[english] Roomies

Author: Lindy Zart

This is to anyone who ever dialed 867-5309
and hoped to talk to Jenny.
SO HERE I am, at 8:26 in the AM, all smiles for the first victim—I mean, patient, of the day. For the record, I hate mornings. I don't know whose record that information is going on, but it's going on someone's. And consciously awake and functional? Not before 10:00.
She (the patient) is looking less than thrilled to be here, but I don’t let that deter me or cause my overly perky smile to falter. The air around us is cloaked in a medicinal smell that is astringent to the point of burning nostril hairs if you breathe too deeply, or making your eyes water if you stand in just the right spot. It's from all the many—healthy andpletely harmless, of course—chemicals and cleaning solutions used in the office. I'm used to it, so out of habit I take shallow breaths. I'm all about being shallow. Maybe that's the patient's problem—she isn't breathing properly and the fumes are getting to her. I decide that must be the reason for the nasty scowl upon her weathered face. Who wouldn’t want to be here?
I walk up to where she is sitting in the waiting room—a small area with white walls, five chairs, two large windows, and a wood floor. It also houses framed medical jargon on almost every inch of wall space. Oh, and a big red blow-up heart (the organ, not the pretty one that symbolizes love) that kids are forever trying to turn into a punching bag, much to the receptionist's frustration. Although, I mean,e on, I've even punched it a time or two while passing by. It just screams to be whacked.

 

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Roomies Page 1



This is to anyone who ever dialed 867-5309

and hoped to talk to Jenny.

SO HERE I am, at 8:26 in the AM, all smiles for the first victim—I mean, patient, of the day. For the record, I hate mornings. I don't know whose record that information is going on, but it's going on someone's. And consciously awake and functional? Not before 10:00.

She (the patient) is looking less than thrilled to be here, but I don’t let that deter me or cause my overly perky smile to falter. The air around us is cloaked in a medicinal smell that is astringent to the point of burning nostril hairs if you breathe too deeply, or making your eyes water if you stand in just the right spot. It's from all the many—healthy and completely harmless, of course—chemicals and cleaning solutions used in the office. I'm used to it, so out of habit I take shallow breaths. I'm all about being shallow. Maybe that's the patient's problem—she isn't breathing properly and the fumes are getting to her. I decide that must be the reason for the nasty scowl upon her weathered face. Who wouldn’t want to be here?

I walk up to where she is sitting in the waiting room—a small area with white walls, five chairs, two large windows, and a wood floor. It also houses framed medical jargon on almost every inch of wall space. Oh, and a big red blow-up heart (the organ, not the pretty one that symbolizes love) that kids are forever trying to turn into a punching bag, much to the receptionist's frustration. Although, I mean, come on, I've even punched it a time or two while passing by. It just screams to be whacked.

Apparently healthy hearts equal healthy feet and the reverse can be said. Everything inside you, from your eyes to your teeth to your toes, is connected. I know, crazy.

I extend my already grotesquely large grin and announce, “We’re ready for you, Agnes.”

Agnes Magnus (yes, that’s really her name), a widow in her late eighties, suddenly has saucers for brown eyes and a twist to her red-lined lips. It appears that she may have even decided to throw caution to the wind and not use lipstick at all, going for the ‘lip-liner and nothing else’ look. Personally, I wouldn’t recommend it. The sudden belligerence in her eyes tells me that she may need some assistance down the hall. Not that I would drag her to the examination room or anything. (Insert chuckle here.) But I might give her a gentle shove in the right direction. Harmless.

“Well,” she says with a wheezing scoff, “maybe I’m not ready for you.”

Eyes narrowed, I have the semi-unpleasant thought, Trust me, lady, we don’t want you here anymore than you want to be here. But I just continue smiling, though maybe tightly at this point, and wait with raised eyebrows.

With an excessively drawn-out sigh, she struggles to her feet and mutters, “Come on. Let’s get this over with.” As if she is doing us a favor by gracing us with her presence because the office needs her and her money so much that we begged her to set up an appointment. Like we are glad she hasn’t taken care of her toenails to the point that they are now growing into her actual toes, and she has no other alternative but to have them surgically clipped. Yes…we have been waiting, years and years and years, for this monumental day.

Please.

I save my eye rolling for after I have my back to Agnes, because I am able to show restraint like that. The lone receptionist of the joint catches my eye as I pass by and smirks. We, the podiatrist and I, have our battles with patients, but Sally Flood, the receptionist, has hers as well up front. Agnes Magnus is not one of our favorite patients, to say the least. She’s not the worst, but definitely nowhere near the top of the list for patients we wouldn’t mind seeing more than once a decade.

With only minor grumbling on her part, I get Agnes into the operatory; a small, bright white room with shiny metal equipment and products galore seeping out of every crevice that we refer to as the ‘op’ because we’re verbally lazy, and motion to the single chair with the smile of an executioner. She doesn’t return the smile. But she does sit.

In her scratchy voice, she says, “I feel like I’m on death row and about to be lethally injected or electrocuted.”

I silently open up her chart on the computer.

“Are you going to strap me down too?” she wonders.

It can be arranged. “Of course not, Agnes.”

“Hmmph,” is her rebuttal.

“We’re going to numb up the skin around your toes before cutting the nails. We'll do the left foot today since that has been bothering you the most,” I say, meeting her eyes.

Her face pinches up. “Why are you smiling? Are you happy about this?”

My eyes go wide. “I’m not smiling.”

“I distinctly see the outline of a smile upon your face, though I’m sure you’re trying very hard to hide it. Do you enjoy other people’s discomfort?”

“No, of course not,” I say, turning away, and add with a mumble, “Maybe yours.”

Before I can worry about whether or not she heard that, my boss enters the room. Grant Olman is large. He has to be about six and a half feet tall and weighs anywhere from two hundred thirty to four hundred pounds. Okay, so he probably weighs more like two hundred sixty. His voice is deep and booming, making him seem closer to eight feet tall, and he’s perpetually clean-shaven. I’ve never even seen a hint of stubble upon his face. He’s got shaggy brown hair streaked in silver that always seems to be in need of a trim and gray eyes that are alight with humor most days.

“Agnes Magnus! How’s it going on this lovely morning?” he greets, then looks at me. “Great day for pizza, right?”

I hold in a sigh. My boss recently turned fifty and the office celebrated by having a pizza party at the local bowling alley. I showed off my athletic ability by routinely getting gutter balls and then I let my inner pig out by devouring most of a cheese pizza. Ever since then, he mentions pizza at least once a week. The guy needs new material.

“It’d be lovelier if I wasn’t here,” she replies.

For all of us.

