Page 2 of The Temporary Roomie: Extended Edition

The only person in the world with whom it would be more pleasing to run barefoot over a trail of pointy Legos than have a thirty-second conversation.

In case anyone is still confused, I absolutely can’t stand Dr. Stuck-up Marshall.

I pull back the curtains again and stare out at my driveway like a peeping Tom. If Drew pulls in right now, he’ll see my face pressed up against the glass, with a squished piggy nose and death-glare eyes, and he’ll keel over at the sight of it. I’m forced to let the curtain fall again when a mom pushing her toddler in a stroller sees me and looks like she might call the cops.

“Jessie, I’m sure Drew has a good explanation. I know you’re determined to hate him, but I promise he’s one of the good ones.”

“No. My grandaddy is the only good single man left in the world—and if those old grannies at bingo were smart, they’d snatch him up. So, no . . . I do not believe Drew is one of the good ones, and I’m certain he did this on purpose. He’s mad at me for throwing the bag of diapers in his face, and this is his retaliation.”

“What diapers? No—you know what? I don’t want to know. At least tell me what happened when your grandaddy showed up and Drew wasn’t there.”

Crickets. I don’t say a word, and I’m hoping Lucy will think the line went dead and give up and go about her day.

“Jessieeee.” She drags out my name like she just found out I ate all the cookies from the cookie jar. “What happened when he showed up?”

I sigh dramatically. “He didn’t, okay? He called me this morning saying he woke up to a flat tire and had to have it towed to a mechanic. He said he’d have to take a rain check on the visit.”

“Oh my gosh! Then why in the world are you so upset with Drew? You didn’t even need him!”

I blink. “Becausehedidn’t know that! I never told him because I wanted to see if he’d show or not. And he didn’t, so HA!”

“You are unbelievable.” I know Lucy is shaking her head right now. “This hate needs to stop. You both act like babies, and I can’t handle it anymore. Also, you need to tell your grandaddy the truth.”

“I already did,” I murmur under my breath.

“What was that?” She’s being so pious now.

“I said I already told him I don’t have a fiancé. Well, actually, he guessed it. He asked to reschedule for next weekend, and when I told him I thought Jonathan would be out of town that weekend, and the weekend after that, and the weekend after that, he told me he already knew and had pretty much guessed since the beginning that there was no fiancé. I guess it was suspicious that Jonathan hasn’t been around at the same time as my grandaddy even one time in seven months.” Duly noted: I need to fabricate better lies in the future.

Actually, I feel a tad bit silly now for ever making it such a big deal in the first place. I thought he was so proud of me because I was getting married, starting a family, following the path of the typical American dream. But get this—he’s just proud of me for being me. He doesn’t care a bit that I don’t have a husband; he’s just happy he gets to see me become a mom. At that statement, my heart swelled to the size of Texas. Once again, my grandaddy has proven that no one will be able to top his goodness.

“That’s amazing, Jessie! So now all that’s left is forgiving Drew.”

Forgiving Drew? Over my dead body. “Oh, honey, this animosity has only just begun.”

“Very mature.” I can hear the eye roll in her tone. “Tell you what . . . why don’t you go eat some pickles like you love, and I’ll try to get ahold of Drew to find out what’s going on? And then maybe we can circle back around to the forgiving each other thing.”

“Bleh—no to both. My cravings have moved on to Flamin’ Hot Cheetos now.”

“You know, it really makes me mad that you eat whatever you want all the time and barely look pregnant. I was an elephant at your stage of pregnancy.”

I know, people!I’m small for a woman in her third trimester. I get it. Everyone mentions it all the time, and it makes me feel terrible. They all look at me like I’m starving myself and my poor child will never be healthy or go to the Olympics because of me! I’m just petite, okay?! My doctor even offered to write me a note to keep in my purse that states my child is measuring perfectly and my size is more than acceptable for a healthy pregnancy. Fine, maybe I had to beg and plead (and sob) for her to write it, but it doesn’t matter—that slip of paper is laminated in my purse, so every humiliating tear I shed was worth it. That old lady at the grocery store had to totally eat her words when I whipped it out and flashed it in front of her smug, know-it-all face.

When I don’t respond, Lucy asks, “Jessie? Are you okay?”

I’m trying to hide it, but I can’t. I let out a sharp sniffle and swipe the tear from my cheek because I’m extra sensitive about my size. And basically anything and everything all the time.

“Oh no, are you crying?”

“No.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not,” I say through very obvious tears. “I never cry.”

“Mm-hmm.”

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