Page 42 of Dear Roomie
“Sit, eat.” He opens up the box and holds out a strawberry for me. I bite into it, letting the sweet juices spill down my face, and he has to bite his lip to hold back a groan.
“You’re killing me, Ophie.” He loosens his tie and pulls off his jacket as he stands to pour us champagne, then brings me a glass of bubbling liquid and sits beside me with one of his own.
His glass is empty before I have a chance to sip mine, and he pours himself another.
“So what are the plans for Frat Beach?”
Frat Beach?
What?
The abrupt tonal shift short-circuits my brain. How can he go from romancing me to travel plans with no transition?
“Frat Beach”—aka “the world’s largest outdoor cocktail party”—is the unofficial pregame event for the Georgia-Florida game. Every year, the University of Georgia plays Florida at a neutral site near the border, and every year, college students flock to the beaches of St. Simon’s Island, regardless of whether they have tickets to the game or not. It’s close enough to home that Tanner always joined me and the girls to party on the beach.
“There aren’t any plans yet,” I tell him, and his shoulders stiffen.
Fuck.
“It’s three weeks away. At least tell me you booked a hotel,” he demands, all of the playfulness replaced by a chilling rage.
A shiver of unease travels down my spine and pools in an icy block of fear in my gut. This isn’t like him. I inch away from him, moving closer to the edge of the couch. He only grows more tense as each second passes without a response.
“No,” I finally answer in the most even tone I can muster. “I didn’t get tickets to the game this year, and I wasn’t sure if you would be able to go with work. I can start looking—”
“Goddamnit, James!” The glass flies from his hand and explodes into a sparkling spray of glass shards and champagne as it hits the wall.
A scream rises in my throat, but I choke it down before it can pass my lips. Screaming might set him off even worse. Fuck, I have no idea how to navigate this. I’ve never seen Tanner display anything remotely close to this rage. The man in front of me is a stranger—a hostile invader in my boyfriend’s body. Ishove myself into the furthest corner of the couch and try to keep my breathing even despite the frantic beating of my heart.
“There’s no way you’re getting a hotel three weeks out,” he rants and jumps to his feet. He paces back and forth in front of the table in short, rapid bursts. He doesn’t look at me, though, which is good. I don’t want his attention when he’s acting like this.
“I’ll talk to my dad’s assistant and see if she can find us something that wouldn’t normally be available,” he continues to ramble. “We need two rooms, right? Your girls coming too?” His manic gaze snaps back to me, and I curl even deeper into the couch.
“Yes,” I whisper. My eyes burn with pooling tears, but I refuse to let them fall.
“Hey, baby, what’s wrong?” His voice softens as he crouches at my feet with a frown. He reaches out to brush a strand of hair back from my face, and I recoil, which only causes his face to fall even more. “Don’t worry, Ophie. I’m gonna fix it, and we will have a great time.”
“Okay, Tanner.” I force a smile on my face, and he relaxes back onto his heels.
“What should we wear? I don’t want to do the whole group thing with your friends again this year.”
Costumes. Right. The game falls on Halloween weekend.
I rack my brain for ideas, but the only thing I can think of is Morgan. I wish he was here—actually, no, I don’t. Tanner would lose his shit if Morgan was here—I wish I was home with him. Morgan would never act like this. He would keep me safe.
“We could do a Ren Faire thing?” The words come out like a question, not a statement.
“That’s lame.” He brushes my idea to the side, then jumps back up to his feet and resumes pacing. “I’ve got it,” he says after a few moments, and a wide smile grows on his face. “We could do JFK and Marilyn Monroe.”
“Don’t you mean Jackie O?”
“No, Marilyn is way hotter. Let’s plan on that.”
“Okay, Tanner.”
He freezes, studying my face for a moment before he sighs and drops back on the couch beside me. “I’m sorry I yelled.” He cups my face in his hand. “Do you forgive me, O?”
“Of course.” My voice shakes, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
