Page 2 of Dear Roomie
My heart rate skyrockets as I read Morgan’s text. She wasn’t supposed to get here so soon. There’s still so much I have to finish before she arrives. I need to mop the floors again and vacuum her room, and I wanted to bake cookies so she’d feel welcome and at home as she stepped foot in our apartment for the first time. At this rate, I’ll be lucky if I’m even there to greet her.
This is all Chelsea’s fault.
The small mesh-top table in front of me is covered with the empty appetizer platters Evelyn and I have picked over while we wait. Our friend was supposed to meet us for lunch half an hour ago, but apparently, there were delays at the airport. Something to do with customs. I didn’t quite understand it all, but I’ve also never traveled abroad. I just wish she would have told usbeforewe got to the restaurant. I’m not even hungry anymore. Between the apps and the anxiety, my stomach is a churning pot of lead.
“I’m back, bitches!”
All eyes in the restaurant’s tiny alleyway patio snap toward the woman making a scene at the entrance. Chelsea doesn’t falter under the gazes of strangers; she’s used to being gawked at, and I think she relishes the attention. The girl is gorgeous. Her tall, willowy frame and untamable fiery curls draw attention wherever we go, and she learned long ago to embrace it.
“How were your summers?” she asks as she joins Evelyn and me at our table.
My dog, Grover, lets out a half-assed growl at her approach without bothering to lift his head from where it’s perched on his paws. He isn’t the most sociable of animals, but both of my friends have known him long enough to know he is all bark and no bite.
Evelyn jumps up to greet our friend with a hug while she gushes over her. I should do the same, but my mind is only half present at the table. Intrusive thoughts rattle around my head like a game of pinball, drawing my focus back to the growing pit in my gut, which is steeped in an aura of dread.
“I hope you two didn’t get up to too much trouble without me,” Chelsea adds as both girls sit.
“Who cares about our summers? I want to hear about Paris,” Evelyn says, nearly bouncing in her wire-framed seat.
I can’t find it in me to match her enthusiasm. What if Morgan is already at the apartment? What if she hates the place? What if the key I sent her doesn’t work and she’s stuck outside, waiting for me to get home? What if she thinks I’m rude for not being there and hates me?
No. I can’t think about those things or I’ll spiral, and I refuse to let that happen in public. Through sheer force of will, I make myself tune in to the conversation. It’s not like I don’t want to hear about my friend’s summer abroad, but it’s hard to focus when my heart is beating so hard I think it might explode.
“What do you want to know?” Chelsea asks, and Evelyn is quick to respond.
“How was the food? The fashion?”
“The men,” I add with enthusiasm I don’t feel.
“The food was to die for, the fashion was to kill for, and the men…well, a lady doesn’t kiss and tell.” Chelsea smiles like a cat that got the canary.
“Well, it’s a good thing you aren’t a lady,” I tease, ignoring the way my stomach twists, and Evelyn chokes on a snort of laughter.
“Well, excuse me, Ms. Future First Lady. I’m sorry we don’t all meet the level of class you’ve grown accustomed to.”
“Oh, shut up.” I throw my paper napkin at her face with a laugh. “It’s Tanner’s dad who’s running for governor, anyway, not Tanner. That makes me Ms. Future Nothing.”
“How is Tanner?”
That is certainly a question. One that only adds to the churning stew of anxiety.
My boyfriend has been…busy. I didn’t actually get to see him much over the summer. His new job demanded too much of his time for him to make the trip to Athens, and my class schedule only let me go back home to Savannah every so often. It wasn’t great. I think we fought more over the past three months than we have in the years we’ve been together.
I hate this distance, and I know he does too. Thank God we only have a few more months until we close the gap for good.
I’m not about to tell them that, though. I haven’t seen Chelsea in months, and I don’t want to kill the mood by moping about missing my boyfriend.
“Nope, we aren’t talking about him. I want to know about the French men whose hearts you broke,” I say, putting on the happy mask I know they expect from me.
“It was just one heart”—her porcelain cheeks grow pink—“but he wasn’t French.”
“Spill,” Evelyn demands.
“His name was Ezio. He was from Italy but was spending the summer in Paris to find himself.”
I look at Evelyn and mime gagging.
“Hey, I didn’t claim he was very bright, but he was pretty. And the things he could do with his fingers…” She pauses and shivers in her seat. “Let’s just say he kept me very satisfied.”
