to cup my jaw. I watch him watching me, his face so close. I focus on the dip of his full upper lip, wondering what it would feel like pressed against mine. “I am constantly confused by you, always surprised, and continually shown why you are so very special to me.”

Roomies
Roomies Page 34



“Because I cried over you?”

“Because you care enough about me to cry.” His eyes search my face as he steps back. “Sometimes I feel like we're trapped by our own fears and doubts. Do you ever feel that way?”

Fricking right I do. “No. Never.” I smirk so he knows I am not being serious.

The smile he reciprocates is faint. “You should go, get your walking in while you feel like it.”

“Right. Because, as we both know, that feeling won't last long. I'll see you soon.”

He nods absently, already turning away from me.

I walk to my room to change my clothes with an impossibly heavy pressure on my chest. Dare I have a trickle of hope that Graham possibly cares about me the same way I do him? I don't know if I can allow myself to do so. If I am wrong, my heart will be broken, and even though I have never endured that before, I have this feeling it will be unpleasant and sort of unlikely to move on from. Like, if the world ran out of coffee, devastation.

I slowly undress, tugging on black stretchy shorts and a red top. I don't know if there is true love for everyone, or soul mates, or that one person who is your perfect match. I don't know if I believe in any of that, but I know that there is a bond between us that I have never had with anyone else. Graham will always be there for me when I need him to be. He will support me and any decision I make; whether it is a good one or a bad one. He understands me and all of my quirks and he still wants to be around me. I tighten the rubber band in my hair and get my shoes. I waited twenty-one years and some months to meet someone like Graham and the thought of being without him is unbearable.

When I get to the living room, Graham is waiting for me, grinning. He holds up a hot pink t-shirt and my eyes drink it in, warmth spreading through me. It reads 'Wine-oceros' and has a cartoon rhinoceros standing on its hind legs holding a wine glass. My eyes sting and I lunge for him, squeezing him to me.

“I take it you like it.” He hugs me back.

“I love it,” I whisper. “Did you have it made up yourself?”

“I did.”

I blink my eyes against the possibility of tears as I pull away, staring at my roommate. “You totally tossed all of my wine sayings out the door with this shirt. You know that, right? You are the king. I gladly admit it.”

His smile widens, his face shining with it. “'Bout time.” He brushes hair from my face. “Go on. I'll see you soon.”

I nod, quickly hugging the shirt before setting it on the couch. “Thank you.”

“Have a good walk.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” I say by the door.

Graham shakes his head, a grin holding to his lips. “Was that necessary?”

“I don’t know, is Kim Kardashian necessary?”

“Good point.”

As I walk, I can't keep a smile off my face. He knows me like no one else does. And I'm glad of that. I wouldn't want anyone else to get me the way Graham does. I realize I understand what he said last night about going so long without knowing me. It feels like we have always been, though we have only been in each other's lives such a short time. But time does not define emotion. And I cannot imagine my life without him, no matter how far into the future I look. I inhale deeply.

That is a terrifying thought.

“ARE YOU STALKING me?” I demand as I head toward Blake. After my walk, I hopped in my car and boogied over to the bank to deposit a paycheck I'd forgotten about. Strange how something like that could happen. It isn't as if I have loads of money lying around. I'm blaming it on the polluted air, messing with all of our heads and stuff. It could be true. You just don't know.

He straightens from the wall of the stone building known as a bank. He is wearing his usual plain clothes, but today he livened up his ensemble by wearing a dark blue shirt instead of his customary non-colors. “I saw your car. Knew the plates were yours.”

I don't even know my own license plates. “Right. You're stalking me. Should I be worried?”

“Why would you be worried? I'm cute. Cute guys are always harmless.”

“Cute guys are the most lethal, and who said you were cute?”

“You did. With your eyes.” His voice is purposely low, just the hint of seduction to it.

I roll said eyes, giving him a gentle shove. “Yeah. My eyes are always getting me into trouble.” As opposed to my mouth. Yes. That's it.

“I live across the street.” He nods toward a brown two-story house. “Upstairs. It's an efficiency apartment, but it works.”

“Could you even say it's efficient?” I lift a single eyebrow.

“Adequate, actually. I like adequate.”

I nod in understanding, though I am faking it. I don't really get anything about Blake. He's sort of weird—more than me, even. “Where do you go to college at anyway?”

“University of Illinois.”

“What are you going for?” My tone is brusque, but I don't know much about Blake, and I guess the only way I'll find anything out is by being demanding. Why I want to know about him so badly still isn't completely clear to me.

“Why?”

“Call me nosy.” He really better not.

He hesitates. “Child psychology,” he finally answers. “I, uh, had a pretty messed up childhood, as I'm sure Graham was nice enough to inform you of, and I want—I want to help kids if I can, help them so they don't make the same mistakes I made, or maybe help them to understand why they do.”