My boss just laughs, complete with a snort at the end, and turns to me. “Ready, Freddy?”

“Who’s Freddy?” the sweet, sweet lady demands.

“She’s Freddy,” he says, pointing at me. “I can’t remember her name, so I just call her whatever.”

“As long as you don’t call her late for supper, eh?” Mrs. Magnus cackles.

I narrow my eyes on the back of her fluffy gray head. What was that? Was that a fat joke? I glance down at my average frame and frown. Does she think I'm fat?

Dr. Olman commences to widen his eyes and shake his head at me, motioning with his arms and mouthing, “No. No.”

I stick my tongue out at Agnes’ unsuspecting head and then smile at the readied needle.

Let the fun begin.

“First I’m going to numb up the area and then let it sit for a few minutes before beginning.” The boss man looks at the patient. “Are you ready?”

“I can’t wait.”

With a smile, he pokes the gnarly flesh around her toes with the needle, pumping lidocaine into the skin. All the while Agnes is carrying on like he is slitting her throat. Although, if that was the case, we wouldn't have to listen to her go on and on with her moaning and groaning, so there is actually a certain appeal to it. Not that I would ever tell anyone that.

Once that feat is accomplished, I hurry from the room as quickly as I can move my tired butt, deciding to bother Sally. “Hey. What’s up?”

 

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Sally’s office isn’t really an office at all, but a partially enclosed cubical that’s about two feet by two feet. Okay, so that’s a slight exaggeration, but really, it can’t be much bigger than that. There’s enough room for her desk, chair, computer equipment, and that’s about it. Oh, and her.

She looks up from the piles of paper scattered across her desk and gives me a woebegone look.

“That bad, huh?”

“Someone shoot me,” she pleads.

I laugh, not really sure if that was a comment you should laugh at or not, but hey, I'm all about improvising. Also, I may or may not be an inappropriate laugher.

She gets up from her chair and kicks at an offending piece of paper that had the audacity to fall to the floor, managing to kick the wall as well—which isn’t hard to do, considering the limited space.

“Or him. I'm not picky,” she continues, jabbing her thumb in the general direction of Dr. Olman’s office.

Sally’s a nice lady. She’s honest, maybe too honest, and when she’s ready to keel over from work-related stress, instead she goes on a verbal rampage until she feels better. It’s funny. For me anyway.

“Why do you want to shoot him?” I ask, leaning over the counter to better view her murderous facial expression.

She's closer to our boss’s age than mine, but you wouldn’t know it to talk to or look at her. With feathery blond hair and bright blue eyes reminiscent of Farrah Fawcett, along with a slim and tan frame, she’s attractive in an eighties sort of way. She could pass for early to mid-thirties, although I’m pretty sure she’s older than that. Not that I’d ever ask her or anything.

I want to live.

“You see this?” She gestures to the messy desk.

Nothing new there, so I shrug. “Yeah?”

“That, that…your boss,” she says with gritted teeth, “dumped all of these invoices, months and months of invoices, invoices I didn’t even know he had, on supplies I didn’t even know he ordered, on my desk this morning, and told me to have them filed by lunch. How?” she asks some unknown entity.

“How am I supposed to do that? And answer the phone, and get insurance payments into the computer, and schedule patients, and every other stupid thing I do around here? How? And I didn’t know about any of these bills, and now all the account books are going to be off, and we probably owe tons of money to these medical supply companies. I can’t work like this, I really can’t. I'm losing my mind.” She shakes her head and slumps back into her chair.

I wait for it.

“That man is an imbecile,” she announces firmly and loudly.

I dart a quick look down the hall, but Dr. Olman’s office door is shut, so there is a good chance he didn’t hear her angry litany. Although, I am pretty sure the patient did.

I’m not supposed to know, but Sally and the boss man have a thing going on. And okay, so as of yet, it’s unconfirmed, but I know it's true. One minute they hate each other, the next they’re shooting gaga eyes at one another when they think I don’t notice. It’s gross. I mean, they’re old. Not that old people shouldn’t have love and romance and sex and all that, but…I don’t want to know about it, ya know?

Sally pierces me with her eyes. “What am I doing here? Why do I do this to myself?”

“I don’t know,” I say slowly. “Um, I have to go now.” I scurry away, a mouse intent on escape from a broom.

“Kennedy Somers, get back here!”

I cringe, but keep going. My sanity depends on it. And anyway, it’s time to slice and dice the offending toenails of Mrs. Agnes Magnus. I fight the urge to rub my hands together in glee and meet my boss at the door to the op. He raises his eyebrows and looks toward the waiting room area.

“Don’t ask,” I tell him, and he doesn’t.

It is time to proceed.

Scrub top, check.

Facemask, check.

Protective eyewear, check.

Gloves, check.

Dr. Olman with his scrub top on…no check.

He holds up a finger and quickly leaves, returning with his scrub top on backwards.

I don’t say anything.

Three minutes into the procedure and I am ready to slap the patient. Every time the podiatrist comes near her, she flinches, even kicking her leg out once. Not a good thing to do with sharp instruments coming at your body. Just saying.

Dr. Olman steps back and looks at her. “Do you feel any of that?”

She pops open eyes she’s had squeezed shut for the last minute or so. “No.”

“Just try to hold still,” I say.

She turns her head to glare at me.

“Okay. Let’s try this again,” he says in a soothing voice.

Mrs. Magnus straightens her leg out, but keeps the toes of her left foot curled. I didn't even know you could do that under anesthesia. I mean, it's supposed to be numb. How do you move a numb appendage?

We wait; I with my hands ready to assist and Dr. Grant Olman with his surgical instrument.

“Mrs. Magnus?”

“What?” she snaps.

My boss and I exchange looks.

“You’ll have to uncurl your toes, Agnes,” he tells her.

She crosses her arms and sighs, but obliges.

After a minute of letting Dr. Olman dig at her rock hard nails, Agnes holds up a hand. I resist the urge to slap it.

He leans back. “Yes?”

“Are you done yet?” she asks, blood dripping from her big toe onto the towel beneath it and making my stomach squeamish. I know, what am I doing assisting something like this when the sight of blood makes me want to pass out? We may never know.

“No,” he says shortly, visibly impatient to continue.

Again with the sighing.

Once again, Dr. Olman has his hands on her feet; strategically slicing away at a layer of tough, protective protein scientifically known as keratin. In one smooth motion he gets it removed, which, in our line of work, is cause for celebration. I smile at my boss, realize he can’t see it through the facemask, and nod instead. The look on the upper part of his face is of pure relief before it shifts to determination, as there are still three more to go.

“Are you done?”

“No,” we say simultaneously, and maybe more forcefully than is warranted.

