Roomies by Christina Lauren

twenty-four

Calvin hands me my buzzing phone. “Lulu again.”

I put it facedown on the coffee table and turn back to my laptop. For the first time in ages, I woke up with words in my head, and I’m determined to get them down before they fade back into fog.

He lies behind me on the couch. “Aren’t you going to call her?”

“Not right now.”

I can feel him reading over my shoulder. “What is this?”

“I don’t even know, actually.” I’m so tempted to cover it up, to hide the words by closing my screen because it feels like a bare tree trunk—all naked and vulnerable to the elements. Instead, I pretend my hands are glued to the keyboard. I’ve listened to Calvin stumble through a new run of notes or work out a new composition a hundred times already, and he’s never shy. Why should I be?

“For a book?” he asks. He knows how long this has eluded me, what having that spark of inspiration has to mean.

“No. Maybe? I’m not sure.” I read back through the notes I’ve made, almost tentative, careful not to chase off the spark. I can’t stop thinking about how it felt to roam the city yesterday in search of a talent like his. I can’t stop thinking about how it feels to listen to him and Ramón play together. “I just had this thought in my head, about how we met and where you are now, and how it feels to have heard you in both places.”

His hand runs over my shoulder and into my shirt, resting at the swell above my heart. “I like the look on your face right now. So intense.”

I miss writing. I wrote endless short stories during college and while getting my master’s. I had to write every day or I felt like a clogged drain, full of words. The day I got my degree and turned to face the world as a person no longer under the protective umbrella of school, it seemed like all the ideas dried up.

And that’s been true since I started working at the theater. After talking to Robert and Jeff, I wonder if it’s because I’m surrounded by people who are brilliant in a way I’m not, and it leaves me feeling ordinary by comparison.

But this . . . writing about how it feels to listen to music, to have found him—it almost feels like I’m writing a description of how my organs work together, what keeps me breathing. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this before.

His hand slips lower still, toying with my nipple, and his mouth comes to my neck, warm and biting. “Can I do this while you write?”

I’m still tender from the second round of makeup sex we had only an hour ago, but when his fingertips trap the peak of my breast in a gentle pinch, my whole body hums. “I’m not sure I could focus. It’d be like me putting my mouth on you while you play.”

His laugh is a low vibration against my skin. “We should try that later.”

I turn to capture his mouth in a kiss. “I’m almost done.”

Calvin retreats a little, moving his hand back up and returning his mouth to the back of my neck, and although I worried this distraction would chase away my muse, the words seem stronger, if anything. I remember this feeling—the thrill of being so full of something and having it come out with such clarity. My fingers fly over the keyboard and I ignore the typos for now, ignore the way I see him following my thoughts on the screen, ignore everything.

The creativity is back, and the knowledge that it’s back because I’m happy propels me forward in this positive feedback loop that just keeps sending more and more words from my brain to my fingers.

My phone buzzes again, and Calvin reaches for it, turning off the vibration.

And then it lights up again, and again, ringing. I catch the name Lulu on the screen, and my writing mojo is still flimsy enough that the anxiety over dealing with her punctures a tiny hole in it.

“She’s called ten times already today,” he says. “She called a million times yesterday, too.”

I growl at the sight of the phone lighting up with another voicemail.

“I bet she’s violently hungover even two days later.” He rests his chin on my shoulder. “Do you want me to put your phone in the other room?”

I want to say yes. I want to return to what I was doing, and have him return to peppering kisses along my neck and shoulders, but in truth, the core of the idea is laid out on this page in front of me, and I know that the niggling awareness of Lulu’s panic is going to spread if I don’t call her back.

I’m angry, yes, but I’m not punitive.

I drop my hand onto my phone and pick it up, sighing. “Let me just get this over with.”

The call doesn’t even seem to ring through before she’s answering. “Holllllls. I am an asshole.”

“You are.”

“Dude. I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry.”

The thing is, I know she’s genuinely mortified about her behavior the other night. Lulu is her own worst enemy. Drunk Lulu is a brutal alter ego and a burden she has to carry as long as she lets herself get wasted like that.

“I don’t even know what to say,” I tell her, rubbing my eyes. I feel gross all over again just thinking about it, and part of me wishes I hadn’t called.

“Are you guys okay?”

“We are now. We talked it out this morning.”

“This morning?” She groans.

“I stayed at Jeff and Robert’s last night.”

She makes a little squeaking sound of terror. “Holls. Was Calvin pissed?”

“What do you think?”

“Were you?”

I bark out an irritated laugh. “Lulu, be serious. You made me sound like a total freak.”

Calvin leans forward when I say this, resting his lips on the side of my neck. I reach back with my free hand, sliding my fingers into his hair.

