Page 38 of Messy Strokes (Wrecked Roommates)

He blinks and turns back to the screen to find it painted in red.

“Dude, you got us killed,” Jake groans.

Milo grabs the remote resting on the arm of the couch and turns the television off without bothering to apologize. Jake tosses his controller on the coffee table and stands up.

“Welp. That’s my cue.”

“Where are you going?” Milo asks. There’s a sharpness to his words, making it sound like he’s talking to a grounded teenager instead of his best friend, and I’m not the only one who notices.

Stretching his arms over his head, a sliver of tan skin peeking out beneath his dark T-shirt, an unperturbed Jake yawns, “Out.”

He grabs his keys from the entry table near the base of the stairs and squeezes past me without another word, pulling open the front door and closing it softly behind him.

How…weird.

I stare at the front door for a long moment. Turning to Milo, I see his jaw ticking with frustration.

“Everything okay?” I ask carefully.

Sitting up, Milo balances Penny against his chest and opens the coffee table drawer, setting his controller inside. Once it’s safely tucked away, he puts Jake’s controller beside it and slides the drawer closed. Meticulous. Controlled.

Which means no, everything isnotokay.

“You can talk to me, you know,” I murmur.

“Sometimes, he seems fine. Like he’s getting over Reese.”

“And other times?” I press.

“He barely passed his last semester. He still hasn’t picked up his laptop or done any work on his thesis for his Master’s project. It’s like he doesn’t give a shit anymore.”

“Maybe he’s going to the library?” I offer.

Milo shakes his head, motioning to a black laptop case set on the entryway table, which happened to berightby Jake’s keys. “Not without his laptop.”

“You don’t make him keep it in his room?” I tease, hoping to lighten the mood.

His laugh is dry as he shakes his head again. “Figured if he saw it down here, he’d think about opening the damn thing.”

“Has it worked?”

He waves his hand at the closed laptop. “What do you think?”

I cringe.

“He’s screwing up his life. Throwing away everything he’s worked for.”

The pain in his voice is a familiar one. It takes me back to the times when he trusted me. When he let me in. When we would lay in bed, and he would open up about his life and how much he cares about the people around him. How much it kills him to see them struggle. How hard it is to sit back and watch people make mistakes while recognizing there’s nothing he can do about it.

“Everyone has their own path,” I reminded him.

“Yeah, but it sucks when they choose the harder one,” he growled.

“Yeah, but it isn’t your job to pick for them.”

“Then whatismy job?”

“It’s to be there when they need a little guidance.”

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