Page 5 of P.S. I Miss You

When my original roommate, Hector, took a job across the country, he sent some guitar-playing Casanova named Nick Camden to take his place.

All right. Fine. Whatever pays the rent.

But a month later, Nick’s band got signed to some big-time record label and he got word they were going to be touring all over the country for the next half year. Nick, being the cheap ass that he is, wasted no time filling his spot with an old friend of his.

He assured me we’d get along, that she was “cool as fuck” and “laid back,” and he promised me that if it didn’t work out or if she decided to leave, he’d still pay his half of the rent each month.

One look at this piece of work and I can already tell we’re going to lock horns like crazy. We’ll probably spend the next couple of months going back and forth, bickering over who left the toilet seat up (wasn’t me) or whose turn it is to wash the dishes in the sink (hers, naturally). And after a while, she’ll pack up and go move back into her grandmother’s Brentwood guesthouse and curse the day she met me.

I see no harm in helping speed the inevitable up a bit …

I’ve been living with roommates for the better part of the last decade, and I’m fresh off the heels of a long overdue breakup with a girl who put the “cling” in “clingy.”

All I want is some goddamned breathing room and a little time to myself.

“Is Melrose your real name?” I ask, strutting toward her and grabbing one of her bags as I get a closer look. The scent of expensive perfume fills my lungs and I hope to God she’s not as extra as she looks. “Or is it some stage name you made up to make yourself stand out?”

Her head tilts. “Sutter Alcott sounds like the name of an old, rich, white guy.”

Touché.

I fight a grin, twirling my keys on my finger before finding the right one and shoving it in the lock on the front door. She stands behind me, waiting, and I’m sure I smell like ass. I’ve been running wires all day on some new build in Encino and it’s been an unseasonably hot March.

All in a day’s work.

We head in, and I place her bag to the left of the foyer, but this is where my assistance ends because I’ve got three priorities right now and three priorities only: a hot shower, a cold beer, and a juicy ribeye.

“You know where you’re going?” I ask.

“He said it was upstairs. The bedroom on the left.”

I chuckle. “Nick’s a directionally-challenged moron. My room is on the left. His—yours—is on the right.”

It’s odd imagining the two of them as friends, let alone best friends. He’ll wear the same t-shirt three times before washing it and she’s got on a pair of those red-bottomed heels I always see the women on Robertson wearing.

“You always dress up on moving day?” I ask, noting the curls in her shiny blonde hair and the coat of dark pink lipstick on her full mouth. I’m not sure if that’s her God-given pout or if she’s the product of some Kylie Jenner fad because it’s impossible to tell in this town these days, but her lips are a work of art, like two pillows shaped like a heart.

“I’m not dressed up.” She peers down at her pointed heels before meeting my stare. “This isn’t dressed up.”

Maybe where she comes from …

“Ah, I see. So you just wanted to impress me then,” I say.

Melrose’s full, pink mouth shapes into a circle. “For your information, I had an audition today and I spent all day driving all over town. I didn’t have time to change.”

“Nick said you were an actress,” I say. He told me all about her and how he’d known her since they were kids and that her grandma was some award-winning movie star named Gloria Claiborne, which meant fuck-all to me. “But I haven’t seen you in anything.”

I’d remember a face like that.

I’d remember tits like that too.

Her pretty eyes narrow and she squares her shoulders. “Can you please go longer than thirty seconds without underhandedly insulting me?”

“Is that what you think I’m doing?” I wrestle a smirk.

“Nick said you were cool,” she says. “He didn’t tell me you have the personality of an overconfident frat boy.”

I place my palm across my heart, pretending to be offended. “Can you blame the guy for overselling me? He’s cheaper than hell. He’d do anything to save a few bucks. I’m just glad I can finally get that Old Milwaukee piss-water out of my fridge.”

Melrose glances down, like she’s having a hard time comprehending that her lifelong bestie sold her out just to save a few grand. She releases the handle on her suitcase and folds her arms across her chest.

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