The Roommate

by Rosie Danan

  Luckily the shower was long enough for him to come to his knees. Contact with the hard, cold floor momentarily brought his body out of overdrive.

  “Hold on,” he said, not knowing whether he spoke to her or himself.

  Her eyes fluttered open like a princess waking from a dream, and he helped her put her hand on his shoulder for balance as he picked up her left foot and placed it on his bent thigh.

  Any pretense of humility seemed to have burned up between them, replaced by another hot, pulsing emotion, as she bent forward to comply. Surely she was aware that this position presented him with an unobstructed view of her pussy?

  He ran his soap-slick hands across her foot and around her ankle, massaging his way up her calf. Her thigh was taut as he glossed over it, and by the time his fingers reached her ass, she was thrusting her hips forward, issuing an invitation he didn’t have the strength to refuse.

  “Please don’t do that,” he choked out. “Clara, I can’t stand it.”

  Her eyes shot open. “I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t trying to imply—I’m sorry.” She went to turn off the shower, half her body covered in soap.

  “No.” The word came out too loud, ringing in the small space. He corrected his volume. “It’s fine, remember?” Josh gritted his teeth. “Try to hold still.”

  He sped through washing the rest of her body, feeling like Keanu trying to defuse a bomb. Clara didn’t close her eyes again.

  Finally, he finished rinsing the thin skin behind her ears. He stepped back until his back pressed against the cold glass wall. “There. Done.”

  He deserved a fucking medal.

  “Great,” Clara said, standing under the spray with unsure eyes. “Thank you. For helping me.” She curled her shoulders in.

  Josh should probably make an excuse for his hard-on. There weren’t enough dentists in the state to temper how much he wanted to fuck her right now. Of course, he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Even if she wanted to. Even if she begged him. Oh sweet Jesus, please don’t let her beg.

  Why again? Oh right. Because he’d promised Naomi. He couldn’t break his word. His vow. Shameless had come so far in the last few weeks. People were counting on him. He was finally making something important.

  Clara took a step toward him, and then another, until he could have stuck out his tongue and licked her lips.

  “What are you doing?” His voice came out gruffer than a cement mixer. Naomi screamed in his head. No. Stop. Don’t.

  Clara closed her eyes and tilted her head slightly, carefully.

  Josh brought a shaking hand up to cradle her face. He wanted to kiss her so much it hurt. Had dreamed about tasting her so many times he lost count. Kissing Clara had become imperative. As if her full bottom lip held the antidote to a poison that had been pumping through his veins for months. All of the arguments against this moment flickered from his brain like blown bulbs.

  Fuck it. He closed the last inch between them. Until their wet bodies pressed together from knees to chest.

  Clara slipped and almost fell, squeaking as her chin landed against his shoulder.

  Josh caught her under her arms. “Are you all right?”

  She brought a hand to her head. “Yeah, I think so. I feel a little dizzy.”

  Shit. What if she had a concussion and they’d missed it? He grabbed a towel and wrapped it carefully around her before guiding her to sit on the closed toilet seat. “Stay here and put your head between your legs.” That was what they said on TV, right? “I’ll go get you a glass of water.”

  “Josh, I’m fine. It passed.” She held out her hand and looked up at him, beads of water caught on her eyelashes.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, backing out of the bathroom in his sopping briefs. “I’m not going to let anything else hurt you.” Especially me.

  chapter twenty-five

  JOSH TREATED CLARA like a pneumonia patient for the rest of the week. He went out and bought her chicken noodle soup and orange juice, both with and without pulp, despite her protests that there was nothing wrong with her immune system.

  He flat-out refused to let her come to the studio after work, instead dictating that she needed time off to rest.

  So tonight, while Josh instructed hot people how to get each other off, Clara found herself relegated to the more commonly accepted Clara Wheaton Friday night activity of cleaning out the inside of the fridge. She might even go crazy and descale the coffee maker.

