by Sarah Adams
Mark my words, Jessie’s stuff will not touch my stuff. And no, I don’t mean that as an innuendo. There’s no need for one where Jessie is concerned because in no way am I thinking about her stuff and my stuff touching, and…well shoot, now I’m thinking about it as an innuendo.
“Dude, lighten up with your grip, would you? If you squeeze the steering wheel any harder, you’re going to leave permanent finger marks behind.”
I force my hands to relax by clenching and unclenching them one at a time. I convinced Cooper to let me drive this last load back to the house because I felt so wound up I needed something to do other than just sit in the passenger seat and bounce my knee. Apparently, driving isn’t helping either.
“Sorry. I didn’t realize I was doing that.”
“Yeah, obviously. You’ve been over there in your own world for the last ten minutes. At one point you were shaking your head, and your jaw was flexing. Super creepy.”
I glance briefly at Cooper then look back at the road. “I was not.”
He scoffs and pulls out his phone, holding it up toward my face.
I squint at it. “You took a photo of me while I was driving?”
“Yeah, I did,” he says, not sounding the least bit remorseful. “I sent it to Lucy so she could tell me what this moody face of yours means.”
Why am I friends with him?
“And? What’s her verdict?”
“Sexual frustration.”
I almost crash. My hand jerks and for a split second the whole truck snaps to the left. Thank God no one was beside us. Embarrassing would not begin to cover how I’d feel having to admit I sideswiped someone because my sister proclaimed I’m sexually frustrated.
“WHOA,” Cooper yells, pressing his whole arm against the door to brace himself. “That’s it! Pull over.”
I frown and look quickly at Cooper then shift my eyes back to the road. “What? No. There was a bunny in the road—I had to swerve to miss it.”
I feel his angry eyes on the side of my face. I almost hurt his baby. He’ll never forgive me. “Pull over.”
Cooper isn’t often serious. The last time I saw him angry was when I was chewing him out for going behind my back to date Lucy. The tone he’s using now is the same as it was that day—which is why I put on my blinker and pull over into the nearest parking lot.
“It was a bunny,” I murmur quietly under my breath.
The moment I have the truck in park, Cooper flies out of the passenger seat, slamming his door before rounding the vehicle to jump in the driver’s seat. We look like a married couple in a tiff. Well, fine. If he’s going to slam a door, I am too. I hop up into the passenger seat, and I pull the door shut with a loud BAM.
He scowls at me and then rubs his hand over the top dashboard, whispering, “It’s okay, baby. I won’t let that sexually frustrated man crash you.”
I roll my eyes and position my elbow on the side of the door so I can lean on my fist. “Does Lucy know about this romantic affair you’re having with your truck?”
“Whatever. Hers is worse. She steals the keys and takes it out for late-night rendezvous to get ice cream. The number of sprinkles I find on the seat after is obscene.”
Cooper starts the truck, backs up, and we pull onto the main road again, only about five minutes from my house now. It’s insulting he didn’t even trust me to make it the last few miles.
“Lucy’s wrong, though. I’m not sexually frustrated,” I say, but Cooper looks unimpressed by my declaration. In fact, he has the gall to laugh. “What? I’m serious. I was doing great before Jessie showed up. And for the first time in my adult life, I had my house all to myself. So if I’m frustrated, it’s because I can’t walk around naked anymore.”
“Really? Well, if you were enjoying your nudist sanctuary so much, why did you offer for Jessie to move in with you?”
I look out the window. “You already know this answer. We made a trade. I need her to act like my girlfriend at the fundraiser.”
He shakes his head. “The real reason.”
“That is the real reason. I couldn’t find anyone else to do it. I needed someone to help me, and Jessie needed somewhere to stay. Problem solved.”
“I call BS.”
He’s serious. He really thinks this was all staged for me to get to spend more time with Jessie? Ridiculous. “Oh wow, yeah,” I say, completely deadpan. “You caught me. I want Jessie soooooo bad. I love that she constantly fights with me and makes my life miserable. I love seeing her green eyes flare when she says something biting, and I am actually happy to have her moving in because I secretly hate living alone, and—” I stop myself when I realize this is sounding less and less like a joke and more like my subconscious thoughts climbing out of hiding.
My eyes cut to Cooper and see his lips pressed firmly together, gaze grinning, a laugh strangled in his throat.
“Just shut up,” I tell him, pulling my hood up and sinking down in the seat like a teenager who hates his parents. Cooper’s hands go up in mock surrender as I reach over to turn up the radio and drown out any uncomfortable realizations coalescing in my head. It might have sounded like the truth, but it wasn’t. I was just kidding around. The only part of that whole statement that might have had a sliver of truth to it is when I said I don’t like living alone. I actually miss having Lucy and Levi around to talk to at the end of the day or watch a movie and eat pizza with. It’s sort of depressing to finish an entire large pizza on your own.
Truth is, I don’t even like being naked. I tried it last night after I went home because I thought I should make at least one attempt at nudism before Jessie moves in. I spent the whole night buck naked. I was just cold. I felt weird and don’t really have a desire to do it again.
But the rest, the whole part about Jessie and wanting her—yeah, that wasn’t true.
Once we get to my place, I help Cooper move the last few boxes inside but then make him carry them upstairs where the ladies are by himself, because I’m in a terrible mood now. I go hide away in my own room and take a shower just so I don’t have to talk to anyone—especially not Jessie. No, I take that back—especially not Cooper. He gets a big head when he thinks he’s right about something and then won’t let up. I don’t care to see his eyebrows wag at me all night.