He clears his throat. “I have three left,” he says in a softer tone.

“Try to remain calm,” I tell her, which she ignores.

“You’re doing a good job, Agnes. We’re almost done,” he states.

That seems to pacify her, as she remains silent.

The last nail, on the pinky toe, no less, doesn’t want to be accommodating. As much as Dr. Olman tries to finesse a layer of it away from the toe, it will not budge. I am sweating; I am pretty sure the boss is sweating as well. In fact, I can see where his gloves cling to his hands in certain spots; like mine. It is getting hard to breathe behind the facemask and I want to rip it from my face.

After numerous minutes, whispered curses by my boss, and me perspiring profusely and wishing I am anywhere but here, he finally gets the last nail shaved down, leaving bloody toes in his wake. My stomach turns and I look away, pretending I am way savvier than I obviously am.

I love my job. I love it so much I think I should go home right now and celebrate the profound beauty of it with a bottle of wine. I glance at the clock and see it's not even ten in the morning. I scrunch my nose up and turn away.

Wine waits for no one.

I LOOK UP from the book I’m reading and roll my eyes. Seriously? Who screams when they have an orgasm? And crying after “making love”? Who writes these things? I toss the book over my shoulder, knowing my roommate is going to be annoyed when he finds it on the floor. He's disturbingly organized. Everything has its proper spot—my book on the floor does not fall into his realm of orderliness.

 

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“What the hell?”

I frown and lift my head to peer behind the couch. “Oh. Sorry. It fell from my hand,” I tell my roommate, who was clearly put on this earth for my visual enjoyment.

“Sure it did.”

I sit up and twist around to face him. I relish looking at Graham; it is one of my favorite pastimes—right up there with consuming large quantities of wine. He’s over six feet tall with an impressive physique and his skin is a perfect shade of golden brown. With messy blond hair and spectacularly green eyes, he is a ten on a scale of one to ten for hotness. I have yet to see him look bad and we‘ve been roommates for over a year now. I just don’t think he has it in him.

“I’m disappointed in you.”

He plops down in the matching cream recliner, a curious look on his exasperatingly perfect features. “Why?”

“You’re wearing clothes.”

He rolls his eyes. “Good one, Ken.”

“I thought so, Barbie.” I smile sweetly as he scowls. I’ve told him countless times to quit with the Ken nickname, but he insists, and so, I insist on calling him Barbie.

“Really, what’s with the book?” He begins to thumb through it.

“It’s stupid.”

“Why is it stupid?” Pausing, his eyes become riveted to a page I can only assume is one of many graphic love scenes.

I wait. And as I wait, I admire the way strands of golden hair fall over his forehead, the frown between his brows that’s terribly adorable, and how he bites his lower lip in concentration.

I can give him something to bite.

“People really read this stuff?” he asks, sounding offended.

I straighten and ban indecent thoughts from my mind. “I told you.” Do I sound smug?

Still looking at the pages of the pornographic romance novel, he says, “I mean, I could see you reading it, but other people?”

“Hey.”

He looks up, a smirk on his face. “Just kidding.”

“No, you’re not,” I retort, but I can’t keep a smile from my face.

“How was work?”

I roll onto my back. “Ugh.”

“That good, huh?”

“You don’t want to know,” I mumble.

“See, that’s where you’re wrong. I do want to know, hence my asking.”

I grab a pillow and smother my face. The pillow is striped in blue and white and scratches my nose. “I’m a bad person.”

“What?”

I yank the pillow down. “I’m a bad person.”

“I suppose that could be true, depending on who you ask.”

I turn my head to stare at him.

“I don’t think you’re a bad person,” he hastily adds.

“Who does?” I ask suspiciously, temporarily forgetting that I stated exactly this a mere minute ago.

“No one.”

“You have to say that; I help pay the bills.”

“What happened at work?” he asks, redirecting me. He's good at that. Probably why I keep him around. Never mind that his name is on the lease and not mine.

I blow out a noisy breath and sit up, tossing the pillow aside. “Do you want the long version or the short?”

“Short.”

I’m trying not to smile, which just proves how vile I am. “Okay, so this old bag was our first patient of the day.” I pause and he motions for me to continue.

I rub my forehead and look at a framed painting on the wall above his head. It's a watercolor of yellow and blue flowers. Decorating the apartment is all on Graham because I have no interior design sense at all. The walls of the apartment are white, as designated by the owners, but my roommate has managed to make our living room inviting with paintings, framed sayings on the wall (My favorite is: When the world says give up, hope whispers, try one more time.), and the pale colors of the ocean visible in the variations of blues and greens throughout the room. My contribution is to admire it all.

“She was awful, Graham, she really was,” I say earnestly.

“What’d you do?”

A good thing about being so close to someone is that they know you so well. A bad thing about being so close to someone is that they know you so well.

“That sounds like resignation in your tone.”

He just looks at me.

“Okay, well, as soon as she walked through the door she had a bad attitude.”

“And?”

“She accused me of smiling when I told her what we were going to do today.”

“And?”

“I wasn’t smiling.”

“Naturally.”

“So, uh, later, during the appointment, after she’d been mean countless times, I might have told her I was smiling.”

He doesn’t speak while he digests this.

I twine my fingers together and whistle.

“Maybe you should be more specific,” he says slowly.

I know my face is red because it feels really warm. “All right.”

Two tawny eyebrows lift in anticipation.

With a deep breath of courage, I say in a rush, “She was acting like we'd severed all of her limbs, saying her toes were stumps and that she was going to sue us, and really, it was a totally regular appointment. I mean, yeah, there was some bleeding, but that's normal when you shave off a layer of nail.” He groans, and I ignore that, continuing with, “So, then, you know, by that time I was getting really pissed. And when the doctor was out of the room, I leaned toward her and said very softly, ‘Now I’m smiling.’ Her eyes went wide and she almost looked scared and I felt a little guilty, but not completely.”

Graham laughs, but it has an incredulous ring to it. “Wow.”

My shoulders slump.

“Sorry, but that wasn’t nice.”

“I know!” I groan. “That’s what I’m saying. I’m a bad, bad girl.” I grin. “You should spank me.”

With a shake of his head, he states, “You’re just full of sexual innuendoes today, aren’t you?”

I shrug, admiring his biceps. “Must have been that book.”

“Must have been and quit looking at me like that.”

Our eyes meet. A jolt goes through parts of me, all of which shall remain unnamed. “Like what?” I ask innocently.

“Like you want to eat me for lunch.”

I just smile.

He sighs. “Your obsession is getting out of hand. Am I going to have to get a restraining order?”