“What can I do?” she whines.

The simple fact is that something was damaged that night—things have been chipped away for a few weeks now—and I’m not sure we can go back to the way things were. I know Calvin can hear her, too, and so I look over my shoulder at him. He shrugs.

“Anything,” she says. “I want to make it up to you.”

“Don’t be rude and obnoxious with us anymore.”

She lets out a hoarse laugh; I can practically hear the hangover in it. “I know. I think I’m just thrown by this marriage thing. You used to be my person.”

It’s true. I was there whenever she needed someone to go to a show with, a bar, a concert. But I was also her fallback when she didn’t have a steady plus-one for her Groupon adventures, and it’s been our dynamic ever since I can remember: I’ve always been there for Lulu.

“Things with Calvin are good,” I say quietly. “I get why it would be weird for you that I’m not totally, one hundred percent available anymore, but I’m really happy, and I feel like you’re not happy for me.”

He pulls me back to the couch with a warm arm wrapped around my chest, palm to my breast.

“I totally get what you’re saying,” she says. It’s painful to hear her grovel; I’ve never made her do it before. “I want you to see me being supportive! I swear I can.”

“Well . . .” I say, and laugh. I can feel Calvin’s smile against my neck.

“Maybe I can book you a romantic dinner at Blue Hill?”

This trips an idea in me, and I lean forward, thinking. Calvin’s birthday is in a few weeks, and I’ve already planned for his mom and sister to fly out and surprise him, but Blue Hill is a great restaurant, and Lulu could get us a great table, for sure. Something a little more private to celebrate his birthday wouldn’t hurt, would it?

I stand in front of a table at Blue Hill, Lulu at my side. After hugging me for a solid five minutes and promising to never be such a jerk again, she took me to the back of the restaurant and showed me the site she had in mind for my plan—my crazy, crazy plan.

The booth is in the deepest corner; it’s a table big enough to seat at least four, but she’s promised to keep it free just for us. Tilting my head, I check to see how much floor is visible. The top cloth comes down only about a foot from the table, but the lower one nearly sweeps the floor.

“You’re sure it would work?” I press my fist to my diaphragm, willing my nerves to chill. The dinner in question is still two weeks away, but I feel like Calvin is about to walk in here any second.

All around us, Lulu’s fellow waitstaff carry trays of flatware and napkins, setting tables, completely oblivious to our little plan.

She bounces a little beside me. “Totally sure.”

My heart beats my blood into a frenzy. I’ve never done anything this insane.

Well, except marrying a stranger. And then lying about it to a government official.

“Are you really going to do it?” she asks, thrilled. “This is the best idea, ever.”

I swallow the panic in my throat. If Lulu thinks it’s a good idea, I’ve definitely lost my mind. “I’m going to do it.”

Two weeks and one day later, I’m back at Blue Hill, at exactly 4:50 in the afternoon. Dinner service begins at five, Calvin will be here at six, and this gives me plenty of time before the crowds roll in.

I brought a book and my phone, and am wearing a dress whose manufacturer has assured me it is wrinkle free. Now I have to wait.

Every second leading up to now, it seemed like a fantastic idea. It was daring, and adventurous, and something we’d remember forever. Lulu will get Calvin to the table, under the assumption that he’s still waiting for me to arrive, and boom, surprise of a lifetime. It’s his birthday in three days, and what better way to celebrate turning twenty-eight than with some surprise oral sex in a fancy restaurant?

I was confident right up until the moment Lulu led me to where I’d be hiding. But now that I’m under here, hearing diners come in and be seated only feet away, feeling mildly uncertain about the cleanliness of the underside of the table, hoping that nobody can see my feet and that this is what Calvin meant when he said he thinks about doing this somewhere while nobody knows . . . this seems like a pretty insane idea. And by insane, I mean terrible. It was one thing to imagine this, quite another attempting to carry it out.

The problem is . . . I’m stuck.

I pull my book from my bag, and realize it’s too dark to read. I don’t want to risk the light from my phone bleeding out through the tablecloth, so I don’t use that, either.

Time inches forward. Food smells seem to seep beneath the table and get trapped here. I’m sure that under normal circumstances it would smell amazing, but I’m really not this person—a sexually adventurous law breaker—so my appetite has vanished and apprehension now seems to live permanently in my throat.

Lulu’s signal that Calvin is here is a knock on the tabletop as she passes on her way to greet him, and when it comes—after I’ve been sitting here for seven years—it is a single sharp rap without any other warning. I startle upright—well, not really, because my legs are asleep—nearly breathless with an indescribable mixture of relief and nerves. But I hear feet returning, and another more tentative knock on the table just above my head.

“She’s going to be so surprised to see all three of you!” Lulu yells.