  Josh’s message came through loud and clear. He didn’t want her. Despite whatever “signs” her desperate heart presumed to detect, he’d gone so far as to run from the room when she offered him her naked body on a silver platter.

  Apparently, sometimes a raging hard-on was nothing more than a biological consequence.

  When the doorbell rang, she didn’t bother removing her yellow rubber gloves before answering it.

  “Are you Ms. Wheaton?” The delivery guy held a stunning bouquet.

  “I am.” She signed her name and carefully accepted the colorful flowers, waiting until she had her back to the closed door to stick her face in the middle of them and inhale. The manicured stems contrasted vividly with the plastic-wrapped wildflowers Josh had brought to the hospital.

  She knew without looking at the card that they were from her father. Or rather that her mother had sent them using her father’s credit card. Some women regularly received flowers from suitors, but Clara wasn’t one of them.

  No. With the recent exception of infirmity, she garnered bouquets not for her allure, but for graduations and birthdays. Even the occasional bittersweet Valentine’s arrangement that smelled equally of freesias and pity.

  She no longer indulged the girlhood fantasy of poetry accompanying her roses. So when she did glance at the folded greeting tucked behind petals, the signature made her hand fly to her racing heart.

  C—Your mom left me a voice mail saying you were in an accident. She seemed to think I was taking care of you, so figured I could at least send flowers. Hope you’re back on your feet soon. See you at the end of August. Love, E.

  The word love struck her right between the eyes. She knew Everett didn’t mean it romantically. He’d surely signed the card without thinking. The way she often scribbled out a missive to her great-aunt Barbara. But still.

  She’d waited fourteen years for those four letters.

  “Love.” The word got even better when she said it out loud.

  Her mother had ignored her express wishes and called Everett directly to check up on her. The physical distance between L.A. and Greenwich did nothing to dim Lily Wheaton’s tenacity.

  Her stomach flip-flopped as she hunted for a vase. Everett would return in just over two weeks; there was a chance he’d see their last breath. An unfamiliar knot formed in her belly. She’d almost forgotten about Everett.

  And she had one person to thank.

  Clara didn’t owe Everett any loyalty, obviously, but at the same time, surely when he returned things would change. Josh would move out, for starters. Why did that idea hurt?

  She frowned. Surely, Everett coming home was good? Clara would finally have the chance she’d come to California for . . . but at what cost? Her days of plotting perfect lighting, nostalgic activities, and figure-flattering outfits felt so far away. Like plans that belonged to another person entirely.

  With no vase in sight, she settled for a pot and arranged the bouquet to the best of her ability on the windowsill. Josh’s flowers had already claimed the space on her nightstand.

  She removed the rubber gloves and wandered into her bedroom. After several minutes of hunting, Clara found her Everett-snaring accessories in the closet, behind the raincoat she hadn’t touched since she’d arrived. She carried the small hatbox out to the back porch. A trip down memory lane would remind her why she’d risked so much for the one that got away.

  Settling
herself in an Adirondack chair with peeling paint, she pulled out a handful of photographs. Her thumb snagged first on a shot of her and Everett from peewee soccer, arms slung around each other’s shoulders. He had mud spattered across his cleats and shin guards, while Clara’s uniform remained suspiciously pristine.

  Everett had always picked her in gym class, even though everyone gave him a hard time. They were a pair. A foregone conclusion. Until they weren’t.

  She’d been so excited to come out here and renew their bond, but now she realized she was nervous about Everett’s return to L.A. For better or for worse, when Everett left her on his doorstep, she’d had to write her own destiny for the first time. No one could have imagined she’d like freedom so much.

  There were definite benefits to anonymity. The people here didn’t immediately link her surname to the library or the wing at the hospital like people she met back east. No one said, Oh yes. Of course I know your father or Such a shame about Oliver’s insider trading snafu five minutes after bumping into her.

  In L.A., Clara had her own identity. The future wasn’t carved in granite.

