Page 9 of Between Hate and Desire

Once Lennon leaves for the day, slamming the door behind her, I let out a breath of relief. I still have thirty minutes before I have to leave for work, and since I showered the night before, I drink my coffee in silence without distraction.

I didn’t always shower before bed. Normally, I’d do it before work every morning or after the gym, but then Lennon blamed me for hogging the bathroom and making her late for work. I prefer to shower before bed now—I’ve come to like it—but hell if I’d ever admit that to either of them. During those early days when Lennon first moved in, we’d fight over who showered first in the mornings, which led to a lot of shouting and toilet flushing sabotage. Needless to say, Brandon begged me to compromise so the three of us could live together in peace.

For the sake of my best friend, I did, and once again, Lennon got her way—the bathroom is hers in the morning.

“Sounds like you two got off on the right foot today,” Brandon says, slowly making his way into the kitchen. With eyes half closed, he reaches for a mug and pours himself some coffee. Then he adds creamer and sugar before meeting me at the kitchen table.

“Not my fault she’s wound so tight,” I say into my cup before taking a drink. “She gets pissed over the smallest things.”

“Probably doesn’t help that you egg her on before eight in the morning,” he kindly reminds me as he’s done dozens of times before. He takes a slow sip and releases a deep breath. “She likes routine.”

“Doesn’t mean she has to force her ways on everyone,” I tell him. “If my dishes are dirty, I’ll clean them when I feel like it. She gets her panties in a knot because I don’t do them on her watch.” We have this same conversation every few weeks, and you’d think he’d learn by now that I won’t change my ways for anyone, especiallyher.

“It’s your funeral, man. This fight is between you two.” He shrugs, surrendering. Brandon knows this apartment is as much mine as it is his, and he can’t force me to do anything as long as I keep up with my half of the bills and chores. I hate putting him in the middle like this, but if I bow down to her every demand, she’ll never stop. Considering I already hate having to see her every day and live in this agony, she’ll have to deal with me the way I deal with her.

Before Lennon moved in, we’d clean once a week, and that was enough. Between working full-time jobs and mostly ordering out food, there wasn’t much to keep up with. Now, Lennon cooks for Brandon every night, does their laundry twice a week, and tells me when it’s “my time” to vacuum and dust the apartment. After enough nagging, I do the chores she assigns, but only when I’m ready.

However, vacuuming up her panties and cell phone charger got me thirty minutes of scolding and a lesson on checking the floor beforehand. Then when she found out I used bug spray instead of furniture polish to dust the apartment, she stomped her foot and screamed at me for being an idiot.

Safe to say, I made my point on how I felt about her assigned “chores.”

“Nah, don’t worry, man. It’s how we show affection,” I reassure him, chuckling and then finish my coffee. “If she hates it that much, maybe she’ll go live with one of her sisters or friends or something, and we can get our bachelor pad back!”

I stand and walk to the sink where I set my empty mug. A few of my cereal bowls that Lennon soaked in soapy water are still there, and I shake my head at how she tries to control everything.

“If she moves out, you know I’m going with her,” Brandon tells me softly. “She’s the love of my life, and you’re my best friend, so I’d hate to even have to pick, but she’s my future. However, moving out is the last thing I want.”

His words have my jaw tightening at how pussy whipped he is. I know he loves her, but fuck. I miss the days when it was just us. We’d play video games, order pizza, and then head out to the bars. In college, we were so broke that we’d take advantage of all the happy hour 2-for-1 deals so we’d have enough money to buy a drink for a girl or two. Mason and Liam would always be there to fuck shit up too. Through thick and thin, it was always the four of us, and there was a strict no girls tagging along rule until Lennon came along.

Brandon’s one of the good guys, and deep down, I know he deserves to be happy, but I can’t help feeling like he stole something from me. It’s unfair to say, considering he had no idea how I felt about her, and once they hooked up, I knew none of it mattered. Even if it’d been nothing more than a one-night stand, Lennon would always be off-limits. Bro code and all that shit. You don’t dip your toes where a buddy has already been. The second he claimed her, my chance was shot.

“I know, man,” I finally say, grabbing my bowls and emptying out the water.

I don’t want to have these feelings for her. Hell, I’d do anythingnotto have them. The only thing that seems to work, even if only temporarily, is pissing her off. She’ll scream, tell me how immature and irresponsible I am, curse me out until she’s red in the face, and for a split second, those feelings of lust dissipate.

Approximately thirty seconds later, she’ll do something adorable like shake her ass as she stomps away or force a smile in my direction to pretend she’s not seething, and those stupid feelings quickly rush back.

Heading to my room, I grab the last of my things that I need before I leave for work. I spot three more bowls, a glass, and silverware on my desk and carry them to the sink.

Brandon’s already finished his coffee and left the kitchen by the time I return. Knowing this will piss Lennon off, I place them next to the other dishes I left her this morning, and a smirk hits my lips.

My cell phone beeps, and as soon as Lennon’s name flashes across the screen, I know it’s going to be a passive-aggressive comment. When her message is what I thought it’d be, I reply like I always do—with anything to set her off even more. When she doesn’t respond to my last text, I take a picture of my dirty dishes and send it to her, knowing it’ll have her steaming. Nothing satisfies me more.

To be honest, I don’t know why she even tries anymore. She’ll text me with a simple request, and I always do the exact opposite, so you’d think she’d learn by now.

Her messages are usually along the lines of:

I’m making Brandon dinner tonight, so don’t bring food home for him or he won’t be hungry later.

Or…

I have to stay late at work, and my sisters are coming over right after. Do you think you could sweep the kitchen when you get home since you’re the one who made the mess?

Or…

It’s your turn to do laundry. Don’t forget the towels in the bathroom this time!

Of course I brought home a six-pack of beer and two large pizzas. Instead of sweeping, I walked around in my work boots caked with dried dirt and stones from the worksites. And I did do laundry that night, just not her towels. Hearing her scream my name the next morning when she realized the linen closet didn’t have any was totally worth it.

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