Page 74 of The Roommate

Shit. What if she had a concussion and they’d missed it? He grabbed a towel and wrapped it carefully around her before guiding her to sit on the closed toilet seat. “Stay here and put your head between your legs.” That was what they said on TV, right? “I’ll go get you a glass of water.”

“Josh, I’m fine. It passed.” She held out her hand and looked up at him, beads of water caught on her eyelashes.

“Don’t worry,” he said, backing out of the bathroom in his sopping briefs. “I’m not going to let anything else hurt you.” Especially me.

chapter twenty-five

JOSH TREATED CLARA like a pneumonia patient for the rest of the week. He went out and bought her chicken noodle soup and orange juice, both with and without pulp, despite her protests that there was nothing wrong with her immune system.

He flat-out refused to let her come to the studio after work, instead dictating that she needed time off to rest.

So tonight, while Josh instructed hot people how to get each other off, Clara found herself relegated to the more commonly accepted Clara Wheaton Friday night activity of cleaning out the inside of the fridge. She might even go crazy and descale the coffee maker.

Josh’s message came through loud and clear. He didn’t want her. Despite whatever “signs” her desperate heart presumed to detect, he’d gone so far as to run from the room when she offered him her naked body on a silver platter.

Apparently, sometimes a raging hard-on was nothing more than a biological consequence.

When the doorbell rang, she didn’t bother removing her yellow rubber gloves before answering it.

“Are you Ms. Wheaton?” The delivery guy held a stunning bouquet.

“I am.” She signed her name and carefully accepted the colorful flowers, waiting until she had her back to the closed door to stick her face in the middle of them and inhale. The manicured stems contrasted vividly with the plastic-wrapped wildflowers Josh had brought to the hospital.

She knew without looking at the card that they were from her father. Or rather that her mother had sent them using her father’s credit card. Some women regularly received flowers from suitors, but Clara wasn’t one of them.

No. With the recent exception of infirmity, she garnered bouquets not for her allure, but for graduations and birthdays. Even the occasional bittersweet Valentine’s arrangement that smelled equally of freesias and pity.

She no longer indulged the girlhood fantasy of poetry accompanying her roses. So when she did glance at the folded greeting tucked behind petals, the signature made her hand fly to her racing heart.

C—Your mom left me a voice mail saying you were in an accident. She seemed to think I was taking care of you, so figured I could at least send flowers. Hope you’re back on your feet soon. See you at the end of August. Love, E.

The word love struck her right between the eyes. She knew Everett didn’t mean it romantically. He’d surely signed the card without thinking. The way she often scribbled out a missive to her great-aunt Barbara. But still.

She’d waited fourteen years for those four letters.

“Love.” The word got even better when she said it out loud.

Her mother had ignored her express wishes and called Everett directly to check up on her. The physical distance between L.A. and Greenwich did nothing to dim Lily Wheaton’s tenacity.

Her stomach flip-flopped as she hunted for a vase. Everett would return in just over two weeks; there was a chance he’d see their last breath. An unfamiliar knot formed in her belly. She’d almost forgotten about Everett.

And she had one person to thank.

Clara didn’t owe Everett any loyalty, obviously, but at the same time, surely when he returned things would change. Josh would move out, for starters. Why did that idea hurt?

She frowned. Surely, Everett coming home was good? Clara would finally have the chance she’d come to California for . . . but at what cost? Her days of plotting perfect lighting, nostalgic activities, and figure-flattering outfits felt so far away. Like plans that belonged to another person entirely.

With no vase in sight, she settled for a pot and arranged the bouquet to the best of her ability on the windowsill. Josh’s flowers had already claimed the space on her nightstand.

She removed the rubber gloves and wandered into her bedroom. After several minutes of hunting, Clara found her Everett-snaring accessories in the closet, behind the raincoat she hadn’t touched since she’d arrived. She carried the small hatbox out to the back porch. A trip down memory lane would remind her why she’d risked so much for the one that got away.

Settling

herself in an Adirondack chair with peeling paint, she pulled out a handful of photographs. Her thumb snagged first on a shot of her and Everett from peewee soccer, arms slung around each other’s shoulders. He had mud spattered across his cleats and shin guards, while Clara’s uniform remained suspiciously pristine.

Everett had always picked her in gym class, even though everyone gave him a hard time. They were a pair. A foregone conclusion. Until they weren’t.

She’d been so excited to come out here and renew their bond, but now she realized she was nervous about Everett’s return to L.A. For better or for worse, when Everett left her on his doorstep, she’d had to write her own destiny for the first time. No one could have imagined she’d like freedom so much.

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