I just stare at him as a barrage of emotions hit me. Sadness for the boy he once was and the errors he made and can never undo, respect that he is doing something so worthy, and empathy that he felt the need to waver before telling me.

“You should be proud of yourself,” I say when the silence gets too uncomfortable.

“Oh, I am. Can't you tell?” I wonder if he ever tires of the mocking tone. But then, do I?

Jiggling my keys, I search for something else to say, something not quite so serious. “How was work? You're at the golf course, right?”

“Yeah. First day. I got to watch a really boring movie and follow people around. Best time ever. Most of the day I was actually considering stealing a bottle of booze from the bar just to counter the dullness of it all. Which, hey, I might as well confess all my evil deeds, right? I'm sure Graham told you about that too.”

I don't answer.

He runs a hand through his dark hair before returning his eyes to me. “What are you doing tonight?”

There is bleakness to him that pulls at me; restlessness to his bearing that warns of possible danger—not to me or anyone else, but to him. I wonder if it is a daily struggle to stay away from alcohol and drugs. I wonder what thoughts he has and how he manages to overcome the temptation. And I know he needs someone, because in spite of his tough exterior, there is a noticeable crack in it.

“I have to go to my mom and dad's. My dad lost the remote and seems to think I know where it is.”

“Want some company?”

He isn't my responsibility to entertain or keep out of trouble. If anything, he is Graham's, but because of their bullheadedness, they aren't exactly hanging out together like they should be. So what do I do? Do I tell him to come along, and if I do, do I tell him about Graham going as well?

Spinning the situation around in my head, I come to a decision. It entails me remaining in my workout clothes and possibly smelling bad, but if that is what it takes to get the brothers together and talking, then I am willing to forfeit my hygiene for the greater good—just this once.

Roomies
Roomies Page 35



“Yes. I do. You can ride with me.”

“Let's go.”

Grinning, I send a text to Graham asking him to meet me at my parents' house instead of me picking him up because I have girly errands to run later—like buying feminine products and whatnot. He replies that he'll leave now. I laugh, knowing he never wants to be in the feminine product aisle of a store ever again. There was an emergency once and he actually had to go to the store to buy me stuff. He was horrified, but put a brave face on and did it anyway. He had to text me pictures to get the right kind. It must have been awful for him in the store. He mentioned people giving him odd looks as he snapped photos of pads and tampons, but did he complain? No. Now that is a man to be admired.

Once we're settled in the car and on our way, it doesn't take Blake long to comment, “You're a terrible driver. Has anyone ever told you that? You didn't even stop at the stop sign.”

“I paused.” So I am not the most cautious, law abiding, observant person. I did, however, get my driver's license on my first try, unlike the majority of girls in my class. And, has anyone died yet while riding with me?

No.

“You swiped the curb when you took the last turn.”

“The road was narrow there!” I turn the volume up on the radio as 'What Now' by Rihanna plays. I actually do like this song, but I also want to drown out my driving instructor's criticisms.

I glance at him to find him grinning.

“You totally just coasted through that stop sign. Again.”

“The stop was implied. And would you be quiet? I can't concentrate when you keep critiquing my driving skills.”

“What driving skills? And if I shut up, will you suddenly acquire some?”

Luckily for Blake, we are at my parents’ house. Or not, because a scowl darkens his face when he notices his brother's truck. “You forgot to mention Graham was going to be here.”

“Did I?” I tilt my head and try to look innocent.

He narrows his eyes at me, but says nothing more, getting out of the car and shutting the door more exuberantly than is warranted.

“Hey. Only I can abuse my car.” I meet him at the sidewalk and point to the sage green house with white trim. “Home sweet home.” There is even a mat in front of the door saying exactly this.

As we walk to the door, I look over my shoulder at him. “I wouldn't eat any of the food, just to warn you. Unless it comes pre-made from a store, that is. And even then, proceed with caution.”

He stares back at me.

“Kennedy!” My mom engulfs me in flowery perfume and fleshy arms as I walk through the door. I am used to the decorating theme of the house, but I imagine it may be a shock for Blake. I don't look back to check. He doesn't want to see the den, I already know this. It's covered in Kennedy men and women, pure proof that my father is fanatical about the famous family.

I hug her back, spitting curly blond hair out of my mouth. “Hey, Mom.”

My mother is affectionate. My dad—not so much. He nods at me in greeting as I disengage my arms from the woman that birthed me.

I wrinkle my nose. “Is something burning?”

“****.” My mom turns her head in the direction of the kitchen as she hollers, “Graham! Can you get the chicken from the oven?”

“On it!” comes from the kitchen. The oven door bangs shut and a curse word rings through the air. Apparently both of the brothers have a thing with slamming doors today.

“You didn't injure yourself, did you, dear?” she shouts next to my ear.

I step away with a ringing ear and introduce Blake. “This is Graham's brother, Blake. This is Jim and Alice Somers. I'm going to go see if Graham needs first aid.” Or mouth to mouth. It is my civic duty.

