Page 91 of Dear Roomie
“Hmm.” Several ideas roll through my head, but my mind keeps jumping back to one. “Nerd shows and pizza?”
“We have all the time in the world to stay in and watch TV. I want to take you out, like on a real date.”
My stomach flutters at the thought.
I can picture us walking down the Athens streets hand in hand while we talk about everything and nothing all at once. We won’t have any of that awkward first date energy; how could we when I feel like I was born with his name on my soul? First, we will get dinner and maybe stop somewhere for a drink before we head home for the night and spend it wrapped in each other’s arms. It will be perfect because it will be us, it just won’t be tonight.
“You can take me out tomorrow. I want to spend tonight doing my favorite thing with my favorite person. Please, for my birthday.” I turn to look at him, giving him my best pleading eyes.
“If that’s really what you want,” he says, resigned.
“Thank you.” I give him a bright smile. “Would you mind if I take a quick shower?”
“Of course not, take your time. I’ll be here when you’re ready.”
“You know you could join me.” I bite my lip, not hiding my less-than-innocent intentions.
“Don’t tempt me, pretty girl. If we start that again, we’ll never make it to the living room.”
“Doesn’t sound like a problem to me.”
“Go,” he growls playfully, giving me a gentle shove.
“Fine.” I place a quick kiss on his unsuspecting lips as I get out of bed and head to the bathroom.
I’m never going to get enough of him.
I speed through the shower, barely pausing long enough for the water to warm up, and half-ass my way through an already heavily modified version of my normal routine, only really worrying about drying my hair. He’s still in my room when I finish, although he must have gone back to his room at some point because he’s changed into pajamas and tidied his curls. He doesn’t look up at me as I waltz in, his gaze too focused on the canvas in front of him.
My heart plummets.
The painting on the easel isn’t one I ever wanted him, or anybody else, to see. It’s been my companion over the past month on those late nights when I couldn’t sleep because the thought ofhimhaunted my thoughts. The canvas is awash with golds and tawny browns that have come together to immortalize the moment of his self-sacrifice in intricate detail. It must be strange to see the look of your anguish reflected back at you.
“Morgan…” I clutch my towel tighter to my chest and take a step in his direction.
He’s going to hate me. I took a private moment between us and immortalized it in pigment and oil. How could he not hate me after that? He turns his attention toward me, his eyes blazing with emotion.
“James, this is—”
“I know, a violation,” I cut him off before he can say anything else. “I’m sorry.”
“What? No, don’t be sorry. This is amazing.”
“Really?”
“Of course it is.” He walks over and pulls me into a tight hug. “Were you worried I wouldn’t like it?”
“No. Yes. I was worried you wouldn’t like being the subject of my art. It’s not like I asked for your permission.”
“You can paint me any time you want. I’ll even model for you if you want me to.”
“Really?”
“I’d wear a silly costume and stand there for hours if it made you happy.”
“I was imagining something with a little less clothing…” I pull out of his grasp and head toward the door, dropping my towel onto the floor as I step into the hallway. The sound of my boyfriend’s clumsy fumbling follows me a heartbeat later, drawing a joyful burst of laughter from my lips.
Some fucking birthday indeed.
