The Temporary Roomie by Sarah Adams
My phone is balanced between my ear and my shoulder, laundry basket perched against my hip. My eyes are glued to the TV, and I absolutely cannot believe Grandaddy is going to win this bet. Again.
“I told you he was going to send Brandy home this week.” He’s so smug when he’s right. No humility with this one.
I blink at the screen, not willing to give up hope just yet. “No way! There’s absolutely no way. They went to the beach of devotion together last week! And he showed her the childhood photo that sparked all the bullying he endured! No way would he send her home after that.”
Grandaddy scoffs, and I know he’s sitting in his brown and yellow plaid recliner, feet up, decaf coffee in hand. This is our Sunday night tradition: Love Experiment, laundry, and coffee. We make a bet at the beginning of the week on who will be sent home the following Sunday, and loser has to buy the winner a pack of Oreo cookies. So far, I owe him three packs when I next see him.
“I have more chemistry with my mailman than Tray has with Brandy. You should have seen the sparkle in old Bill’s eyes when I give him a poundcake at Christmas. Brandy should have made Tray a poundcake.”
The producers are really dragging out this elimination. After this week, there are only two left until Tray will have to choose the love of his life—aka the woman he’ll break up with a week after the show, but I don’t care. No one does. We’re here for the drama and the kissing.
A shadow swoops by in my peripheral. It’s Drew carrying a laundry basket full of clothes toward the laundry room. Wait! No! I need to do laundry. I have work tomorrow and not a single pair of clean underwear. I’m not even exaggerating. I wear everything I own before I dare darken the doorway of the laundry room.
“Halt, you!” I yell, and Grandaddy acts dramatic about the decibel of my voice.
Drew freezes in his black sweatpants and hoodie and turns to me. Our laundry baskets stick their tongues out at each other. Mine is a bright yellow. His, a drab grey. “What?”
“Are you going to do laundry right now?”
“No, I just like to carry my laundry around because it’s fun,” he says with a serious face.
I will not crack a smile. WILL NOT!
“They’re about to call it!” Grandaddy says in my ear. “It’s about to rain Oreos.”
“Shut it.”
Drew lifts an obnoxious brow. “You’re the one who asked.”
“No, not you!” I peel my eyes from Drew because Grandaddy is chanting “Bye-bye Brandy” and I need to see it for myself.
When I turn away, Drew disappears down the hallway. Ah, no! He’s getting away. I need that washer! “Andrew, wait! I need the washing machine!”
“Ow. Quit yelling in my ear,” Grandaddy harrumphs.
Drew calls out, “You snooze, you lose, Oscar.”
I growl and bounce impatiently, mumbling under my breath how much I hate Drew.
“So living together is going well?” Grandaddy asks, and I can see a knowing smile on his mouth through the phone.
“It’s torture. I want to pinch him every second of the day.”
“Now, see, that’s exactly why Tray will send Brandy home. Neither one of them wants to pinch the other.”
This again? He’s determined to think there’s something between me and Drew. And he’s right, there is something: animosity.
“I don’t think that’s the way love works.”
“Oh yes it is. If your granny was still alive, she’d tell you. If a partner doesn’t make you want to blow steam out your nostrils, you better start kicking up a storm of something, or your passion is gonna shrivel up faster than a pickle on a sidewalk in summer.”
I roll my eyes. Senile old man. Doesn’t know anything. Drew and I don’t have chemistry. I don’t even think he’s hot anymore. I made it official this morning with a cleaning ritual. I was going to light sage and wave it around the room, but I don’t have any and don’t even pretend to know where to get those little wands people use, so I just spritzed a liberal amount of my body spray around instead. Boom, cleansed.
The sound of water rushing in the laundry room pulls my attention away from the TV. That jerk is stealing the washer right out from underneath me, and this episode is taking ages to finish. One of the contestants started crying before Tray could even announce the woman that has to go home, so now he’s having a sidebar with Blondie trying to console her. It’s so stupid. I love it.
And now I’m angry at Drew for making me miss it.
“UGH! Grandaddy, text me who wins. I have an annoying roommate to murder.”
I hang up quickly and throw my phone onto the couch. In the laundry room, I find Drew wearing a quiet smirk and dropping a scoop of detergent into the drum of the washer. “STOP! I NEED THAT WASHER!”
“Tough. I do too.”
I set down my basket and cross my arms. “What’s so important that you need washed?”
“None of your business.”
I give a patronizing smile. “Aw, pooped your pants again? Don’t worry, you’ll grow out of it one of these days.”
His dark blue eyes slice over to me, and he squints a fake smile. “Run on back to your ice castle, Jessica. You can do laundry tomorrow.”