“Graham doesn't need you crying over him like a girl.”

This from my dad, which I ignore. I don't point out that I am a girl, 'cause he would just grunt like he isn't too sure about that. I don't understand him and don't think I ever will. He pushes me away in some ways, but in others, he tries to pull me back. I wanted Barbie dolls for Christmas and I got tractors instead. I asked for a pretty dress for my ninth birthday and I got a baseball glove. It isn't that I didn't enjoy playing with toy farm equipment or participating in sports, but his view was that I had to choose one, and it had to be what he wanted.

Apparently I was difficult even while in the womb and it was advised that my mom not have more children after me, so this is what they got—me. Maybe my dad plays a large part of why I am the way I am, but that is a serious, deep subject and I tend to stay away from those as much as I can, so I stop thinking about it.

Graham turns as I enter the rose-themed kitchen. He doesn't say anything. He looks at my face and then he gathers me into his arms, pressing a firm kiss to my forehead. He has been around my father and me enough to know the situation. He's seen my old bedroom. I couldn't have purple walls like I wanted or anything frilly in my bedroom, so as a form of semi-rebellion, I had nothing. I painted the walls white and kept anything that would have given the room a sense of being mine out of it.

I went through school doing what I had to do to pass, but I never got involved in any extracurricular activities or excelled at anything—not just because of my dad, but also because I was never bit by the school spirit bug. I did become fluent in sarcasm during the four years of high school and did my share of partying.

That should count for something.

“Did you burn your hand?” I ask, pulling away.

Most people put decorations of fruit in their kitchen, or bright, cheery colors—not my mom. The wallpaper is white with tiny pink roses for the print. The appliances and furniture are white and the curtains that grace the windows are pale pink. It even smells like roses in the room; over the scent of burnt bird, that is. It's...I don't know...it reminds me of movies with insane old people in them that seem really nice, but actually eat children.

“Yeah.” He lifts his hand to show the blotch of red on the back of it. “I think I'll live, but there is no saving the chicken.”

I glance at the oven timer. “There are two hours left on that thing.”

“I brought pizzas.”

With a smile curving my lips, I lightly pat his cheek. “Good boy.”

“Hate to interrupt, but...did you know there are dead animals on the walls of your living room?” Blake casually asks, leaning against the wall near the doorway.

“What are you doing here?” Graham demands.

“Kennedy invited me.”

A dark look flashes across Graham's features as he turns to me. “What the hell?”

Taking a deep breath, I move to stand between the brothers, preparing myself for the speech I am about to give. Obviously it will be a good one. “So here's the thing—you two are brothers. Things happened when you were kids that you had no control over, by no fault of either of you, and you haven't seen each other for a long time, but...Blake's here now. Obviously there was a reason for you wanting to come here, Blake, and Graham, there was a reason you agreed to it.”

“You orchestrated us both being here, at your parents' house of all places, so we could hash things out?” His voice is incredulous, as is the look my roommate sends my way.

“Yeah, so?”

“You are such a deviant,” Blake murmurs.

“I'll act as mediator,” I say, ignoring the younger Malone.

“You really want to do this now? Here?” Graham crosses his arms. “Do you honestly think this is the best place for us to talk about our feelings?”

Roomies
Roomies Page 36



“I hate that word. It makes me feel unclean,” his brother adds.

“Foul even,” Graham murmurs.

“Feelings is a loathsome word.”

“It should be removed from the dictionary.”

I look between the two of them, noting the similar way they stand and their perturbed expressions that match so well. “See? You can get along. You just agreed with each other.”

“Yeah. About you,” Graham points out.

“The one thing we have in common.”

His expression turning stormy, Graham suddenly asks in a not so nice tone of voice, “How's your arm?”

“About as well as your busted lip, I imagine.”

“Whoa.” I raise my hands and wave them around. “Stop. Stop with the snippy comments.” I rub my forehead, feeling a headache approaching. “Okay, this is what we're going to do...we're going to make the pizzas, find that stupid remote control for my dad, and then we're going to sit in the backyard and talk. No one leaves until something positive happens.”

“Something positive would be us not killing each other,” Blake informs me.

“Therefore we're already being positive,” Graham states.

“Yeah. None of this is really necessary.”

“Fine. How's this? If you two don't figure out a way to get past whatever is up both of your asses, I won't be talking to either one of you.”

“I love it when you talk dirty.” Graham unwraps a frozen pizza and carefully places it on an oven rack. “You'd miss me too much and you know it.” A moment later there is a second pizza baking beside the first.

He is so right, but it doesn't matter. “I will somehow find a way *****rvive,” I tell him.

Blake snorts.

“You'd play sappy love songs and woefully stare at a picture of me,” he continues.

Maybe. “I'd eat gobs of doughnuts and curse you.”