“Psssh, whatever,” I say with a laugh. “How are you going to do that when I’m your roommate?”

He scratches his head, disrupting the shaggy locks even more. “Dunno. I’ll have you confined to your bedroom until I leave the premises every morning and night.”

“You’d miss my unfailing adoration.”

He laughs and looks down at the book in his long-fingered hands. “'Midnight Rogue'?”

“The book is stupid. This chick is screaming from an orgasm the first time she has sex, mind you, and then, after they, quote unquote, make love, she cries from the beauty of it all. It’s ridiculous. All you need is the man crying as well to make the idiocy of it complete.”

With a rueful grin on his full lips, he glances at me before returning his gaze to the paperback. “You’re such a snot. Maybe some women do those things.”

“Maybe not,” I scoff.

He tosses the book toward me and I catch it. “What do you want to do for dinner?”

“Eh,” is my well thought-out response.

“All right. Guess I'll pick. I've got some chicken in the fridge. I’ll grill that up. Can you make a salad?”

 

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I nod and grudgingly remove myself from the couch. I follow him into the kitchen, where he’s pulling marinated chicken breasts out of the fridge. The kitchen is small, just big enough for the table and chairs that are in it, and decked out with simple white appliances. The theme is red and black accents with coffee and wine references—favorite things for each of us. Me, I prefer the wine. Graham prefers the coffee.

I lean over him as he’s bent down and sniff. “Mmm. Smells good.”

“It’s Italian dressing and pineapple chunks. Thought I’d try something different.”

“I meant you.”

“What is with you today?” he questions, sounding more thoughtful than irritated, as he shuts the refrigerator door with his elbow.

I sigh and place my chin in my hand, bracing my elbow on the counter. “Do you think stuff like that really happens?”

“Stuff like what?”

I gesture with my hand. “You know. Women and men who love each other so much they cry after having sex? Having orgasms the first time they have sex? I mean, I know guys do, but girls? And they actually call it making love? Does that kind of stuff really happen?”

Graham stares at me.

“What?”

“I don’t really know,” he says carefully and carries the plate of chicken through the patio door opening to the deck.

I follow him. “Haven’t you ever been in love?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure.”

“If you’re not sure, then you haven’t.” Me—who has only had a few boyfriends and only one even close to a serious relationship—the expert on love and dating. It’s safe to say I am a virgin.

I am a virgin. There, I said it.

“I suppose.”

I sit in a patio chair, watching Graham as he fires up the grill. He has a thing about grilling out as often as possible during the summer. I don't know why. I guess he likes it. I tip my head back. Summers in Wisconsin can be pretty humid, but today the sun is shining and there’s a gentle breeze with no sign of dampness. The smoky scent of the heating grill tantalizes my senses as I inhale.

“So—”

“Kennedy.”

“Yes?”

“I really don’t want to be having this conversation with you.”

“I’m just curious.”

“Wrong person to be asking.” He pierces the chicken with a fork and slaps it on the grill.

“Why?” I demand.

He checks the temperature on the grill and straightens. “Because I’m not comfortable talking about orgasms with you, that’s why.”

“But Graham—”

“No buts.”

“No butts,” I snort.

“Not what I meant.” He walks to the patio door, stops, and looks at me accusingly. “And you know it.”

“You’re such a girl,” I call after him.

“And you’re such a guy.” He slams the door shut, leaving me outside.

I frown. What’s his problem? I can usually tease Graham all day long, but every once in a while, something I mention makes him clam up, like now. Then he gets all huffy and stiff-lipped and I have to make nice, which I’m not very good at. But with him, I make an effort because I love him and not in that way, but actually, yes, in that way. It’s complicated. Or not.

I can be mostly upfront about things with him, because even though I wish it were otherwise, my roommate does not look at me as being potential girlfriend material. From the start, I was designated to the friend zone. On the one hand, this is good, because I don't have to try to impress him or anything, so I can say and do whatever. Or maybe that's because I have no tact. Irrelevant! But sometimes, like now, he turns into a stodgy old man and I feel funny, like maybe I shouldn’t be so blunt about certain things, or be so much of a buddy. If any of that makes sense and I don’t think it does, but whatever.

I trudge back into the apartment to find him mutilating a salad with his back to me. “What’d it ever do to you?” I ask.

He doesn't respond.

“Ah, come on, Graham, let's kiss and make up.”

Without waiting for him to respond—or not respond, as he seems prone to do at the moment, I wrap my arms around his waist. I would be completely okay with just kissing, even if we weren't making up. Luckily for me, Graham can never stay mad at me for long. I guess I'm too likable. I smell faint cologne and something fruity, like he got splashed with pineapple juice while preparing the chicken. It smells wonderful. He smells wonderful, like always.

He goes still beneath my touch and it takes him a moment to answer. “It brought up the subject of orgasms.”

I rest my cheek on the hardness of his back and close my eyes. It feels like he relaxes into me, but probably he’s just resigned himself to my PG fondling. Either is fine with me as I enjoy the nearness of him—his smell, the feel of him, for just a moment.

“So did you,” I counter, pulling away.

“I did not,” he says, all haughty.

“You just did.”

“Really?” All the exasperation in that one word says paragraphs about his discontent with me.

“I didn’t know it was a taboo subject between us. I won't bring it up again.” I push him out of the way and rescue the salad.

“There are certain things I can’t talk about with you, because, well, aside from how you act, you are a woman.”

“Like I need reminding.”

“Obviously you do.”

I give him a look. “Go check the chicken.”

He salutes me. I notice his middle finger is saluting me the most. I pretend I didn’t see that and turn my attention back to our vegetables. My phone rings and I wipe my hands on a towel before fetching it from the end table in the living room.

I grimace as I answer. “Hello?”

“Your mom burned peas. How do you burn peas?”

My dad has this thing about calling me. All the time. About random things. Graham says it's his way of reaching out to me, but I sort of doubt that.

“You cook them too long?”

“They're already cooked. All you do is heat them up.”

“I guess if you heat them up for too long, they burn,” is my awesome reply.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting ready to eat supper.”

He grunts.

I wait, about to tell him I have to go, when he says, “Guess I'll go eat some burned peas.”

“Have fun.”

He grunts again before hanging up.

I shake my head and finish preparing the salad.

Within the hour, all is well once more in world of Grennedy as we sit on the patio, eating poultry and lettuce. I cut my chicken into microscopic pieces so I can taste it but not think too much about what I'm eating.

Don't ask.

“Mmm, this is good.” I point my fork at the plate and smile at Graham. It is too; sweet and tangy, like citrus fruit bursting on my tongue with enough sweetness to keep it from being sour.

He grins back. “Thanks. The salad’s not too bad either.”