I take the world’s longest shower and then linger in my bedroom until I’m sure the coast is clear and Cooper and Lucy have finally left for the night. Finally, I open my door, peek out (this actually looks way more manly than how you’re picturing it), and see that everything in the living room is quiet and still. I’ve never before been so thankful that my room is on the ground floor while all the spare rooms are upstairs. If I time this right, I’ll probably never have to come in contact with Jessie for the rest of her time living here.
I tiptoe toward the kitchen (again, picture a warrior trying to outsmart his enemy in combat rather than the pathetic maneuver this really is). I quickly assemble a sandwich in the dark so Jessie’s not alerted to the light and then carry it back to my room, never having loathed myself more than I do in this moment. Tomorrow will be better, though. After a good night’s sleep, I’ll feel more in charge and ready to face her.
I wake up in the morning feeling disturbed. I lie in bed for longer than necessary, remembering my dream in way too much fantastic detail. I remember how Jessie’s lips felt pillowy soft against mine, how she tasted like a vanilla cupcake, warm, fresh out of the oven. I don’t want to start the day; I want to fall back asleep and back into Jessie’s arms.
It’s fine. I’m fine.
But I’m not fine, at least not when I go out in the living room and stop short, blinking and staring at all the feminine accessories spread out all over my house. I know for a fact I made it clear all of this had to stay in her room. I specifically told her if she wanted to bring every throw blanket she owned, fine, but she had to find a way to contain them upstairs in her room. Not here, draped across the back of my couch. So please explain to me how I’m run
ning my fingers across a soft pastel pink blanket, squishing a frilly, fuzzy pillow between my hands, and reading a dish towel draped over the oven handle that says “Oh, for fork’s sake” and has two forks kissing.
Ah, geez, there’s more. It’s everywhere. Like the flu during the winter, her stuff has mutated and multiplied all over my home. My clean countertops are cluttered. Drawers are stuffed, and my world is spinning. There’s a set of salt and pepper shakers wearing BFF t-shirts. A fluffy rug is rolled out in the living room. (What kind of messed-up person puts a rug over carpet?!) Picture frames filled with Jessie and her grandaddy sit on my entertainment center. A froufrou ottoman has replaced my mid-century coffee table. Pillows—so many damn pillows lining the couch there’s nowhere to sit anymore.
I spin. Candles.
I twist. Succulents.
I bend. A woven basket containing MORE fuzzy pastel blankets. How many does one woman need?!
There isn’t an inch of my house that hasn’t been touched—vandalized.
Anger scorches through me because once again, she found a way to slide under my skin. She’s there, chiseling away at my bones with something sharp. I thought there was no way Jessie would be able to unpack all of this around my house because it’s Sunday and I don’t have to go into work. I had the whole day blocked out so I could stand like a centurion and make sure she kept all her crap contained to her little 10x12 cubicle upstairs. Once again—and for the last time—I underestimated this woman. From the looks of it, Jessie was up all night.
My hands are braced on the kitchen counter, shoulders bunched up to my ears, jaw working when I hear the soft padding of feet approaching behind me. Jessie.
“Morning, roomie.” Her voice runs up my spine and knocks against every vertebrae.
I release my palms from the counter and turn to face her—my opponent. My eyes collide with baby blue sleep shorts and a matching tank top. With curves and tan skin. With sleepy eyes and wild hair. With the most deadly of opponents: a gorgeous woman.
I’m not worried, though. It’s just a little physical attraction. Just a man and a woman and all that. Nothing too serious to be concerned about. It would be one thing if I secretly enjoyed her feistiness or her constant need to push my buttons. But I don’t. Don’t, don’t, don’t.
“Looks like you were busy last night.” I sound like a monster guarding his cave, even to my own ears.
She smirks at my obvious agitation, and now I’m even grumpier that I’ve let her see how much her plan worked. I should have wrapped myself in that pastel blanket. Worn her fuzzy house slippers. Poured coffee into her hot pink “Boss Babe” mug and smiled as I sipped from it.
“I have terrible pregnancy insomnia these days. I can never sleep.”
I resist the urge to go into doctor mode and list off several ways I could help her remedy that insomnia. Instead, I focus on the situation at hand. “Pretty sure I made it clear that all your stuff needed to stay in your room.” I fold my arms. These are business arms.
Her eyes sparkle and gleam in false innocence. “Oh no! Do you not like my stuff being in your space? Oh dear, I’m so sorry. I’d be happy to go move it all, but…” She moves her hand to her small belly bump and rubs it affectionally. “I’m a little worn out from all my hard work last night. I think I better put my feet up and rest for a while because I’m starting to get some sharp pains.” Her eyes widen into big doe eyes, and she blinks her long dark lashes slowly. “Unless…you want me to spend the day moving it allllllll the way back upstairs.” Now she rubs her low back like it’s giving her great pain, like she’s the size of a bus rather than looking like she swallowed a pebble.
I sink my teeth into my lower lip and bite until I nearly taste blood, because once again she has found a way to best me. This woman. She’s going to be the death of me in so many ways.
“Don’t worry about it.” I turn around so I can say the next words without letting Jessie see how truly annoyed I am. “Go put your feet up.” It’s important to note that I only added that last part in case she’s not faking those pains. The obstetrician in me cannot allow her to hurt herself in the name of a stupid prank war.
Besides, I’ve already figured out a way to get even, and the first step is to find that snowman mug for my morning coffee.
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 kn
ow 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.
