Page 38 of Dear Roomie
Jesus fuck, James. How did you let yourself get here?
I search through my memories in a desperate attempt to figure out how I ended up asleep in my roommate’s embrace. The roommate who is most definitely not my boyfriend. I’ve woken up in Tanner’s arms more times than I can count, but never once has it felt like this.
Why the fuck hasn’t it ever felt like this?
A wave of nausea rolls through me at the thought, and panic constricts my lungs, reducing my breaths to shallow gasps. I need to get away from here—no, away fromhim. His once-comforting embrace now feels like a cage. But I fight the urge to thrash until I’m free from his grip, because seeing him awake will only cause me to spiral deeper. Sucking in a breath, I count backward from ten. I do it again, and then again, matching my count to the beating of Morgan’s heart until my panic subsides enough for me to think things through.
With slow, controlled movements, I disentangle myself from Morgan’s arms. A deep frown mars his sleeping face at the loss of contact, and he reaches out at the empty space, letting out a small, distressed sound, before rolling back into a deep sleep. That noise skewers my racing heart. I want nothing more than to curl back up with him and put the smile back on his face, but I can’t.
That isn’t my place. My place is by Tanner’s side.
Guilt tears through me, causing any semblance of control I had to snap. I sprint to the safety of the bathroom and sink down onto the cold tile floor. Questions race through my head, coming so quickly that I don’t have the chance to fully process one before another takes its place.
Is this considered cheating? Should I tell Tanner? Am I a bad person? Why the fuck did he not go to his own bed? Why did his arms feel so much like home?
I restart my counting, but I’m too far gone for it to have its intended effect. My breaths come too quickly, and my heart beats the same. Every feeling I’ve been repressing pushes against my crumbling defense, threatening to consume me.
Fuck it, I’ll give myself five minutes—five minutes to fall apart and let myself be weak, but then I am going to get my shit together and face the day head-on.
As soon as I give myself permission, the floodgates open, and the riptide of emotion drags me under. My body shakes as angry, confused tears pour down my face, and it feels as though my heart is going to explode in my chest. Those five minutes pass, and I’m able to stop the tears. I didn’t actually think thatwould work, but I am able to regain control over my breaths and pull myself off the floor.
With puffy, red-rimmed eyes and sleep-mussed hair, I look like absolute shit, but it’s nothing a little well-placed concealer can’t fix. I throw on my normal running clothes and head toward the front door, careful not to wake my roommate. The state of my normally immaculate living room causes me to recoil in disgust. Nothing is where it’s supposed to be. Mementos of a night that needs to be forgotten decorate the space, reminding me of my bad decisions. It takes everything in me to fight the urge to clear it all away, but I do, forcing myself out the door to start my morning run with Grover.
The brisk autumn air is exactly what I need to shake away the remaining sense of gloom. I push myself harder than I normally would, setting a brutal pace from the start. Each cold breath of air and cramp in my side is a deserved punishment for the actions that got me to this point. No matter how many times I run through it in my head, I can’t trace back the route that led me to wake up in my roommate’s arms. I hate him, or at least I did hate him, but now I don’t even know what I feel.
That’s a lie.
I like Morgan. I don’t know when my brain decided “Hey, we like him now,” but I can’t deny that I do. There’s no pressure with him; I can be myself without having to mask parts to fit what’s expected of me. With my friends, I have to be Jamie, the girl who drinks a little too much and loves to party with a smile on her face. With Tanner, I have to be Ophelia. Ophelia is the girl living a storybook romance with her high school sweetheart. She is the perfect girlfriend who will turn into the perfect wife. Ophelia cooks and cleans, and she is always happy to say “yes, dear” while making sure all of Tanner’s needs are met—physical and emotional.
But with Morgan, I get to be James. I get to be emotional and combative without fearing his reaction. I can get too excited about dumb things like football and war movies, knowing he will never ridicule me for it. Somehow,this man has not only wormed his way into my life, but he’s become my safe place, and it scares the living fuck out of me.
My pace slows to a crawl as my body reaches its limit, and I start the journey home on jelly-like legs. I make it back to the apartment but pause in front of the door. The shadows of my earlier panic start to creep their way back into my mind.
What if he is awake? What if he wants to talk about whatever the fuck last night was? I’m not ready to have that conversation, but I don’t think I ever will be. If he wants to talk about it, though, I will; I owe him that much.
With a resigned sigh, I push open the front door. My focus darts over to where I left Morgan, only to find the couch empty. Not only is he gone, but the apartment is spotless. Any lingering evidence of the previous night has been wiped away, and all that remains in its place is the subtle scent of Clorox wipes. That smell is normally a comfort, but it causes a pang of disappointment to pulse through me.
Maybe he is just as desperate to erase what happened as I am.
That’s a good thing, or at least it should be. I can’t tell anymore.
A block of orange sticking to the wall catches my attention as I turn to put away Grover’s leash. The bright Post-it Note stands out against the dull white like a beacon, drawing me in. My heart freezes for a split second before taking off in my chest, and I pull the piece of paper down. My thumb runs in small zigzags over the familiar scrawl before I build up the courage to read the message.
I take in the words, reading through them a second time to be sure that my eyes aren’t playing tricks on me. They don’t change on the second pass or the third. My eyes start to sting with the familiar prickle of tears. I wipe them away, but that doesn’t take away the budding sense of awe that fills me.
Morgan likes my work. No, more than that, he believes in my ability to succeed.
No one—not my dad, not Tanner, not even my Grandma Anne—has ever expressed that much confidence in my dreams.
Clutching the note to my chest, I scurry toward my bedroom and rummage through my collection of sketchbooks, running my hands along each of their well-worn spines until I find my current favorite—the one I didn’t show him last night. I find it, flip to one of the more recent pages—a quick sketch of him lying on the couch with my dog—and squirrel the note away.
Tanner won’t like it, but I’m not about to throw away the words of someone who believes in me.
As if summoned by my thoughts, my phone rings with that fucking cursed tone. I slam the sketchbook closed and toss it back on the pile. It’s a stupid reaction—it’s not like he can see it through the phone.
“Good morning, my love,” I answer with fabricated cheer.
“Hi, babe.” My boyfriend’s voice only increases the guilt that’s been eating away at me all morning. He sounds sober, which is a relief. Our calls have been a game of roulette lately, and more often than not, I lose.