  “Mosquitoes are gonna eat you for dinner.” Josh came out carrying a citronella candle.

  “They do love me,” she agreed. He really was unusually thoughtful. The familiar notebook under his arm told her he’d come home straight from the set.

  “It’s late.” He frowned. “You should be in bed.”

  “You have to stop mothering me. I’m totally fine. I could cartwheel right now.” Assuming she’d ever learned to cartwheel.

  Josh pulled up a second chair next to hers. “What are we looking at?”

  She handed him the box of images. Sure, they contained evidence of several awkward phases, but Josh had already seen her stripped bare both emotionally and physically. She had nothing left to hide. Her heart hammered . . . reminding her of all the things she’d taken “off the table.” Fine. Almost nothing.

  The night had that unique summer energy when the air grows heavy and sparkling. When each breath in feels like freedom and the sky seems so glad to be rid of the sun it sighs in relief. If Clara wasn’t careful, an evening like this could get her tipsy on its potential.

  “Look at you.” Josh lingered over a headshot from second grade. “Man, you look exactly the same. What kind of seven-year-old wears sweater-vests?”

  Clara smiled sheepishly. “I picked that one out myself.”

  “Of course you did.” He flipped her a shot from the middle school debate team. “I like those bangs.”

  “My mom loved that haircut. Even though I clearly don’t have enough forehead to sport fringe.” Clara wrinkled her nose. “It took me until eighth grade to stand up to her and demand to grow them out. There’s a distinct headband phase in there if you keep digging.”

  “Wait, this one is the best.” Josh passed her a faded Polaroid. This one featured Clara posing with a huge oak tree, exposing her terrible teeth pre-orthodontia. “I had a gap too.”

  “No way.” Josh had a perfect grin complete with dimples.

  “Oh yeah.” He moved to light the candle with a matchbook from the pocket of his faded Levi’s. “Huge gap. I thought it had personality with a capital P. I cried when I got braces and it closed up.” Josh dug for more pictures. “Now wait a minute.” He tapped the image with his thumb. “Who’s this babe?”

  Clara glanced at the image and then stared out into the darkness of the backyard. “That’s my mom.”

  “You have her eyes.”

  But not her tiny waist or perfect poise. Not her patience or her self-control.

  “I’ve never seen another pair your shade of slate.”

  Clara shifted in her seat. No one ever mentioned the color of her eyes.

  “She didn’t know the picture was being taken or she would have said it was undignified. See?” Clara pointed to her mother’s bare feet. In the photo, Lily stood in the kitchen drinking a glass of iced tea with the sun setting behind her.

  “She always liked to look put together, head to toe. It wasn’t until the end of the day when she would come home and kick off her heels that I really recognized her. I used to think that was the signal that she was morphing from director of the board to mother.”

  “I bet she’s a firecracker.”

  “Usually,” Clara said. And then for some reason, “She cried the day I left. To fly out here, I mean. She’s used to having me an hourlong train ride away.”

  Chirping crickets filled their silence.

  “She wouldn’t even drive me to the airport. Said I was being selfish, leaving her alone.” Clara took a deep breath. “I think she was scared. My family’s been through a lot, and my mom has always borne the brunt of it. Cleaned up other people’s messes. I promised her she’d never have to worry about me, but then I woke up one day and everything in my life was disposable. Nothing was mine.”

  “So you came out here.” Josh handed her a new image. Another shot of her and Everett, though this time from senior year of high school. Clara recognized the yellow dress and the sunburn on her nose from senior week.

  Everett’s arms and legs had filled out. He looked like a boy on the cusp of becoming a man. They sat on the hood of the Wrangler, waiting for graduation rehearsal to start. “It always ate at me,” Clara said. “My mom got to choose her life, but I never once asked for what I wanted.”

  Josh propped his elbows up on his knees and sank his chin between his hands. “I didn’t realize that you’d been gone on Everett that far back.”

