Page 65 of The Roommate Lie

I wait for them to disappear from my doorway or give us some space. For them to realize I’m having a caretaker moment with my very adorable roommate, and I’d like to soothe her in private. Respectably, of course.

But they don’t leave. If anything, they inch closer.

My sponsor, Gunnar, and the rest of the guys from my glassworks collective are doing their best not to crack up. If I thought Mama Roscoe was bound to roast me later, these guys are going to be merciless. None of them live in the hedgerow. They probably didn’t know Alice existed until now, because I sure didn’t tell them.

Carl knew, though, and my older brother isn’t happy. He tosses me a spare flannel shirt he somehow pulled out of thin air. Because guys like him always have a spare flannel shirt somewhere. That’s how they woo chilly out-of-towners and convince them to stay forever. Just ask Carl’s wife.

Do I need to get a flannel shirt? Is that what I’m missing?

Would Alice stay if she knew I’d always keep her warm?

If I had my brother’s Hallmark-lumberjack charm, she’d probably be mine by now. Alice would’ve torn up her ticket home days ago. Too bad I’ll never be that casually rugged—or that nice-guy pure.

I consider leaving the flannel shirt unbuttoned for fun, to mess with Carl while playing to my bad-boy strengths for Alice’s sake. Just wearing it around all open like I’m getting ready to do a photoshoot for a grumpy mountain man romance novel, my unbuttoned shirt billowing dangerously in a fake breeze.

But I don’t. Carl scowls at me, his wife starts laughing, and I button that flannel all the way up. Like a good boy.

“So”—Jenna pauses to finish chuckling—“you have a new roommate, huh? And a new pet raccoon?”

A few people behind her start cracking jokes of their own, everyone amused except Carl. His face gets all serious and brotherly, and I cut him off before he can say anything. Before he can turn this tiny mishap into a great big conversation.

“Don’t worry. I’ll talk to Bill. He’ll know what to do about the raccoon.”

If ever there was a time to take advantage of our mom’s new wildlife biologist husband, this is it. He won’t even mind. That’s just the kind of guy he is.

Though, in the end, I never get the chance to ask Wild Bill anything—or confess I couldn’t tell a raccoon from a squirrel. My sudden wildlife invasion doesn’t worry my brother half as much as the adorable redhead wearing my shirt, and he rats me out before he drives away that afternoon. As soon as his car rounds the corner, I get a text from my mom, and it’sgame over.

I’ve been summoned.

We borrow Tyler’s car, and I try to prep Alice as we park in front of the Ridgeview Wildlife Center, the sprawling facility my mom’s new husband opened almost a decade ago. But it’s no use. My mom is in a rare mood when we step inside, part comedian, part mama bear. And there’s no preparing a girl for a thing like that.

I hate that she asked us both to come down here, that she specifically requested I bring Alice. I wanted to take her here eventually, so we could mark that first “pet a raccoon” item off our to-do list—but not like this. A friendly visit and being summoned are two different things.

Instead, this feels ominous, like Alice is in trouble right along with me, and I haven’t been this nervous to see my mom in years. Not since I was a teenager with a very big secret. A scared fifteen-year-old who was about to tear her world apart.

The fact that she smiles at us brightly does nothing to ease my nerves. If anything, it makes me worry extra.

She points to a poster on the wall near the intake desk. There’s a drawing of the noble raccoon in the bottom corner, standing in all its ring-tailed glory. “Charlie, sweetie. This is a raccoon. Can you say it with me? Rac-coon.”

Very funny.

I narrow my eyes while trying not to crack up.

She slides her finger to the left, to a much smaller animal on that poster. “And this is a squir-rel. Can you see how different they look?”

“Nice snark, Mrs. Tipton,” I tease back. “They let you teach kindergarten with that mouth?”

She laughs before forcing me to listen to a recording of raccoon and squirrel sounds. So I’ll always know the difference. So those grunts, chirps, shrieks, and chitters will haunt me for the rest of my life.

Alice doesn’t know what to make of any of this. I’m used to my mom messing around—it’s the Roscoe way—but Carrots looks a little overwhelmed. Like she’s not sure if she should laugh at my mom’s jokes or hide.

Probably both.

As happy as she seems, I can tell Amber Roscoe Tipton is overwhelmed. She isn’t feeling half as lighthearted as she seems. My mom is concerned, and I hate being the cause of all that worry.

Whatever I have to do to fix this, whatever reassurances she needs, that’s what I’ll do. Making sure I don’t cause any more problems for my mom has been my number one priority since rehab. I’ve put her through too much already.

Wild Bill can tell she’s worried too, that we probably need to have a good long mother-son chat. He presses a kiss to my mom’s temple before glancing at my temporary roommate.

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