He laughs, reaching out to tug on my ponytail. “How is that different from any other time I irritate you?”

“I'm going to find the remote. I'll be back.” My lips are twitching with the need to smile and I lose the battle as I walk past Blake. He watches me with a thoughtful look on his face, his gaze shifting to his brother as I leave the kitchen.

“Such nice men. That Blake boy is as sweet as Graham,” my mom tells me. She is, and I am in no way exaggerating, knitting something that looks like a pink bra.

“Yeah. That's exactly what I think. Really sweet guys, both of them.” I plop down on the opposite end of the couch from my dad and feel something dig into my behind. “Really, Dad?” I fish the remote control out and toss it toward him.

“What are you making?” I ask my mom.

“It's a scarf.” She proudly holds it up for my perusal, her pink-cheeked face happy.

He points the magical contraption at the television. “That remote wasn't there a few days ago.”

“You're right. It was probably in your hand.”

He grunts, scratching the back of his head. “Which one is your boyfriend?”

My face catches fire. “Um...neither?”

“Then why is your face so red?”

“Is the chicken almost done?” my mom asks, humming a tune that sounds disturbingly like 'The Wheels on the Bus'.

“Oh yeah. It's good and done,” I comment. “Who's the scarf for?” I really hope it isn't me.

“Your grandpa Jack.”

I decide to point out the obvious. “It's pink.”

She shrugs. “He said he didn't care what color it was as long as it kept him warm on the lawnmower. And pink is my favorite color.”

Okay, so I should probably mention something—other than the obvious fact that my parents are loopy. My mother's dad can't drive. It isn't that he can't drive, but, well, he's been pulled over so many times for driving while intoxicated that he had his license taken away—indefinitely. Maybe forever. I'm not really sure how that all works. I mean, if you get, like, eighty tickets, is there any hope of ever legally driving again? He drives a lawnmower around town year-round, and it gets cold during the winter, but I guess the pink bra-like scarf is going to take care of that now.

Hooray.

“Graham brought pizzas over. I don't understand how that boy can eat so much.”

“Apparently he wants to live,” my dad mumbles, replacing his empty beer can for a full one from the pack sitting on the floor beside the couch.

“He didn't want to imposition you, Mom,” I hurriedly interject, giving my dad a look.

“Such a nice boy. I'm glad you two are friends.”

“Yep. We're the best of buds.”

“Want to go fishing this weekend?” my dad asks.

“No.”

“Maybe Graham wants to go.”

“I don't think he does.”

“Maybe you could ask him.”

“Graham!” I shout.

He comes sprinting from the kitchen, a worried look on his face. “What's wrong?”

“Want to go fishing with my dad this weekend?”

He gives me an odd look, turning to my dad. “Sure. Saturday good?”

“Pick me up at seven.”

“All right.” He returns his gaze to me. Probably because I am exceptional to look at. “Are you going?”

“No.”

“She's being a girl. Used to go fishing with me.”

I scowl and cross my arms. “Because you made me. And I am a girl.”

“You had fun. Took you all the time during the summer up until you were fourteen and got strange ideas about makeup and clothes.” My dad looks at Graham. “Ask your brother if he wants to go.”

This perks me up. “That is a great idea.” Nothing like the brothers spending quality time with one another and possibly being mutually annoyed by my father—everyone needs to bask in the awesomeness that is Jim Somers at least once in their lifetime. I ignore the glare Graham sends my way and hop to my feet, brushing against him as I enter the kitchen.

Blake is looking out the windowed door that leads to the backyard. “I take it I'm going fishing.”

“Are you opposed to it?”

He glances over his shoulder at me, a wry grin on his face. “I can handle it. I haven't been fishing since I was ten. Who knows, it might even be fun.” He pauses. “You're right, you know.”

“Duh.” I wait a beat. “What am I right about?”

Turning around to face me, he tells me, “About Graham and me. I did come here to get to know him better before I leave the country. This is our last chance at being brothers. I shouldn't let anything get in the way of that.”

“Right.”

His grin deepens. “But it would be so much fun to let it.”

I grab oven mitts and finesse the pizzas out of the oven, ignoring that comment and the way my pulse careened from it. “Are you going to the golf course thing next weekend?”

“Are you asking me out?”

Snorting, I reply, “You so wish.”

“But you'll be there?”

“Yes.” I hand the pizza cutter to Blake. “I always cut myself.”

One dark eyebrow lifted, he begins slicing the pizzas. “How do you manage to do that with a pizza cutter of all things?”

I think about it for a minute, watching his arm muscles bunch and release as he cuts away. “You know, I'm really not sure. I'm just gifted that way.”

“Did you find your dad's remote?”

'It was up my ass' probably isn't the best thing to say here, so I just nod.

He sets the pizza cutter down and faces me, his stormy eyes drilling into mine. “I know you're attracted to me.”

Roomies
Roomies Page 37



I blink. That's all I am able to do. He did not just say that—only he did.