“Oh really? Tell that to my butt that’s gonna have to go commando in the morning if you don’t let me do laundry tonight!” I immediately regret saying that.
Drew’s eyes drop to my lower half, and he smirks before turning back toward the machine. Now he’s really not going to let me do laundry.
“Should have thought about that sooner. Last night while you were up redecorating my home would have been a perfect time.”
I can’t hide my grin. It did bother him. This is my punishment—forced commando. It was worth it. I knew Drew was particular about things, and mixing all of my stuff in with his has upset his well-being. All day I’ve watched him walk from room to room and cringe. His color scheme before was grey, white, and black. Now it’s an array of rainbow pastels, fuzzy materials, and a messy pile of shoes he has re-organized more than once already. I go behind him and scatter them out a little just to make his hair stand on end. Literally. I’ve learned when Drew is stressed, he rakes his hands straight back through his hair, making it all stick up at crazy angles. He forgets to smooth it back down half the time, but I refuse to find it adorable.
“That washer is huge—just let me put my clothes in with yours.” I try to hip-check him out of the way, but he won’t budge. He’s a tree trunk with deep roots. I try to lift my laundry basket to dump it inside, but he outstretches his arm so it’s anchoring my basket down. The top of his bicep presses against my chest, and my shoulder digs into his armpit. He smells good.
“No.”
“Why?” I’m struggling.
“Because that’s just not how it works. I wash my scrubs separate from everything else. All those bright pinks you have will bleed onto them.” It doesn’t surprise me at all that Drew is particular about his laundry.
We’re body against body. I’d like to think we’re both working hard to stand our ground against the other, but I know if I were to check the replay cameras, I would see myself red-faced with puffed-up cheeks trying to maneuver him out of the way, and he would be leisurely eating a sandwich or something.
“Not if we wash them on cold.” My voice is a grunt, and it makes him chuckle deep in his chest.
His face angles down to me, lips tilting. “Are you even trying right now?”
I want to reach up and pluck every one of those beautiful eyelashes out of his lids. He doesn’t deserve them. “No, because I don’t want to injure you with my super strength.”
“I’ll live. Give me your best shot. Really put your back into it.”
“I hate you.”
“I have no idea how I’ll sleep tonight.” He uses one arm to keep me away from the washer and bends down to retrieve his scrubs then tosses them inside. In the middle of that movement, the hem of his hoodie rises up three inches, revealing a sliver of taut, smooth, tan skin, along with the waistband of his black Calvin Klein underwear. I don’t realize until he shuts the lid to the washer that I’ve stopped fighting and am a useless pile of bones. My mouth is slightly open, and I think my tongue was hanging out. If just that tiny peek at what’s living under Drew’s clothes made me short-circuit so completely, I can’t imagine what seeing the whole thing will do to me.
Wait. What?No. There will be no seeing Drew’s body. NONE. DON’T EVEN WANT TO! Bleh.
Thoroughly freaked out by that train of thought, I clear my throat and spin away, storming toward my room. Or the freezer so I can dunk my head into the ice tray. Drew’s chuckling lingers in the air behind me, and I decide to let him think he’s won. Victory is always sweeter when your opponent underestimates you.
Ten minutes later, I hear the door to Drew’s bedroom shut. Feeling confident that the ogre has retreated into his cave for the night, I walk on tiptoes all the way back down the stairs, yellow laundry basket in tow. I’m a dirty little sneak all the way into the laundry room, and when I open the lid of the washing machine, I smile down into the murky water then dump all my undies inside to mingle with Drew’s scrubs. I will not go commando tomorrow, and Drew will not win this match tonight.
Unfortunately, though, when I read my text message from my grandfather, I’m informed that he did win.
Grandaddy: Four packages of Oreos. I win. Tray needs a pincher.
* * *
In the morning, I wait until I see Drew drive off in his car before I walk downstairs. I personally moved the laundry over from the washer to the dryer before bed because I didn’t trust Drew to not let my undies sit and mildew. But when I open the dryer, it’s empty. Drew’s clothes are missing, and so are mine. Misplaced hope pushes into my heart and I think maybe he folded my laundry for me, or at least put them in the living room.
One thorough sweep of the house later, I realize I might never see those panties again. That freak hid my underwear!! All of them! Is this life’s way of punishing me for wearing every scrap of my clothes before washing them? Wonderful. Looks like I get to go underwear-less today.
Just before I leave the house for work, I get a text.
Sexy Drew: Be careful outside today, Commander. It’s a little breezy.
Apparently, that jerk also stole my phone, unblocked his number, and gave himself a new contact name.
