Page 47 of Never the Bride
Next, I move to the shower and the takeover happening there. How can a person have this much crap? You would need an hour-long shower just to use it all. Sponges, loofahs, three shampoos, two conditioners, a half-empty bottle of “hydrating mask,” a pumice stone, a tub of something called “sugar scrub,” and at least four razors balancing on the shelf. Are all women like this? I shake my head and grab the first shampoo bottle. I know this scent. It’s her hair. Warm, sweet, distracting.
Camila smells good. But she’s a nightmare to share a bathroom with.
The plumber said it would be a few more days until her bathroom is ready.
I don’t know if I can last until then.
Camila
The weekends arethe worst part of this living arrangement. I can only stay in my room so much. Eventually, I need to eat. There are just some situations when you have to face your roommate. This evening is one of those times.
The game plays faintly on the television in the other room, grounding the moment in something ordinary. We don’t talk much, but it isn’t uncomfortable. It’s easy—easier than I imagined it would be after only two weeks living together.
I swing open the fridge and stare into the empty shelves. “I thought you said you went grocery shopping. It was your turn.”
“I did.” Hess sits at the kitchen island, eating a bowl of cereal.
“Why is there no food, then?”
“What are you talking about? There’s a ton of food.”
I grab the first thing I see, a giant tub of rice pudding. “This is not food.”
“Sure it is.” His spoon suspends in the air, finishing his thought before he takes his next bite. “It’s creamy, cozy, and nostalgic.”
“And this?” I pull out a jar of pickles. “Am I supposed to eat these for dinner?”
“Pickles are a solid side dish.”
“To what?”
“Hamburgers.”
I reach deeper into the fridge and yank out a bottle of hot sauce, then a jar of salsa, and balsamic vinegar. “None of these works unless you have food to put them on.”
“There’s a ton of food. Open up the freezer.”
“Frozen TV dinners are not food.”
He shrugs, unbothered. “You asked me to get groceries. I got groceries.”
“Groceries are eggs. Bread. Fruit. Vegetables. Salad.”
“I’m not having any problems finding something to eat.”
“That’s because you think healthy food comes in powdered form.” I slam the fridge shut and turn to the pantry, which is just as bad—supplements and a tub of protein powder the size of a giant popcorn bowl. “Why do you need six different kinds of workout enhancers?”
“They all do different things. One’s for recovery, one’s for energy, one’s?—”
“Let me stop you right there.” I hold up my hand. “They’re all just chalk dust with marketing labels.”
His mouth quirks, like he’s enjoying this way too much. “You sound jealous.”
“Of what? Your ability to survive on pickles and powder? Some of us enjoy chewing our food.”
He smirks, just enough to be irritating. “I am chewing my food.”
“Cinnamon Toast Crunch doesn’t count as food.”