What?

“It’s her birthday, too,” Calvin says. “Well, almost.”

And then I hear it: Robert’s deep rumbling laugh.

My stomach drops through the floor. Oh, fuck.

Oh fuckfuckfuck.

I can barely see anything—only the shadows of several pairs of shoes.

“Calvin, why don’t you sit on this side over here so she can see you when she walks in?” Lulu says, knocking a hand on the right side of the table.

I quickly scurry over there. My legs are pins and needles and I am going to vomit all over this place.

Calvin slides in, colliding with my shoulder. I muffle a gasp and he lets out a surprised “Oh my Christ!” before Lulu jumps in.

“Good!” she cries, voice shrill, and I can imagine her distracting him, giving him a meaningful look and miming my location like an insane person, when she says, “Now you’ll see her when she comes in.”

“Oh,” he says, on a quiet exhale. “Ohhhh.” His hand grapples beneath the table, finding my shoulder, my face. And then I hear him let out a quiet laugh of disbelief and a whispered “What in the world . . . ?”

“Robert and Jeff,” Lulu calls, loud enough for me to hear, “let me take your coats.”

There’s some commotion and then Calvin bends down, his voice suddenly close. “What in the bloody hell are you doing?”

“I was going to surprise you with a blow job!” I whisper-yell.

“Oh my fuck. I was going to surprise—heeeeey.” He sits back up, and spreads his legs a little so I can shimmy closer as Robert and Jeff slide into the booth.

Robert’s knee is less than six inches from my arm. Oh my God, this is a disaster. Why didn’t Lulu take them on a tour of the . . . room or something? Why didn’t she seat them somewhere else?

The only saving grace here is the enormous booth. I curl my knees up, leaning into Calvin’s hand when he slides it reassuringly beneath the table. As carefully as I can, I pull my phone out, quickly dim my screen, and open my texts.

Lulu has already texted me.

What the fuuuuuuuuuuuck?

Why did you seat them???

There aren’t other tables, and Calvin knew you’d made a reservation. Fuck I screwed up. I’VE NEVER DONE THIS SORT OF THING BEFORE AND I PANICKED

WHAT AM I GOING TO DO???

It’s hot under here and I’m starting to feel a little dizzy—am I just rebreathing the same air and possibly suffocating?

Just climb out, what are they going to say?

I close my eyes, banging my head silently against Calvin’s knee.

“Where is she?” Robert asks, and within a few seconds, another text pops up on my screen from him.

Where are you?

Running late. Go ahead and order.

“She said she’s running late,” Robert tells them. “Should we order for her?”

“I imagine she’d like the venison sausage,” Calvin says. I pinch his leg and he coughs, reaching down and grabbing my boob.

“She doesn’t like venison,” Jeff mutters absently.

“No,” Robert argues, “it’s elk she doesn’t like.”

“I’ll ask her,” Calvin says, and soon another text pops up on my screen.

Would you like the venison or the grass-fed lamb? Also, I am going to fuck you so hard later. You are a hero to men for even thinking of doing this.

The lamb. Should I just come out?

I think that would be bloody fantastic

Should I warn them?

Above the table, Calvin laughs.

“What?” Jeff asks. I imagine him looking up from the menu, lowering his reading glasses and gazing innocently at Calvin across the table.

“I think you’ll see in a minute.” I can hear his grin when he puts the saucy emphasis on tink.

Jeff’s legs twist slightly, as if he’s turning to look behind him at the door to the street. “Is she here?”

I sigh, texting him and Robert in a shared window.

I’m already here.

Where? I don’t see you. We’re in the back booth.

Fuck.

Fuck.

I’m under the table.

“What the hell?” Jeff bends, lifting the tablecloth. His eyes go saucer-wide when he sees me, and Calvin bursts out laughing.

With a groan, I climb out, sliding onto the curved booth between Robert and Calvin. “I was going to surprise him! I didn’t know you’d be coming along.”

“Surprise—? Oh my God.” Jeff bends, putting his forehead to his palm. “Holland.”

I hold up my hand and stare with great intensity at the menu. “I don’t ever want to discuss this again.”

“I should honestly never try to do something sexy and impulsive.”

Calvin pulls me down onto the bed, digging tickling fingers into my sides. “I will never forget this.”

“Blow job fail.”

“It’s a very good reason for a blow job to fail. I would have had a hard time performing, I fear.”

I groan. “I can’t even contemplate that.”

He laughs into my stomach, kissing as he pushes up my shirt. “It was a nice thought for a birthday gift.”

“There are more surprises to come.”

And no matter how hard he tries to get the secret out of me—no matter how much he makes good on the promise to fuck me hard in gratitude—I hold strong.