“You did want me to drive you all the way to your new place, right? Because I can drop you a few miles from it too,” she counters.
“Fine, fine. You can crash at my place anytime. My bed is your bed.”
As she slows at a light, she waggles a brow. “Or maybe I’ll fancy your roommate and get free rent that way. Maybe your new roomie is some gorgeous babe.”
“You never know. His name is Terry.” The flatshare company sent me that info this morning. “Though, Terry could be a woman. I said I’d live with either gender as long as the person’s not a homophobe. So, this is perfect for you. You can fall in love with Terry, and I can see you all the time.”
“And since I’m so fabulous in the sack, Terry will pay my way, then the three of us can live in your magical, wildly inexpensive flat that I hate you for getting.”
I laugh again. “Promise me something, Liv? Don’t ever change.”
“I don’t plan to,” she says.
After an hour of stop-and-go traffic—on a damn Sunday, no less—she pulls up in front of my new place and casts her gaze longingly at the white, six-story building with the yellow door. “It has a pretty door.” She pouts. “I’m literally going to die of envy. All I want is a flat with a yellow door.”
“And for Terry to bang your brains out and offer you a free place to live.”
“That too. I have dreams,” she says, raising her chin defiantly. “Just like you.”
And it’s a damn good thing I have a friend like her to share them with. “Yes, I know. And we will keep chasing them.” I stretch across the console and hug her. “Come over for dinner soon. I’ll make you something amazing.”
That cheers her up. “Can you make me something with cauliflower? I read it’s basically the best food ever, and I’m considering going on an all-cauliflower diet.”
“Ah, cauliflower, the latest vegetable to enjoy a renaissance.”
“First, there were Brussels sprouts. Now cauliflower. Next, it’ll be carrots,” she says.
“I truly appreciate the ride,” I say.
“I know. Don’t go sentimental on me. Just get out,” she says.
I do as I’m told, grabbing my bags. But she doesn’t pull away even as I head to the lockbox to fetch my key. When I glance back, the saltiest person I’ve ever known gives me a big wave, then the middle finger.
Laughing, I give the finger right back to her, then blow a kiss.
Once she leaves, I head inside, ready to see my new place and meet my new roomie.
Jittery with excitement, I turn the key in the lock. I don’t even care that this flat is on the stinking fifth floor of a rickety building. Don’t care about the garlic I smelled on the fourth floor or the barking dog on the third.
When the door swings open, I call out, “Hello, Terry.”
But my voice just echoes.
Cool.
I got here first. That means I can pick the better bedroom. Or, wait—is that kind of piggy? Perhaps I should wait. I’ll be polite. Olivia’s not the only one turned on by manners—they kind of make me swoon. Not that I want to make my roomie swoon.
But I’d like to be a good roomie, so, yeah, I think I’ll wait.
I shut the door behind me, drop my bags, and drink in the sight of this furnished flat that I nabbed at a pittance. I am fucking proud of myself for my persistence.
Even if the couch is a drab gray.
And the kitchen table might be missing a leg.
Also, the sink looks like it’s seen better days.
Even if I wind up with the shittier bedroom, who fucking cares? Not this bloke.
This flat is close, close, close. That’s all I care about. Spinning around, I turn down the hallway—though that’s a generous term since it’s about three feet long. There are two doors off it, and I knock then open the first one.
There’s a bed, a dresser, and little square footage for anything else. But it’s big enough for bonking, and what more do I need? Nothing.
I knock on the second door. No answer, so I open that too. Two bags sit on the floor. Okay, so Terry picked a room already.
Fine, fine.
They’re pretty much identical.
This makes me wonder . . . I step back into the hall, peering back and forth at the two Lilliputian bedrooms.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I say to myself.
This place is not a true two-bedroom. They cut a one-bedroom in half. Well, this just shows that if something is too good to be true, there’s a reason.
But this is still better than a mansion in Reading.
I return to the living room to grab my bags, and I spot a note on a coffee table. Leaning over, I glance at the first line. It says Hey, Roomie, so I pick it up and read the rest.
* * *
I tossed my stuff into one of the bedrooms, but if you’d rather have that one, it’s cool. I’m good with anything.
Just ran out to grab a coffee. I’ll be out tonight, so if I miss you later, I’ll see you . . . whenever.
I know everyone says they’re chill, but seriously, I am. I don’t care if you take long showers, have friends over at all hours, or even play loud music.
As long as it’s not Zeppelin.
* * *
Sounds pleasant enough.
Setting down the note, I survey the tiny pad once more, then settle on the dull gray couch. “Well, Terry. I’ll be out tonight too, so it looks like we’ll get along just fine,” I say to no one.
The key rattles in the lock. Terry must be back with that coffee already. Maybe next time, I can put in a request for a proper cup of English Breakfast. But for now, I’ll be the casual roommate, sitting on the settee with an easy smile.
“Hello there, roomie,” I call out as the door opens.
And in walks the American I planned to shag.
7
The Consolation Prize
TJ
* * *
I’m a ponderer.
Every spare minute I’m asking myself questions.
Like right now.
Did I hallucinate or time travel to eight-thirty tonight when I hoped to bring Jude back to my place and have my wicked way with him?
Because . . . why the hell is he sitting on my couch?
“Hi, Jude?” It’s a question. Or really, it’s a slew of questions that all spill out at once. “What are you doing here? Why are you in my flat? Aren’t we meeting later? How did you get a key?”
Behind all those questions is the mother of them all, sitting leaden in my gut. I wish it were the dreadful coffee and not the feeling that I know the answer already to this question.
Are you the queer-friendly non-smoker I’m living with for the next year? Because I never got your name, and please, please, please tell me this is a giant mix-up or maybe a hilarious practical joke we’ll laugh about later.
“I’m here because this is the flat I’m sharing with . . . someone named Terry?” Jude sounds as if the floor just fell out from under him too.
I groan and rub my face with my free hand, still standing on the threshold. “24News used my real name with the flatshare?”