I shrug. “What can I say? I’m gifted in the kitchen.”

“Yes, you are. Remember the last time you baked?”

“Did anything exciting happen to you at work today?” I hurriedly ask, scowling at him. We don't need to talk about the time I almost burned the whole apartment building down by testing my culinary skills—and let's be honest, I don't have any.

He squints through the sunshine and shakes his head. “Nah. Just the usual.”

“Not even one person threw a golf club or beaned someone on the head with a ball?”

 

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“That is the usual.”

Graham’s a golf instructor at the local golf course. A lot of his students are women, and I think they’re there more to gawk at him than anything else. He’s just way too easy on the eyes. And he's nice. He’s like a magnificent work of art you can’t look away from. When God put Graham Malone together, He had beauty in mind, I’m sure, but that isn't even the appeal, not really. The appeal is him—the way he laughs, the sound of his voice, and his sweet, sweet nature. Yes, he is beautiful, but what makes him even more beautiful is that he has no idea.

He has his quirks; his little bits of crazy, but even they endear him to others.

I know men think they need to be tough and hide their true selves, and society tells them they need to as well, but the fact that he isn't like that, in no way deflects from his attractiveness. In fact, it enhances it. How can you not admire, respect, and covet a men who is perfectly okay with the way he is, even if the world says it's not the way he should be? He's definitely not a badass, but he doesn't need to be.

He's just...he makes your heart fill with something like joy and all of you turns warm when you're near him. You respond to him with not just your mind and your body, but all of you. At least, that's how it is for me. I sort of wish it was that way only for me, but I've seen how women act around him. I know—it's so not just me.

Yep. He's that guy.

“Did Mrs. Strang hit on you again?” I try to sound innocent as I ask this, but I have a hard time unclenching my jaw to get the words out.

“She does not hit on me. She’s married. She merely flirts.”

“Outrageously.”

He gives me a look that clearly states, And you don't? But all he says is, “She doesn’t have lessons today, remember? Only Fridays.”

“Oh, that’s right.” I perk up. “How about Janice and Melanie? I’m sure they embarrassed themselves somehow in their attempts to woo you.”

“Uh-uh.”

I purse my lips. “Something exciting had to have happened.”

“Nothing at all,” he says quite cheerfully.

“How very dull.”

“Well,” Graham comments, pouring us each a second glass of wine, “we can’t all be such badasses like you. Giving the grannies the what for and all that.”

I sigh. “I am pretty terrible, aren’t I?”

He leans toward me with a grin on his face. “You’re not bad, you’re not terrible, you’re not even evil. You’re just you.” And he kisses my nose.

OKAY, SO I shouldn’t have had the third, or even fourth, glass of wine. I’m staring at my ceiling, but it’s dark, so everything’s blurry and fuzzy, and of course, dark. I feel kind of woozy. Like too much wine kind of woozy. It doesn’t take much to get me happy. I distinctly remember Graham telling me to slow down on the alcohol and I may or may not have growled at him and snatched the bottle out of his hand. I can’t be sure 'cause the details are hazy.

I sigh. Why’s he always gotta be right about everything?

I keep replaying his words in my head. It was only like a whole sentence, but still, it had meaning behind it. You’re not bad¸ you’re not terrible, you’re not even evil, you’re just you.

It’s funny how just the right words, or maybe it’s not the words at all, but the person saying them, can make all the difference between self-loathing and understanding of oneself. Graham has a way of making me realize certain things about myself. He makes me feel like I’m worth knowing, bad traits and all. Possibly redeemable even. If I wanted to be—which I don’t.

I think about this as I stare at the darkened ceiling of my bedroom that I can't really see. I also think of Graham kissing my nose. He kissed my nose. He kissed my nose. Which really shouldn’t be all that significant and maybe it isn’t even to him, but to me, it is. I absolutely hate my nose, revile it, detest it, wish it wasn’t mine, etc. etc. It’s much too long and not pretty at all. It’s like, on the whole, my face isn’t too bad, but once you focus on that particular part of my face (the proboscis), it’s not so great. (And I only know what that word means ’cause I looked it up once, for research. Don’t ask me why I was researching noses.)

I mean, I’ve been complimented on the deep brown of my eyes and the way they tilt up at the corners. They have even been referenced to as being almond-shaped. Which...score! Because almonds are awesome. Who doesn't like almonds? Even the slenderness of my neck received praise from one boyfriend. He might have had issues, so I’m thinking I really should disqualify that observation (but I won’t because a compliment is a compliment). And my lips. They are small, but full, and yes, an ex said he liked them (not the same one). Even women like the silvery blond shade of my hair and the way it hangs down my back in a semi-straight sheet.

But have I ever received one positive word about my nose? No. Or had my nose kissed? Negative.

So it makes me feel, I don’t know, happy or something, that Graham would do that, to a part of me I think is repulsive. And he must not, or he wouldn’t have been able to do that. I groan. Why can’t he be awful, horribly deformed, cruel, smelly, missing teeth, gay, something? Then I wouldn’t be so stupidly in love with him. And I know I am, even though I deny it every other thought. It is so very pointless to be.

Graham is older than me, and even if he wasn’t, I’m smart enough to realize he’s more mature than me, probably more than I’ll ever be. He’s twenty-seven, so he’s been around five whole years longer than me. But like I said, I don’t think it’s the age gap that’s the problem; it’s just the gap. Something indiscernible that says no to us ever being together. Maybe it's my lack of maturity? Pffft. Yeah right. I can't really be that immature. And anyone who says otherwise can kiss my butt. But not really, because that would be weird.

It’s ridiculous how fast it happened. I answered an ad for a roommate in the local newspaper, met him, fell in love. He grinned—his eyes crinkling at the corners, the striking green of them slamming right into my heart—and I was done for. I shove the pillow over my head and scream. Thankfully the sound is muffled. At least I think it is until there’s a knock at the door. It has to be Graham, because, well, he’s the only other person living here.

I fling the pillow across the room and sit up. “Yeah?” I hurriedly try to smooth my hair and adjust my breasts in my tank top 'cause I'm currently bra-less. I arrange the blanket around my hips just as the door opens a crack.

“Ken?”

“Yes, Barbie?”

The door opens wider, revealing half of his body, the other half remaining in shadow, which is just plain disappointing. He’s got on dark pajama pants and nothing else. My mouth goes dry. A streak of light spotlights me and I know I don't look nearly as good as he does. I make a face. Oh well—not much I can do about it.

“You okay?”

“Yep. Mmm-hmm. Why?”

His feet softly pad into the room and he sits at the foot of the bed. Like, right by my pinky toe. If I move it less than an inch it’ll be touching him through the blanket. Hot dog!

