Page 47 of A Temporary Forever

Roommates.

I’ve never lived with a woman before. I’ve never let a woman stay over. I love their company, but I love my autonomy even more.

I lived with my brother before, so it’s not like I’m completely inexperienced in having a roommate.

Living with Finn, however, equaled gaming all night, bickering, farting freely, and taking turns to remove takeout containers from the coffee table.

Living with Celeste is not what I expected. Frankly, I had no expectations. In my crusade to help her—and I’m still questioning my sanity there—I didn’t think past the actual formality of getting her a marriage certificate for her visa application.

That was a major oversight on my part. I might be marginally reckless in my private life, but I’m usuallyreasonably responsible in all my other affairs. Money, career, business—and I would file my arrangement with Celeste under that category.

But somehow it doesn’t fit there because—recklessly—I didn’t think about the perils of cohabiting with the fiery green-eyed swan.

My living room has fresh flowers on a console table. There are women’s magazines forgotten on a sofa—and who the hell buys paper copies anymore?

A pink cozy blanket on my reading armchair.

Red scrunchies on the coffee table.

Fluffy white slippers by the entrance.

The list goes on. And it’s only been a week.

The fucked-up part is, I should mind it. I would expect it to feel like an intrusion. And it bothers me, it’s an adjustment, but—and I won’t admit this to anyone—I’m not as bothered by it as I thought I’d be.

She’s the epitome of a perfect roommate. Half the time, I don’t even know she’s here. She tidies up after herself—and after me. She brings breakfast when she goes for a walk in the morning. Not that I eat croissants.

She keeps to her room and doesn’t sass me as much as before. It’s like she’s surrendered to the three-year sentence and wants to make sure I don’t relent.

If someone suggested last week that I’d be livingwith a woman, I would have given him a number for the best psychiatrist in New York.

Seven days into the exact living arrangement I’ve refused all my life, I have nothing to complain about.

Unless I’m the asshole who complains about a permanent boner. And I guess I’m that asshole. Because Celeste might be a perfectly respectful and easy roommate, but that doesn’t change the fact that she’s fucking here.

Her scent is infused in my furniture. Fuck, even my towels, and we don’t share the bathroom.

Three times already, I’ve heard her shower running, and I can’t un-imagine her being naked in there.

When music comes from her room, I practically see her moving that lithe body of hers around—stretching, dancing, just being.

I’m already attuned to her whereabouts by her shoes echoing on the floor. The clicking heels mean she’s going to see her friends or to the theater. The slapping flats mean she’s going for a walk.

She spends hours rehearsing in the theater or dancing at home, I’m assuming from the stomping in her room.

She works really hard. I don’t know how her body takes it. What I know is that I’m constantly imagining what I could do to that body.

My schedule is practically narrowed down to a workout or a meeting here and there with acquaintances to secretly test the waters about the Merged promise. That doesn’t take up much time.

All the rest is consumed by tryingnotto pay so much attention to Celeste. And failing miserably.

And I don’t like to fucking fail.

The amount of porn I’ve watched to think of anything, anyone, other than Celeste while jerking off, would make me a respectable contender for a renewed teenager status.

Riding the elevator to my loft, I check my watch. She won’t be home yet. Thank God. If I was my therapist, I’d see through the insincerity of my relief.

I kind of want her to be home. To stop politely cohabiting with me and finally give in to our attraction.

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