The Temporary Roomie by Sarah Adams
It’s moving day. Last night Drew and I came to the agreement that I’d be his fake girlfriend in exchange for staying rent-free at his house until mine is finished. It feels sudden to be moving out the next day, but I don’t have much of a choice. All last week they worked on fixing the pipe that burst and getting the water turned back on, but starting Monday, they will begin phase two of construction, which is remediating the mold. Step three will be replacing any parts of the house where the wood has rotted away, and apparently the damage is extensive. So, this weekend was the last time I could get in this house to move my things out before the big construction begins.
I came home after dinner at Lucy’s and packed up pretty much my whole house (thankfully she still had all her boxes from moving to Cooper’s house). I told Lucy I was just going to pack a few things so she didn’t need to come too, but then I ended up staying awake all night and packing the entire thing since this insomnia is apparently going to keep me from ever sleeping again.
Lucy comes over early in the morning, thinking she will help me box up my room before the guys get here to move it out, but there is nothing left for her to do. I’ve never seen anyone so pouty about being relieved of their packing duty before—pouty and suspicious.
“You’re bringing all of this to Drew’s house?” Lucy’s eyes trail over the boxes littered around my bedroom. There’s more—lots more—in the living room, bathroom, and kitchen too. Drew is going to flip when he sees all of this, and the joy that brings to my heart will sustain me for the rest of the year.
“Yeah. Why not?” Despite my effort, my devious smile is starting to show. I wish I were wearing a cape so I could pull the hood up and let it shadow my face.
“It’s just…maybe a lot for three weeks. I thought you’d only pack a few boxes.”
I shrug casually, but inside I’m cackling like a demented criminal. Playing the long game gives me life. “It just looks like a lot because all I had were the big boxes you gave me. They’re not totally full.”
“Oh okay, sure.” She’s not convinced, because she’s not stupid. She tries to pick up one of the boxes and can’t because that sucker is loaded down. She gives it one more attempt but looks like she’s trying to lift Thor’s hammer. It’s not budging. Lucy squints at the boxes, trying to figure out my secret plan. Finally, she shakes her head slowly, a quiet grin on her lips, and then she looks at me. My scheme is discovered. She knows I’m going to torture Drew with my belongings. All of my belongings.
I raise my eyebrows, daring her to call me out and refuse to aid me in my plans to provoke the mental deterioration of her big brother. Surprisingly, she doesn’t. In fact, I think she’s a little excited to see how this all plays out. Her blue eyes—almost the same shade as Drew’s, but his are deeper, darker, and not nearly as innocent—sparkle with a conspiring glint. “You packed all of your throw blankets, right? You don’t want to get cold over there.”
I grin. “And the matching pillows.” Lucy and I both start laughing like two people who just got away with replacing all the diamonds at Tiffany’s with rock candy. The doorbell rings, and my brain translates it as the first bell of a boxing match. It’s on, Drew.
“Hello?” Cooper’s voice cracks through the air first—a warning shot. “We’re here.”
“In here!” An angry, twirling flutter whirls around in my belly at knowing Drew is in my house. He’s somewhere on the other side of that wall and has no idea the plans I have for him. I pull my cape hood down a little lower. Villainy brews in my chest.
Footsteps are in the hallway now. I hear Cooper’s laugh first and then turn just in time to see Drew’s eyes sweep over my room. He’s wearing black athletic shorts today—the color of his heart—and a light hoodie, looking like maybe he just got done at the gym. His eyes sweep up and down every box tower and suitcase in sight. They skitter across my feet and roll over my stripped-down mattress. They perform a thorough investigation, and almost as if he can sense my need for him to look at me, he avoids my eyes. It’s a miniature form of torture, though I don’t know why. I want to stomp over to him, plant my hands on either side of his scruffy jaw, and yank his gaze down. ME. Look here, you!
“No” is all he says.
So polite as always.
Now, his eyes slither like a snake across my floor, creating a path through the maze of boxes and then slowly, slowly up my body until his gaze locks with mine. A heavy breath is expelled from my lungs. You. I see you.
“What do you mean ‘no’?”
Cooper walks over to Lucy and wraps his arm around her waist, leaning down to kiss her temple. “Do you think there’s going to be blood?”