“I thought I heard something.” I can feel his eyes on me, but can’t really see them. They maybe glow, which could be spooky, but I’m really not sure about anything I’m seeing or not seeing in my possibly inebriated state.

 

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“Nope. Nothing from here.”

“Huh.” His head turns. “Why is your pillow on top of your dresser?”

“Psssh,” is my clever response.

Even in the shadows I can feel the intensity of his eyes on my face and body. Okay, so, on my body, I wish. “You feel okay?”

“Wonderful!” I giggle. I’m not sure why. What I said wasn’t funny.

“I told you not to have those last two drinks. You’re drunk, aren’t you?”

“I am no such thing!” I declare—and hiccup. “Hey! Listen to this, I just thought it up.” I pause dramatically. “Here today, wine tomorrow. Good, right?”

“Bra off, wine on.”

“Risqué, especially for you.” I think, or try to think, as my brain is submerged in alcohol. “What the world needs now, is wine, sweet wine.”

“Got wine?”

“Lame!” We have this thing with thinking up catchy wine phrases. I don't know why or how it even started—probably during one of our wine drinking nights, and there have been many.

He scoots up by me and gives me a shove. I almost hit the wall with my head, but catch myself in time. “Move over.”

“Easy with the outstanding merchandise.”

“Learn to handle your booze.”

“Oh ho! It’s going to be like that now, is it?”

He laughs. “Fo sho.”

“Do not start with the gangster talk. My ears can’t take it.”

“Yo, you know what happens when you get shit-faced. Gangster Graham comes out,” he says in a horrible imitation of street talk that has me laughing and groaning at the same time.

About seven months ago, I stumbled home from a party with all kinds of wisdom to impart. Apparently, I hung out with some faux rappers or thugs at the party ‘cause by the time I got to the apartment, I was a wannabe of a wannabe and put on quite a show for Graham and his then girlfriend. For my big finale I puked—on his girlfriend.

Needless to say, he’s never let the incident go, and every time I become intoxicated, as my penance, I guess, he does this. You’d think one of us would learn by now. Oh yeah, and his girlfriend dumped him. On the plus side, he wasn’t too beat up about that. Or maybe the plus side was that she dumped him—plus side for me, that is.

With the side of his body against mine and his warmth seeping into me, I have a hard time playing along and keeping it PG. I want to jump on him and attack him and practice all kinds of sordid things I’ve read about in my smut books.

“Yo yo yo, check this out.” He does some weird hand movements that look like he’s trying to make shadow puppets—or mime.

“Graham, stop. No more,” I plead, holding my aching sides.

He goes still. “If you puke, I’m not holding your hair for you.”

“That’s so not nice. I would hold your hair for you.”

“And if you’re hung over tomorrow, I’m going to bang pots around and hide all the pain meds,” he threatens.

“You’re so mean to me.”

He gets up and I instantly miss his warmth. But all he does is grab the pillow off my dresser and comes back to the bed. “Sit up,” he commands.

So I sit up.

He plumps the pillow up and places it on the bed. “Lie down.”

“Are you going to tie me up too?”

“Not quite.”

“Your loss.”

Graham is quiet. I look up at him. He stares down at me.

What would you do if he kissed you right now? And on the lips?

Kiss him back.

Kiss me. Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me.

But he doesn’t. He does get back in the bed to stretch out beside me. Which is enough, because it has to be enough. We lie beside one another in quiet camaraderie. Although, I am tempted to jump his bones, so it’s not exactly peaceful on my part. My head touches his shoulder and I have to fight the urge not to rest it there. And then, I do anyway. Graham doesn’t move away or tense up.

“Are you sobering off at all?”

“Yeah. Party pooper.”

“You’ll thank me in the morning.”

I’d thank you in the morning if you didn’t leave my bed all night. “We’ll see in the morning, I guess, huh?”

“Indeed.”

“You sound so pompous when you say that.”

“Indeed.”

“Stop it,” I tell him, a grin curving my lips.

“Indeed.”

“Graham, I swear…”

He turns his head and looks down at me, dislodging my head from his shoulder in the process. “You swear what?”

My face feels hot. “I don’t know. Something bad.”

“In—” He laughs when I groan. “Just kidding.”

I slap his chest and then immediately rub the spot in apology.

“Kennedy?”

The seriousness of his tone has me frozen. “Yes?” I ask, not really sure I’m going to want to hear what he has to say.

“There’s something I have to talk to you about.”

“Do you really?”

He chuckles softly. “I really do.”

I grab the blanket from the foot of the bed and clutch it near my waist like it is literally my security blanket. It’s a fluffy silver and plum comforter I’ve had for ages. Oh no, what’s he going to say? He’s moving out, he wants me to move out, he's in love, he’s getting married, he’s dying, what?

“Hey. You okay? You’re all tense.”

I release my death grip on the blanket and smooth it over my stomach. “Mmm-hmm. Yep. Wonderful.”

“Do you remember me telling you about my brother?”

I frown and search my brain. Younger brother with mental issues, suicidal tendencies, not close with Graham, hasn’t seen him in years. Ca-razy.

“Yeah. Sort of. What about him?”

He rubs his face. “This is really hard to say.”

“Did he die?”

“What? No. Nothing like that.”

I'm an impatient person, so I urge a little forcefully, “Spit it out already.”

“He wants to stay here. For the rest of the summer.”

“Okay. Why?”

“Because he’s on summer vacation from school and he hasn’t seen me in years and I guess he wants to spend some time together. I got him a job. He’s going to help out at the country club.”

I sit up and face him. “Wait. So this is already all planned out? You didn’t even ask me if it was okay for some person, some stranger I don't even know, to temporarily live here?” Well, of course I don't know him if he's a stranger. I frown, hoping he didn't catch that.

Graham sits up too. “I know. I’m sorry. I just didn’t know what you would think of it and I did intentionally wait until the last minute to tell you. But really, you’ll hardly ever see him. I’ll keep him busy so he’s not pestering you. We'll try to make ourselves scarce.”

My mind wraps around something. “What do you mean, waited until the last minute? When’s he showing up?”

I can see him wince. “Tomorrow.”

“What?” I shriek. “You're shitting me! Tell me you’re just doing this for the ultimate payback to that time I puked on your girlfriend. Or you’re sobering me up the rest of the way. Something.”

“I’m right here. Please stop yelling.”

“I’ll yell if I want to yell!” I yell and jump to my feet. Not a good thing to do on a mattress 'cause all I manage to accomplish is the unknown ability to land on the floor with my face. Now that takes talent. The jolt jars another thought into my way too-sober brain. I sit up and give him a woebegone look. Graham can’t see my face, but I’m sure he can feel the sorrow in my gaze.