“I can tell,” he goes on. “You watch me. A lot. You wouldn't watch me so much if you weren't interested.”

Again no words form. When I open my mouth to deny what he has just said, a squeak leaves me. Then I start to stutter. “That...you...that...”

“If you're so in love with my brother, why are you drooling over me? And trust me, you are.”

“I never...” I inhale slowly, deeply, and begin again. “I never said I was in love with your brother,” I hiss, eyeing the doorway to the living room. “And you're good-looking. Sorry for noticing.”

I move to leave, but his strong hands catch me around the waist and pull me back. Lean, rough fingers slide up the sides of my waist and then fall away. It was the barest of touches and yet it caused flames to ignite inside me.

I whip around to glare at him. “What are you doing?”

He looks much too calm as he crosses his arms. “Just proving a point.”

Graham, of course, chooses this moment to reappear. His gaze shifts from his brother to me. “What's going on?”

“I had to save Kennedy from cutting herself. She thanked me with tongue.”

My mouth drops open, his words making common sense things like speaking and moving impossible, but Graham doesn't seem to have the same problem. “You asshole,” he growls, striding for his brother.

Blake straightens, a satisfied smirk on his mouth. He catches my eye and his grin deepens. “It's just too easy.”

Exasperation replaces the shock of seconds ago. I grab Graham's arm. At first he resists, but after a moment, stops trying to get to his brother. “Why must you two turn into idiots every time we're all within the same vicinity? It's getting old. I mean, it's obvious Blake is just saying things to piss you off and it's obvious you're going to react all crazy each time he does. Why can't you figure this out, Graham? Where's your head?”

Blake opens his mouth, but his brother snarls, “Don't even think about saying anything,” and he closes it back up. His chest expanding with a deep breath, Graham says to me, “You're right. I don't know why I'm getting so worked up about things lately.”

“I do,” is his brother’s smug reply.

I watch my roommate glare a million wordless threats at his brother before he says stiffly, “I think I'll pass on the brotherly bonding and pizza. I'll see you back at the apartment.”

He leaves the room, and after glancing my way, Blake says, “I'll catch a ride with him. And I can't wait for you to see me again.”

“He won't give you a ride.”

“I think he will.” Striding confidently from the room, he poofs into nothingness like he was never here.

I look to the pizza, thinking, Why am I always left with food? And then I eat it. Because, I mean, it looks sad sitting on the counter all uneaten and such, and yummy, and you shouldn't waste food.

I GET OUT of the shower and dress in pale purple pajama pants and a lime green top, low playing music reaching me through the thin bathroom door. Graham wanted to keep our bathroom gender friendly, so it's shaded in tans and creams. I brush my hair, trying to pick out the tune. Graham loves music and his tastes are diverse; ranging from country to alternative to rock and almost anything else. Even so, he has never liked a song I didn't like as well. Clearly he has phenomenal taste in music.

My hand pauses and a smile curves my lips. It sounds like 'Wonderful Tonight' by Eric Clapton.

Upon opening the bathroom door, cool air passes over me and I follow the sound of the melody. I stop just inside the living room. Graham stands in the middle of the room, looking down with a frown on his face. His shoulders are set with an edge of weariness. I want to hug him and erase whatever is troubling him.

As I study him, he glances up, some of the darkness clearing from his eyes. The faintest of smiles touches his lips. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

Silently he holds a hand out to me and I don't even hesitate in going to him. He clasps my left hand within his calloused right, the other hand resting on my waist. I slide my hand to his shoulder and feel it tense beneath my palm. He steps forward as I go back, we move to the side in accordance, and then move the opposite way; moving so smoothly in sync, the dance seems graceful. This isn't ballroom dancing, but it isn't exactly shuffling either.

At the 'blond' reference in the song, he smiles down at me. At the 'beautiful lady' part, he squeezes my hand. Thoughts really aren't forming in my head, but there is this feeling of surreal euphoria. My chest is tight with emotion as his eyes steadily gaze into mine. They do not falter from mine once, and in a way, our locked eyes remind me of our friendship. Unwavering, without doubt, and whole. Well, it used to be anyway.

This is the first time we've danced. I mean, we've goofed around dancing, but this is the first time we've slow danced. This is big to me. Like, having a hard time breathing and accepting this as real, big. I worry I will ruin whatever is happening between us if I talk, so I don't. I move, and I watch, and I feel. The song is over much too quickly and we go still, waiting a beat before releasing one another and stepping away.

Graham smiles. “I feel wonderful tonight.”

“Is it because you're drinking?”

The smile widens and touches his eyes. “No. I'm not drinking.”

“Really? 'Cause you were swaying back and forth during our really long hug.”

“That's called dancing.”

I **** my head. “Are you sure?”

He winks at me before turning toward the kitchen. “Popcorn and hot chocolate?”

“And 'Golden Girls'!” I call after him.

