Page 37 of The Roommate Situation

Fuck. I scramble across the hall to my room and shut the door before I hear the bathroom door opening.

“Preston, wait, I didn’t…” I hear Jackson saying, and footsteps moving down the hall.

Holy shit.

The weekend passes and before I know it, it’s the day of my endoscopy. It’s nothing new to me. I’ve been having them since I was a kid, so I’m not nervous about the procedure itself, just the IV that they’ll give me beforehand. The procedure only takes about ten minutes, and they put you to sleep. Then I’ll be home the same day and might have a bit of a sore throat, but other than that I’ll just be groggy from the anesthesia. I started a different medication a few months back, right before I met Parker, and the doctor wants to see how it’s working, so they’ll take a look inside and check my esophagus and stomach for anything abnormal or anything that would indicate the medication is not working.

“Ready?” Parker says, poking his head in my room. Ever since we started sleeping together I don’t close the door anymore when I change unless there’s someone else in the apartment. I’m wearing a pair of sweats and a loose fitting T-shirt, so that I’m comfortable. I’m also fucking starving because I haven’t been able to have anything but clear liquid since noon the day before.

“Yeah,” I tell him. We grab our coats off the hooks by the front door and slide our shoes on, then make our way through the snow to Parker’s car. It’s been a bit since we had fresh snow,but there’s a few inches of it covering the grass, and although the sun is shining there’s a bit of a breeze this morning, and the winter chill bites at my face as I crunch through the parking lot. I shiver once I’m in the car, and Parker turns on the defroster before pulling out of the parking lot.

It’s about a forty minute drive, and I spend the first ten shivering until the heat finally warms up enough.

Parker chuckles. “You still cold?”

“I’m always cold,” I tell him. He has his coat, which isn’t anywhere near as thick as mine, unzipped, and he has all of the air vents aimed at me. “Shit, are you hot?”

“Nah, it’s fine. I don’t want you to be cold.”

God, this guy. Always putting me first. It’s overwhelming sometimes, and there are times where I don’t feel like I deserve it, or wonder if he can even be real because he’s just too damn amazing and he makes me feel more worthy and beautiful than I ever have before.

I’m picturing us making the trip to my parents’ house for Thanksgiving with him in shorts and a T-shirt so he doesn’t get too hot, and me in layers so I don’t get too cold, and it makes me chuckle. I start laughing harder until I snort, then cover my nose and mouth with my hand, my cheeks heating. He just looks at me with a grin and says, “I love your laugh.”

He tells me to play some music and I turn on Taylor Swift, then start singing along and dancing as much as one can in their seat and he grins at me again. “You’re too stinkin cute,” he says, and I smile. I flush when he reaches over and takes my hand, making my body erupt in goosebumps. Fuck, why is that simple act making my brain short circuit? We’ve held hands before when we’re sitting on the sofa watching tv, but this feels different. He squeezes my hand.

“This okay?” he asks, and I nod, unable to form words. “I really like you,” he says after a moment of silence. “I just want you to know that.”

I swallow. I’ve never had anyone say that to me before. It feels amazing, and the fact that I know I can trust him, that he treats me well, that he cares for me, and has never done anything to hurt me or take advantage of me, makes it mean even more. My chest squeezes and I have to keep the tears from filling my eyes. It takes me a moment to form words, but I squeeze his hand and say, “I really like you, too.”

His smile is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

PARKER

I’m still holding Rory’s hand when we arrive at the surgery center forty minutes later. I do have to let go in order to park and get out but I slide my hand right back in his as we’re making our way through the parking lot and along the sidewalk to the front door. We take the elevator up to the second floor and go inside. There’s a small waiting room with several people already here, and I have a feeling we might be waiting a while.

Rory signs in and we take our seats. He texts his mom to let her know we’re here and then his hand is finding mine again, and I grin. I was going to do some homework on my laptop, but since my hand is occupied I decide to scroll through social media for a bit instead, and he does the same. We share funny videos and memes with each other and then Rory starts reading something on his phone.

After another half an hour they finally call Rory’s name, and he stands with his hand still clasping mine.

“Can my friend come?” he asks, and I feel his palm sweating and the tremor that moves through his body. Poor little dude. He is so terrified of getting the IV I’m afraid he’ll hyperventilate or something.

“Sure,” the nurse, a small Asian American woman says, and waves us back. She leads us to a curtained off area with patients on both sides and tells Rory to sit on the bed while I take a seat in the chair nearby. There’s so little room I have to try and make myself as small as possible. They instruct him to change into the hospital gown they have laid out on the bed and he strips out of his T-shirt and slides it on, shoving his shirt, shoes, phone, and glasses into a bag and handing it to me. When the nurse returns she asks him a million questions about his health history, and he doesn’t seem to mind answering them in front of me. I’m surprised to find I know most of it already. She tells him they’ll get the IV going when she’s finished with all of his information and he murmurs, “Yay, my favorite part.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I thought you hated needles. You’re shaking like a leaf.”

He looks at me and blinks, then squeezes my hand. “I am,” he says. “I was joking.”

“Oh.” My cheeks heat. “Right. I knew that.”

He chuckles and at least my ignorance gave him a reason to laugh, so I’ll take it.

“You’re afraid of needles?” the nurse asks. Rory nods, and she says she’ll take good care of him and recline the bed so he doesn’t pass out.

His hand is still gripping mine when he’s reclined and all the questions have been answered, and I squeeze again. His face has gone slightly pale and I use my other hand to stroke his arm, trying to soothe him as best I can.

“You’re okay,” I tell him as the nurse preps him for the IV. “You’re going to do just fine.”

He nods, taking a deep breath and letting it out. He makes a fist with his hand when he’s told to and hisses slightly when the nurse applies the tourniquet.

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