 

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“So you won’t be around much the next couple of months?” My voice sounds so pitiful I could slap myself. But I don’t want to, because that would hurt.

He sighs. “I don’t want him to be a burden, so yeah, I’ll keep him out of your hair. I don’t even know what he’s like anymore. It’ll be like having a stranger around.”

I roll my eyes. “Duh.”

“I’m sorry for springing this on you at the last minute. I really am. But I couldn’t say no. He’s my brother.” He sounds sad and in return I feel bad for him.

“You owe me,” I tell him without a shred of guilt.

“I so owe you.”

“Where’s he going to sleep?”

“With you.”

“Ha ha. Very funny,” I say and grab his offered hand. He pulls me to my feet and wraps his arms around me and it feels so wonderful I almost sigh. But I don’t. I’m way reserved.

“Good night.”

“Suck it,” I tell him saccharinely.

His laughter follows him out the door.

A POUNDING HAS me bolting upright in my bed. I look around the room, sleepily thinking there’s an earthquake presently going on, even if we do live in Wisconsin. There’s a gray cast to the room so I know it’s before six. And I don’t like to be awake before six, earthquake or not. I slump against the headboard of the bed and blink at the clock on the nightstand. The evil red numbers glow 6:12. Close enough to before six to be irate.

“Kennedy?” comes through the door.

“What?” I growl, flipping my hair out of my eyes to better glare at the door.

It opens, revealing a freshly cleaned head of messy blond hair and eyes that dazzle green even in the dullness of the morning light. My heart does a dippy thing into my stomach at the sight and smell of him, but I’m supposed to be annoyed, so I do my best to look…annoyed. Graham saunters into the room with a coffee mug in each hand. He’s got on a pale pink polo shirt only a man with infinite self-confidence can pull off and khaki cargo shorts. I glance at his feet, unsurprised to find them in worn tennis shoes. His standard country club ensemble, although the color of the shirts and shorts changes daily. He’s even got a purple and lime green-striped polo he pulls out of his closet on his really flamboyant days.

“It’s 6:12,” I announce, my voice gravelly and unhappy.

His eyes flicker to the clock. “6:14.”

I don’t have to try hard to put the scowl on my face this time.

“I brought you coffee.” He carefully places a black mug that reads ‘You’ll always be my best friend; you know too much’ on the stand beside my bed. Graham fits his lanky frame into the lone chair in the room, a flimsy rocker I picked up at a garage sale and am to this day stupefied is still in one piece, and gazes at me.

I shift uncomfortably, knowing I have eye boogers and my hair is a ratted mess. It’s hard to look your absolute best at all times when you live with the guy you most want to impress, and it’s downright impossible when the guy bombards your bedroom at all hours of the day and night. I want to seethe at the injustice of it all, but the coffee smells heavenly, and honestly, I’ve puked in front of him, so…who cares?

“Thank you,” I tell him grudgingly, lifting the steaming liquid ambrosia to my mouth. I sigh in pleasure as the first drop of bold, black coffee touches my sleep-gunked tongue. I totally forgot to brush my teeth last night. Shame on me and gross. I redeem my poor opinion of myself when I remember I did floss.

“You're welcome,” he murmurs in his deep voice.

We sip our coffee in silence. I start to feel semi-human.

“How do you feel?”

“Wonderful. No hangover.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

“You’re glad I don’t have a hangover? You care so much whether I’m miserable or not?” I’m grinning. We both know he really does.

“Well, I just don’t want you to be unkind to the elderly folks that go to the foot doctor today.”

“Oh, yeah, bring that up.” I add, “And I don’t need to have a hangover to be mean.”

“Sadly, I know this.”

I give him a curious look. “Why the coffee and early wake up?”

He then does something so out of character that I’m stunned. Like, mouth hanging open stunned. He fidgets and hesitates and finally stumbles out, “Well, my brother’s coming today, remember?” Actually, I had forgotten. Why’d he have to remind me? “I want to make sure you’ll be decent to him.” What does he think I’m going to do, traumatize the poor kid? I can be nice. Sometimes. “You know, that you won’t hold a grudge against him because of me, waiting till the last minute and all to tell you. I'm sorry about that.”

“Why would I take my anger at your stupidity out on your innocent brother?”

Graham sighs. “I apologized! I do really feel bad. I should have told you sooner, but I didn’t want to give you an extended amount of time to think about it, and dwell on it, and plan all kinds of mischievous ways to get back at me.”

“Silly boy.” I chuckle. “I only need a couple hours to do that.”

The morning light is changing from steel to shades of sherbert and I can see him better now—I can also see the disaster that is my room. He looks nervous. This visit with his brother must mean a lot to him.

“I just wanted to touch base with you before I leave for work. Sorry for waking you up early. I know how much you hate the unsleeping state of life.”

I give him a glare for that comment. A girl needs her beauty rest; all ten to twelve to fourteen hours of it. On a good night, that is.

“I thought the coffee would help. Be a salve to the morning monster’s grumbly attitude.”

He is so not getting a Christmas present.

He stands and the light through the window seems to illuminate his good looks all the more, casting a golden glow to his already golden physique. “I’m going to go hit some balls while I wait for my first lesson.”

“Who is it today?”

Something like jealousy shoots through me when I think of a few of his younger, perkier, prettier students—the ones that wear skimpy clothes, and bat their eyelashes at him, and sigh as they gaze at his handsomeness. Oh, and make obvious sexual innuendos, which is counterproductive. If you’re trying to be inconspicuous, you don’t grab at a guy’s arm and press your breasts against him, telling him your husband is out of town for the weekend. And that’s just one of the times I saw it firsthand; I’m sure it happens all the time in all kinds of interesting ways.

All of my advances are much more subtle. Okay, so they aren't. But that isn't the point!

“It’s Friday. Mrs. Strang.”

I make a grrr sound through clenched teeth. She’s the exact married woman I witnessed hitting on Graham in a not-too-subtle way.

He laughs. He always laughs it off. “She promised she’d behave.”

My face scrunches up. “I’m sure she did.”

“Kennedy.”

“What?” I snap.

“Quit acting like my mother.”

I sit back. That completely wakes me up and not in a good way. His mother? Seriously? “Get out,” I hiss and point a finger at the door.

“What? What’s the matter?”

“I have to get ready for work and you need to go flirt with your student and I am not acting like your mother!”

 

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He hurries to the door, casting an anxious look over his shoulder. “Remind me never to wake you up early again.” He pauses. “And I don't flirt. You know that.”