Graham halts, turning to give me a look. “Just this one time.”

“Times a million.”

Shaking his head, he continues into the kitchen and I settle into the couch to watch some awesomesauce old chicks rule from the television screen. As I'm flipping through the channels with the remote, something niggles at me. I frown when I realize what it is. Graham hasn't called me Ken in days, and not just that, but every time he does refer to me by any part of my name, it is the full three syllables. I wonder why?

I get up to help him. Or rather, ogle him and hand him a utensil upon request. The scent of melted butter and popping corn seeds greets me upon entering the kitchen—as does his smoking hot body and gorgeous face. Graham broke out our air popper tonight. I guess 'cause it's healthy or something. It's strange, and probably wrong, how I think of everything as 'ours' and 'we' because, really, most of the stuff here is his, but that's not the only reason. It's more because one day everything I consider 'ours' and warrants a 'we' reference may someday be someone else's to have instead of me—just like Graham.

It makes me sad. I hate being sad. You know what else I hate? Glass ketchup bottles. Those stinking commercials act like it's a glorious occasion to have to bang the heck out of the bottom of one to get a drop of ketchup, but I really just find it a waste of precious seconds better spent on eating.

A smile is sent my way as he heats up milk for the cocoa. I stand beside him, wanting any excuse to be close to him. Our arms are touching and he doesn't move away—I don't either. In fact, there is stillness to him as though he is savoring my nearness. Ridiculous, I know. I can smell his clean scent through the popcorn and chocolate aroma of the room. I have a compulsion to lower my face the few inches it will take for it to reach his chest, but I quickly shove the impulse aside.

Roomies
Roomies Page 38



I hop onto the counter with my knees next to his arm. Something sweet and gooey flows through me—possibly love, possibly delusion. I swing my legs, asking, “What did Blake want to talk to you about?”

He spoons real cocoa and sugar into the dark blue mugs, not looking at me as he says, “Something I don't want to talk to you about.”

My chest stings—or maybe that's my pride. “Why not?”

Mouth pulled down as he glances at me, he stirs the liquid around with a spoon. He does the same to the other cup and sets the spoon in the sink before answering. “Because it was stupid.”

“If it was stupid, then why can't you just tell me?”

“Kennedy—drop it.”

“Why do you keep calling me Kennedy?”

“It's your name.”

I hop down from the counter and pick up one of the mugs. It warms my fingers and I blow on it before taking a sip. I think I could love him for his cocoa making skills alone. It's sugary, chocolaty perfection that is smooth on the tongue and throat as it goes down.

“I realize that,” I tell him. “But you always call me Ken.”

“I thought that annoyed you.” He won't look at me, which is odd.

“Did that ever stop you before?” Too many seconds go by, and as I am an impatient person, I continue. “So? Why haven't you lately?”

“Is this a big deal?” His eyes finally meet mine and there is a serious cast to them I don't understand.

“Well, I think it sanctions proper inspection.” Ooooh, big, sophisticated words. I mentally pat myself on the back.

Half his mouth lifts and lowers, humor lightening his eyes before disappearing. “It just...” He trails off, drumming his fingertips on the countertop.

I reach out and place my hand over his, halting his jittery movement. As I look at his profile he looks at our hands; mine smaller and paler than his, but steadier and calmer. “It just what?”

When he raises his head, my pulse skips. “It doesn't fit anymore.”

Not knowing what to think of that response, I ask the next one of two logical questions: “Since when?”

“I don't know. It just doesn't.”

Most important question: “Why?”

Finally he looks at me full on. I want to say his features are stiff with grimness, but I don't know if that is what it is. Regret would be the correct term, I believe. He looks like he lost something and he isn't sure how it happened. “I think I was seeing you one way when I should have been seeing you another. But it was all I knew, all I expected, and I just couldn't look beyond that.”

“You're being extremely vague.”

His lips thin. “Blake showing up has changed everything, even you. Or maybe it hasn't. Maybe I'm the one who's changed. I don't know.” His eyes lift to mine. “But now I feel like it's too late.”

“It is sort of late. Work and everything tomorrow. You know,” I agree, purposely being obtuse.

It's like I never even spoke. He stares at me; studying, thinking. “Do you know much I care about you?”

I shift my stance, my body heating up and my brain malfunctioning at the emotion and conviction in his voice. “Sure. Best friends forever.” I attempt a smile as I show him my crossed fingers, but it doesn't work. My lips are in rebellion because I don't want to smile.

As he continues to watch me, it’s as though he is looking into me—into my heart and head—and he knows everything. He knows my secrets. He knows I love him, and not just as a friend, but as the man I could see myself growing old with—though the growing old part is a minor setback. He knows he means so much—too much—to me. It is all there in his eyes.

“Is that what you want?” he finally asks.

“What?”

“Us being friends. You're okay with that?”