  Clara nodded. “As long as I can remember.”

  The line between his brows grew deeper. “I don’t get it.”

  “What do you mean?” The idea of wanting someone who didn’t want you back? She had no trouble believing that Josh had never encountered that situation.

  “You and this guy. Is it the butt-chin? The good family name? The inheritance?”

  “No.” Clara pushed her heavy hair off her neck. “Or I don’t know. I guess none of those things hurt, but I think the real answer is simpler than any of that.” She shook her head as the truth sank in. “I think I’ve wanted Everett for so long because he always held his love just out of arm’s reach.”

  Josh fiddled with the sleeve of his shirt, avoiding her eyes.

  “I was always looking for the right light switch. That one moment that would make him see how good we could be together. My life is built around rhythms and routine. Chasing Everett became familiar. Comfortable. No one would worry about me with Everett on my arm.”

  Beside her, Josh’s shoulders tensed.

  “God. That sounds so pathetic. I moved across the country, away from my family, my friends, and Everett barely saw me. Even when I was standing right in front of him.” Her stomach swam with shame.

  Josh shook his head. “You really have no idea, do you?”

  Clara lowered the photo and brought her hand to her temple. “What?” She couldn’t decide if she wanted a stiff drink or fourteen hours of sleep.

  Josh stood up and began to pace across the porch. His shoes struck the wood with each jerky movement until he balled his hands into fists and planted his feet. “Fuck.” She worried for his scalp when he ran his hand through his hair with alarming force. His chest rose and fell under his T-shirt.

  “Listen, I can’t think of a polite way to tell you that if that guy”—Josh pointed at the photo of Everett where it lay on the ground—“doesn’t drop down on his knees and beg to fuck you, he’s a moron.” He threw up his hands. “If he doesn’t wake up every morning and pray for the privilege of kissing you and touching you, and God, just looking at you, then something within him is deeply deranged.”

  Clara’s mouth fell open. Every sound except Josh’s voice faded away.

  “Clara.” Some of the darkness in his gaze receded. “If Everett can’t see that you are epically, painfully beaut
iful, and so sexy”—he closed his eyes as if in pain for a moment—“that I practically rub myself raw thinking about the way your mouth moves, then he’s the one who’s pathetic and he’s making the biggest mistake of his miserable life.”

  chapter twenty-six

  THE TRUTH HUNG in the air between them, and for a moment Josh knew both glory and triumph. Admitting the depth of his attraction to Clara, challenging her misconceptions about herself, made him feel like the tight band that had been wrapped across his chest for the past few weeks had finally been snipped.

  But then that moment ended and he had to live in the aftermath of his words. As he took in Clara’s enormous eyes, he realized he might have made a mistake. With a handful of clumsy, impulsive sentences, he’d unleashed a new reality. Had done the exact thing he’d sworn not to do. All of the stolen glances and lingering touches he and Clara had diligently skirted addressing rearranged themselves inside an alternative narrative: one where she knew he wanted her beyond physical desire.

  Naomi would have him for breakfast when she found out about this. Impassioned speeches definitely counted as “funny business.”

  To his credit, he’d tried to avoid Clara, actively worked to create distance while he craved closeness. Hell, he’d even considered trying to sleep with someone else. To take the edge off. Unfortunately, the idea of other women made his balls threaten to curl up inside his body.

  Maybe everything wasn’t ruined. He’d merely defended her against slander. Friends did that for other friends all the time. Of course, most friends probably could have accomplished the task without multiple references to their genitals.

  So he’d gotten a bit carried away. The idea that Clara wasn’t desirable, wasn’t inherently lovable, made him irrationally furious. Josh didn’t claim extraordinary intelligence, but Everett Bloom was a first-degree fool.

  Even in the oversized T-shirt and ratty boxer shorts she currently had on, Clara took his breath away. These days, the only part of her body that didn’t make him hard was her chin.