Lucy lightly elbows him in the side. She never encourages this incivility. “Help me start carrying some of these out,” she says with a worried glance between me and Drew, and then she leaves the two of us alone. I want to ask if that’s wise, but I guess we’re going to be living together so we might as well get used to it sooner rather than later.
Drew’s arm rises, forearm flexing angrily as he points a menacing finger at a box. “No.” And then points to another box. “No.” And then repeats this pattern fifteen more times, like he’s shooting imaginary fire bolts at all my boxes. They go up in flames. He stomps through my house, pointing at everything he can find.
I follow along, trying not to dissolve into laughter, because this is turning out exactly like I predicted. He’s my pawn, and he doesn’t even know it. We end in the kitchen on his final, triumphant no.
“You can’t bring all this crap to my house.”
I gasp like I am deeply wounded. “It’s not crap! I need all of this around me to be comfortable.” And to torture you every day that I’m living in your house.
Everyone knows Drew is a minimalistic neat freak. Having all my little trinkets and girly items scattered around is going to wind him up like a knotted ball of yarn.
He is stone-faced as he spins around, whips out a pocketknife like a Boy Scout, and tears into one of my boxes on the counter.
“HEY!” I snap, going to stand beside him as he dips his hand in and retrieves one member of my set of snowman Christmas mugs.
Drew holds Frosty up to my face, carrot nose to human nose. “Explain to me why you need this in August.”
“It has deep sentimental value.” Frosty winks at me.
“Mmhmm.” He’s not having it.
I force myself to hold his bottomless blue gaze and arch a brow. He has at least a foot on me and seems to grow taller during these matches of will. I’m not scared though—not of him physically hurting me, at least.
“Well, Andrew, do you need a fake girlfriend or not?”
I think I see a grin touch the outer corner of his mouth, but I can’t be sure. “Do you need a roof over your head or not, Jessica?” Touché.
“It seems we’re at an impasse.”
“It seems we are, because this is my first weekend off in a very long time, and I don’t intend to spend it running multiple trips between our houses so you can be surrounded by all of your sentimental objects. So, as far as I am concerned, Frosty is staying right where he’s at.”
“No one asked you to help me move, Dr. Stuck-up. By all means, go enjoy your weekend. Throw baby kittens into a lake or slash the neighborhood kids’ bike tires. You know, the things you normally do with your spare time.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“Why not? You already have your pocketknife on you.”
His gaze drops to my stomach. “You shouldn’t be lifting boxes, and if I leave, you’ll try to pick up the slack.”
Self-preservation instincts flood my system, and I flash Drew an angry smile because I HATE feeling reliant on other people for help. “My physical well-being doesn’t concern you, so leave. I’ll be just fine without you.” Better, actually.
He rolls his eyes and scoffs. “Come on. Quit being ridiculous. We both know you need help moving today.” He plops his heavy hand on the top of the box, and it lands with a thud. “So as your official unpaid mover, I say this stays. You can enjoy your sentimental mugs when you move back home in three short weeks.”
I slap my hand on the box like I’m going to tug it toward me, silently saying it will come with me even if I have to strap it on my back. I look down and see Drew’s knuckles whiten as his grip tightens more firmly around the cardboard. It’s denting.
I want to growl. What does he know? Maybe I really do need this box full of cheerful holiday mugs! Maybe I’m dealing with severe anxiety and snowman mugs are the only things that bring relief! I don’t need any of it, of course, but that’s beside the point. HE doesn’t know I don’t need it.
Our gazes lock, and I think we would both stand here all day, searing each other with angry glares, trying to intimidate the other. There’s an unspoken rule in place: first person to remove their hand loses. Grandaddy has told me my greatest strength is my stubbornness and resilience. Of course, he’s also told me it’s my greatest weakness as well. I’m convinced that in this moment, it’s my superpower.
Drew’s lashes fall and rise as he blinks slowly, and staring at him like this, I can see his pupils grow, blanketing the blue until his eyes are mostly black. His mouth slants and I squirm, but not out of intimidation. Apparently, no one has told my unborn baby that winning against Drew is my greatest high in life, because the little thing ruthlessly squashes itself right down onto my bladder. I know without a shadow of a doubt that if I don’t run to the bathroom in one minute tops, things are going to get ugly.