I laugh, but it sounds choked. “Yeah. Of course. I'm glad we're friends.”

The space between us closes and warms. “You see, the thing is, Blake and I talked.”

“Right,” I say breathlessly, staring at his long-lashed eyes. I clear my throat and stand straighter. “You mentioned that about two minutes ago.”

“We came to an agreement.”

“Agreements are good.”

He takes another step toward me and only inches of nothingness separate us now. Lowering his head, the weight of his gaze brands me. “Have you ever thought about us being more than friends?”

My mouth opens and closes but no sound comes out. Why did he just ask me that? How does he know about that? Did Blake tell him his stupid assumptions about me that are completely true, but illegitimate as I will never verify them as fact? That asshat! Thoughts in disarray, heart pounding like it will stop altogether any moment, I place a hand to my head and try to think. Then I realize I never answered him. So I do. Quite loudly.

“Of course not!” My voice is shrill as I stumble back to put more distance between us. Please don't say Blake told you I do. Oh, and I am so killing Blake if he did. It isn't even up for debate.

Blake = gone.

His features become shuttered as he wordlessly turns from me. With his back to me, he says, “Right. Silly question. You know, I'm kind of tired. I think I'll call it a night. See you in the morning.”

Brows furrowed, I watch the doorway he just walked through, wondering what I missed, or am missing, or continue to miss. A glance at the microwave clock shows me it isn't even nine yet. He usually stays up past ten. He is upset and I don't understand why. But I know who probably does.

I dump the hot cocoa down the sink and toss the popcorn out, wash the dishes, wipe the countertop, and grab the keys from my purse in the bedroom. I pause outside Graham's closed door, unconsciously pulled to it—to him. But there is no sound, no light from under the door, and I know he wants to be alone. So I go.

TO SAY BLAKE is surprised to see me may not accurately sum up his reaction. “What the hell?” he mutters, bleary-eyed with his hair all ***ily disheveled.

“I know, right? I ask myself the same thing every day. Were you sleeping?”

“No. I was reading.”

I blink at him.

“I know how to read,” he states dryly.

“Was it smut?”

“Dean Koontz.”

“That's too bad. I was so close to respecting you. Can I come in?”

“Will you leave if I say no?”

“Nope,” I cheerfully inform him and push past him into the room. I turn in a slow circle, taking in the white walls, hardwood floors, and sparse furniture. The scent of coffee lingers and the room is cast in dim lighting. “Homey.”

He crosses his arms and the fabric of his white t-shirt is pulled tight against his chest. “It's temporary. I don't need a lot.”

“You said this was an efficiency apartment?”

He nods.

“Where's your bed? And bathroom? I was expecting a toilet in the middle of the room. You could do some awesome multitasking if that were the case.” I sigh. “Alas, it isn't.”

“Funny. There's a bathroom—with walls and a door even,” he answers. “The couch pulls out into a bed.”

“Hmm.” I grab the book from the brown couch and see that it is, indeed, Dean Koontz. 'Odd Thomas', even. He's microscopically redeemed himself with his non-reading of smut books. I don't understand the Malone men and their aversion to book erotica.

I decide to cut to the chase. Small talk is not my thing and I want to go home and sleep for as close to a dozen hours as I am allowed. “What did you tell Graham?”

Roomies
Roomies Page 39



“What time?”

“When you caught a ride with him today. I want to know what you told him. Because he told me you two talked and then he also asked me if I'd ever thought of us being more than friends. What did you tell him? Did you tell him your stupid suspicion about me being in love with him?”

“He did not say that,” he moans as he rubs his face. Dropping his hands, he says, “He is such a dweeb around you. Seriously. How can you think you're in love with such a nerd?”

“Are you done? Because I'm supposed to be the center of attention here and you're totally mucking it up.”

Blake snorts, moving to the couch. He stretches out on it with his hands behind his head, his dark eyes never leaving me. “Carry on, Oh Great One.”

I pace the length of the large room. “Did you or did you not tell him how you suspect I have more than roomie feelings for him?”

“I don't suspect.”

I pause to jab a finger in his direction. “Answer the question.”

“No. I didn't.”

I narrow my eyes at him. He looks back, all innocent. “You're telling the truth?”

“I'm a lot of things, but a liar is not one of them. I haven't sunk that low just yet.”

I plop down on the couch beside him, shoving at his legs to make room for me, and stare at the blank screen of the small television. “Then why would he say that? About me and him being more than friends?”

Blake must think it's a rhetorical question because he doesn't respond.

Thoughts form and fade, collide and separate. I turn my head toward him. “Does he want to be more than friends? If you never said anything to him, but he brought it up...or does he just think I want to be more than friends?”

“Is this going to take a while?”

I study the television screen again. Unfortunately, I find no answers in the blackness of it. “I don't understand. What did you two talk about?”

Head dropping against the back of the couch, he says, “We decided not to fight over you anymore.”

