Page 80 of Messy Strokes (Wrecked Roommates)

Milo rests his elbows on the table, lacing his fingers in front of him, and asks, “Do you have anything on tap?”

My gaze darts to my parents, their expressions paling. They don’t drink alcohol. Hell, they’re never evenexposedto alcohol. So this? This douses gasoline on an already precarious situation, and I have no idea how to get out of it.

Lainey walks away a few seconds later, though I must’ve missed Milo’s order while I was staving off my inevitable panic attack. It doesn’t stop my heart rate from climbing with each passing moment as the already familiar awkward silence settles over the table. Again.

Why are we doing this?

Why can’t we all agree this relationship isn’t salvageable and go our separate ways?

Why are we allowing ourselves to torture each other by simply being in the same room?

“So, Milo,” my dad speaks up, his voice almost cracking. “What do you do?”

There’s a slight tick in his jaw as Milo glances at me.

I shake my head slightly.

Clearing his throat, Milo mutters, “Nothing much.”

“Oh?” my mom squeaks. She reaches for her pearl necklace all over again, rolling the beads between her fingertips. “So, you’re not working? Or––”

“No, I have a job,” Milo clarifies. The man has the patience of a freaking saint. “Nothing special. A little of this and a little of that.”

“Oh?” my mother prods. “Are you a handyman or something?”

“No.” He chuckles, his gaze darting to me again before he looks back at my mom. “I’m a––”

“He’s an artist,” I interrupt.

My mom cocks her head to one side, carefully scrutinizing him from head to toe. “An artist?”

“Y-yes,” I stutter. “There’s, uh, there’s actually an exhibit––”

Milo grips my thigh again, a little higher this time and with way more force. With another tight, panicked smile, I open my mouth to backpedal when Lainey reappears, carrying a tray full of drinks.

Shit.

She sets a pale ale in a large glass in front of Milo, and my eyes widen as a fresh wave of panic settles into my bones. Without waiting for everyone to be served, Milo reaches for it like it’s a lifeline, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he chugs half the drink and sets it back down.

“So, an exhibit?” my dad prods, trying to act like everything is hunky-dory though it’s easy to see right through him.

“Yup,” I return.

This is a freaking disaster.

“Interesting,” my mom adds, unable to tear her gaze from Milo’s half-finished glass sitting in front of him.

Milo shifts in his chair, looking like he’s about to have a damn colonoscopy. “It’s really not.”

“Well, when is the exhibit?” She looks back up at him and pastes a tight smile across her face. “Maybe we can come––”

“That won’t be necessary,” he grits out. “Thank you, though.”

“Oh. Well. I think it sounds…really great, Milo,” my mom forces out, fiddling with her pearls. “And if you’re going to marry our daughter––”

“Wait, what?” I interrupt, the blood draining from my face.

“Well, we––”

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