Drew misses nothing where I’m concerned. His gaze slips to my crossed legs and notes how I’m bouncing a little. I don’t want to bounce, but my body has taken matters into its own hands. It’s on autopilot so I don’t pee myself.
His grin tilts, indulgent as dark chocolate buttercream frosting. “Something wrong, Jessica? You need to step away for a minute?”
Never! Absolutely not. I am glued to this box. It is an extension of me now. “No, I’m wonderful. Thank you for asking, Andy.”
I watch suspiciously as his brows crunch together, and he lightly touches the pads of his fingers to his throat. He’s hiked up the sleeves of his hoodie, baring his forearms, and I don’t notice the way his veins wrap around the undersides, twisting like tempting little vines up his arms. I would have to be stupid to pay attention to those things.
“I’m suddenly so thirsty,” he says. “Mind if I get some water?”
I swallow, dread filling me like lead as I see the direction his mind is moving in. “N-no. Go right ahead.”
What a pincushion.
Drew turns on the faucet and, slow as Christmas itself arriving, plucks the snowman mug off the counter and inches it toward the stream of water, other hand still firmly splayed out on the box. He fills the mug up with only a slow, subtle stream of water, looking over his shoulder at me with a false apologetic smile the entire time.
“Gross—I think there’s some dust in this mug. Better pour it out and refill it again.”
I try to focus on anything besides that stream of water. The Sahara Desert. Hot, dry sand. Thanksgiving turkey. Everything that is devoid of moisture. My fingernails bite into the side of the cardboard, and I’m practicing every technique I can think of to not give in to the urge to pee. But OH GOSH, this isn’t working. I’m seriously about to wet myself in this kitchen over a Frosty the Snowman mug set.
Drew can sense my urgency and has zero sympathy for my predicament. He thrives off of it. His powers grow stronger. “Bouncing an awful lot there, Oscar.” I still have no idea why he calls me Oscar, but I know whatever the reason, it’s deeply insulting.
I’m a human pogo stick at this point with how badly I’m bouncing, but I refuse to give in yet. I shake my head in sharp, tight movements. “Nope. Just full of excited energy for move-in day!”
“Oh good. For a second there I thought maybe you had to pee.”
“Nah—I don’t do that anymore.”
He gives a strangled laugh, and for the slightest moment, I’m mesmerized by a genuine smile playing across his mouth. His eyes glow, like when you hold a marble up to the light and the blue intensifies. I like it. I think maybe if he smiled more often—
My train of thought is cut off when that smile drops away and morphs into something devilish again—like he could sense my charitable thoughts and had to immediately remedy the situation. He picks up Frosty with a glare so full of heat I’m afraid that poor ol’ snowman is going to melt.
“Cheers to new roommates.” He presses it to his lips and tips it back, drinking gulp after gulp, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down his throat, making me feel as if all that liquid is somehow magically teleporting into my body and adding to what I’ve already got in here. I have a swimming pool inside me now.
I can’t take it anymore.
“GAH—YOU WIN!” I yell, letting go of the box and scrambling out of the kitchen and toward the bathroom as fast as I can. I pee for no less than two minutes straight, wash my hands, and also try to wash away my shame. It’s still fully intact as I make my way back to the kitchen, dragging my feet like a child headed to eat a big bag of carrots.
I turn the corner to the kitchen and there’s Drew, leaned back against my counter, James Dean raised from the dead. Because he’s wearing athletic shorts, I can see that even his calves are strong. I wish I didn’t know that about him. My eyes then zero in on the item hanging leisurely off of his hand—the empty Frosty mug. He holds it like a bandit from the Wild West would a gun, like he’ll sling it around his finger and tuck it away in a holster.
“Feel better?” I don’t answer, so his smile just grows, and huh, turns out Dr. Stuck-up has dimples. I want to rise up onto my tiptoes and stick my fingers in both of them. “While you were gone, I had a change of heart. I think I do like these mugs after all. Let’s bring ’em.”
I’m disgusted as I watch him drop Frosty back into the box, pick up the whole thing like it only contains a single feather, and then wink at me as he leaves the kitchen. I feel that wink like a sun flare across my skin.
I’m going to have to up my game with this one.