“Oh.” Is that a hint of dejection in my tone?

He must notice it because he gives me a look. “Upset about that?”

“No. I'm glad. Of course I'm glad. That's good. You guys were being idiots for nothing. I mean, you and I...and Graham and I...” Laughter starts in my throat and falls away before it really makes a sound.

“We decided it would be best to cease the mutual antagonism where you're concerned. Or at least, I did. Graham just scoffed at me and called me a moron. Only it looks like he changed his mind after going home. So. Tell me. Has the courtship begun?”

A long, faint noise begins from somewhere in the room. I try to determine what it could be. A hum? No, it’s like keening, but not quite that dramatic. Then I realize it's me, trying to breathe.

“I'll take that as a yes. What did he do? Draw you a picture with his toes? No, wait. His Graham superhuman powers wouldn't do something so ordinary. Let me guess. No, no. Don't talk.” He smashes a finger against my lips, his expression thoughtful. “He picked up his bed with one finger and spun it around like a basketball. No? How about—”

I shove his finger away. “How about you shut up for once? What are you talking about?”

“Graham and his epicness.”

“No. I mean about your discussion.”

His eyes get a shifty look in them. “For the record, I would like it noted that I am the one being honest and upfront about this, therefore, it should add points to my score card.”

I cross my arms. Score card? As if. I can't even keep track of the points on my driver's license.

“I said instead of us fighting about you, we should be cordial about it and let you decide who you'd rather be with. He said it was a stupid idea and acted like he wanted no part of it, said that it wasn't a competition and he wasn't participating. Clearly he lied.”

“Graham doesn't lie,” I feel the need to point out. “And why would he even talk about something like that with you?”

“I know you're blond, but...”

“Oh, you did not just say that!” I grab his book and whack his arm with it.

“Ow! Hey! That's the library's book!” He yanks it out of my hand, drops it to the floor, and gives it a kick across the room.

“Way to be gentle with the library book.”

He sits up. “Graham's got feelings for you. Either he doesn't realize what they are, or he's in denial, but they are there. You two are dismally obtuse about each other. And me, well, I'm the guy with no hang-ups about dating you. I'm the guy you secretly fantasize about.” He grins and my stomach flutters. “I would totally go for me, if I were you.”

“Uh-huh. You're also the guy leaving soon. You're the guy who just wants a good time. You're the guy who's supposed to be hanging out with his brother and is instead worried about some chick.”

“I'm just a man. I can only do so much.” He rubs his lower lip. “You know, if you want my advice—”

“I really don't.”

“I would use me to make Graham jealous.”

“No.” Not that I ever had the same thought on my own. Of course not. Nope. I look away from him in case he sees the guilt on my face.

“You're right. You'd probably enjoy the attention too much.”

“What would you get out of that?”

“Kissing and fondling?” he asks hopefully.

“I'm leaving now. Graham is right—that was a stupid idea.” I head for the door.

“I'll take you to the fair Friday night.”

“Deal,” I respond without even pausing.

It isn't until I am outside, staring into the darkness of night, that what I just agreed to hits me. What was I thinking? I walk down the stairs, remembering all the things I was thinking. I was thinking of the Ferris wheel and the cotton candy and the live bands. I was thinking about the tractor pulls. I was thinking about the games and the bright lights and the excited atmosphere. I was thinking about how my dad and mom used to take me to the Grant Country Fair every summer and it was the highlight of the whole year.

It was all too easy.

I SWEEP MY hand through water hot enough to have a layer of steam floating up from it and make my skin turn a nice shade of red. The sound of slicing water is soothing to me and I focus on that. I lift a handful of honey scented bubbles to my face and blow them away, patting the residual soapy concoction on the top of my head. I need this listless nothingness to unwind—and the bottle of wine sitting on the ledge of the bathtub. It's red and the perfect blend of sweet and tart. Cranberry, the favorite of all my favorites.

Today was a killer at work. I'm going to get fired if I continue to have verbal strife with the patients. But, I mean, why would someone request that their toenails be painted at a podiatrist's? Hot pink, even. We are not a salon. When I told the guy that, he got really irate and left. Dr. Olman stared at me for about a second and then wordlessly went to his office, quietly closing the door behind him. I think he was pretending he didn't just witness that—which part, I am still not sure.

I got home before Graham and immediately overtook the bathroom, forfeiting my Wednesday night walk even. Desperate times call for baths and wine. I don't know how long I've been soaking, but long enough that my skin is getting wrinkled and I'm getting a good idea of what I'll look like when I'm old—it is not pleasant.

There's been this strange tension between Graham and me since our 'friend' chat that I really don't like, but I also don't know how to get rid of it. My usual comments don't seem appropriate and whenever he looks at me, my brain empties out. Poof—all words, thoughts, anything intellectual at all, is gone. I keep thinking about what he said about us being friends, about what Blake said about us being more than friends, and how I feel about it all.