Page 87 of My Roommate from Hell
“I love it,” I say. “Nicest house I’ve ever been in, easily.”
“Please, you’re being nice. It’s so ugly, I have no idea what they were thinking.”
A rap song I’ve never heard is playing on the speakers. Okay, this is fine. I’m at a party for millionaires with my demonic roommate. This is totally fine, no reason to panic. I’ve dealt with goats, clearly haunted dolls, and the ghoul that lives in our bathroom. I can handle rich people.
We go to the kitchen. The chemical smell of alcohol is thick.
“Help yourself.Mi casa es su casa,” says Adam, making prayer hands. “Housekeeping will clean everything tomorrow anyway, so let loose!”
He gives Zarmenus a fist bump, then leaves the kitchen.
“I know he’s a lot,” says Zarmenus. “But he’s a good guy, deep down.”
“Is he?”
“Has anyone ever told you can be a little judgy?”
“You’re right,” I say. “I’m sorry. I just haven’t had the best experiences with guys like him. But I’ll try, I promise.”
Clearly people have been taking advantage of the free drinks, and nobody has been cleaning up after themselves, as the benches are wet and the floor is sticky. They’ve even set up a slushie machine, which has two drinks in it: one lime green and one neon orange.
“Adam probably wouldn’t want me telling you this, but he looked you up online,” says Zarmenus. “And he thinks you’re hot.”
“He does?”
“Friendly advice? Gay guys don’t tend to lie about who they’re into. Just take the compliment. Now, what would you like to drink?”
He’s right, and I should be better at just accepting when people say nice things about me.
“I’m curious about the slushie.”
I point at the orange slushie, and Zarmenus fills a cup for me, then hands it over. He pours himself a cup of Coke, then pulls what looks like a potion bottle out of his pocket. He uncorks the lid, and pours some into his drink.
“What’s that?”
“Oh, human alcohol doesn’t work on me, my metabolism burns it off. This is a nightshade potion. It works on me like alcohol works on you. I’d offer you some, but it’d kill you instantly.”
I take a sip of my drink. It tastes like a Fanta slushie, which is a little dangerous. I’ve only been properly drunk a few times, and each time it’s been because I started drinking sweet drinks that tasted good enough that I forgot they were alcoholic until it was too late.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say. “Just anxious.”
“What are you anxious about?”
I take another sip, trying to decide which one to tell him about.
“Giving us away.”
“Can I give you some more advice?” he says. “Relax. It’s a party,it’s supposed to be fun. Nobody will question us unless you give them reason to.”
He’s right. He’s totally right. And he’s right to call me out on what I’m doing. Overthinking things is the easiest way to suck the fun out of anything.
“Okay, I’m relaxed,” I say. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. And hey, if you ever want to leave, let me know, okay?”
With that, we leave the kitchen. The two of us join in on a conversation taking place in the living room.