I menacingly scoot off the bed. Yes, it is possible to scoot off a bed in a menacing way. It's all about the expression on your face. Mine is schooled for murder.

He disappears like magic, popping his head back into the room to say, “And remember to behave around my brother.”

The look of fury on my face hurries him along, luckily for Graham.

I’M JAMMING ALONG to Avril Lavigne on my short, five minute commute; give or take a couple seconds, to work. I cut someone off at a four-way stop, apparently going when it wasn’t my turn (and that’s saying something in a small town like Lancaster. Like, I’m a bad driver) and give them a one finger salute when they honk and wave their fist at me.

Besides, I have stuff on my mind—Graham and Younger Brother stuff. Okay, so I’m slightly irritated that he didn’t mention this whole two month visit to me before the day before his brother is supposed to show up. It’s not like he’s staying for a couple days; it’s a couple months.

Most likely this kid is going to sleep on the couch and want to stay up all night playing video games and be a nuisance. He’s probably like sixteen or seventeen and thinks he’s all cool. I’m sure he’s not. He also probably won’t work like he’s supposed to, after Graham got him the job and everything, and he’ll just be a slacker. A smelly slacker. ‘Cause there’s no way two Malones can be so perfect. The younger one definitely has to be the outcast. I realize I already know he is, based on what Graham's told me of his troubled past. Wonderful. I’ll probably say the wrong thing and he’ll slice his wrists open, which...not cool.

What if he sees me in my undies or opens the bathroom door while I’m in there going pee? And yeah, the door does lock, but still, that’s not the point. If he’s observant in any kind of way, I’m sure he’ll realize in about two seconds that I have the hots for his older brother. What if he tells him? Graham would be mortified to know such a thing. He really would. Everything would be ruined between us.

My shoulders slump. This is going to be a horrible two months, I can tell already.

I hit the brakes at the last possible second and whip into a right turn, tires squealing. Cripes, I almost drove past my workplace. I slam the shifter thing (I don’t know the technical term for it so that’s what I call it. Lay off.) into park and twist the key in the ignition (I do know the name of this one. That R. Kelly song helped with that. Even though he’s a perv, he did have that one good song. Not the flying one—that one was just strange.) to off.

With a loud sigh and a sense of foreboding, I grab my hot pink purse, lock the car doors, and head for the gray building. At the door, I impulsively fumble around in my purse for my cell phone and hit Graham's number.

“Hello?”

“Hey, are you busy?”

“Well, I’m working.”

“Yeah, so, are you busy?”

He sighs. “What’s up?”

I nibble my lip. “So this brother of yours? He’s not going to, like, freak out and kill himself during his visit here, is he?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, because, remember, you said he had problems? Or something? Like, he’s depressed and suicidal and shit. So is he, like, going to off himself if I say or do the wrong thing?”

There's silence for an extended amount of time and then, “Only if you mention the color red.”

I go still. “What?”

“Yeah, something really traumatic happened to him when he was a kid and it involved the color red. So whatever you do, don’t say that word.”

I pull the phone away from my ear and narrow my eyes at it. “Are you funning with me?”

“Jesus, I thought you said something else,” he says faintly.

I grin when it dawns on me what he thought he heard me say. “Don’t swear.”

My parents may be whacked, but they did teach me some things you never say, and anything in relation to biblical terms spoken in a negative way was one of them.

“I didn’t…oh…yeah…sorry.”

“So you’re telling the truth?”

“Definitely.”

I don’t know if I really believe him or if I think he’s just saying this to get back at me for me being me—like, calling to ask if I have to worry about his brother ending his life in my apartment. Which isn’t very fair 'cause I can’t help the way I am. Maybe I’m a little callous, a little insensitive, a little self-centered, but hey, that’s how I roll.

“Okay. Well. 'Bye.”

“Goodbye.”

I don’t hang up. Neither does Graham.

“The word red, huh?” I just want to make sure I’m getting this straight.

A pause. “Yes.”

“What if he sees the color red? Same thing?”

Another pause. “No.”

“Oh, good, 'cause we have lots of red in our apartment.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And that would get tedious if whenever he went somewhere, there was the possibility he’d see the color red and attempt suicide. Like, if I grabbed the bottle of ketchup out of the fridge and he went berserk and hung himself. That would be a bummer.”

“Yes, it would,” he says evenly.

“What if it’s already in a word? Like…” I search my brain. Not easy to do this early in the morning. “Redwing. Or something.”

It sounds like snickering from his end of the phone. “That’s…fine,” he says, his voice sounding strained.

I purse my lips, feeling pretty suspicious. “Really, you’re not messing with me?”

“Really.”

I hesitate. “Okay then. 'Bye.”

“’Bye.” His second farewell may have sounded curt, but I’m sure I imagined it.

I unlock the door and scoot inside, willing the day to start fast and end faster. I’m always the first of the crew to show. Me, the doc, Sally, and a part-time massage therapist make up the glamorous team of foot care pros. We’re open four days a week, with Tuesdays off. Phoebe Kuntz, the massage therapist, makes bucket loads of money and only works Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. Must be nice. She makes in an hour what I make in five. Although, she did go to college for two years, and ya know, she has to massage feet.

Cringe.

I was hired right after I graduated from high school and was trained by Dr. Olman. The ad read ‘Willing to train the right individual’, and of course, that was me. Four years now I’ve been a foot doctor assistant. Amazingly, I find it fascinating. For the most part. The least part is blood and bad smells and procedures that don’t go as planned and running behind in the schedule and people that don’t clean between their toes—ever.

I glance at the schedule and can’t quite hold in a moan. Of course, the first procedure is multiple bunion removal. Yay. Talk about party in the office.

I'm just putting the final items on the surgical tray when Dr. Olman and Sally show up. Together. I narrow my eyes as I watch them walk through the back door. It's possible they just arrived at the same time, but came in different vehicles from different houses. Then again, I’m thinking not. Call it the blush on Sally’s face or the way Dr. Olman isn’t meeting my eyes.

 

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I smile—a really big smile.

He clears his throat, and in his thunderous voice, asks, “What are we doing on the first patient?”

Oh, so it’s going to be like that, is it? All business. Okay. Fine. I can be business-like. I'm profoundly versatile.

“Multiple bunion removal on both feet. Here's the x-ray.” I slap it against his palm.

He holds the x-ray up to the light, grimaces, and nods. “Could be extensive.”

“Yes! I love extensive procedures.” I punch the air in mock enthusiasm.

“Should be exciting.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

“Excuse me,” Sally says and slithers by. She glances at me as she passes. She blushes even redder when I left an eyebrow at her and hurries to her area.

“Have you seen Phoebe yet?”

I look at my boss. He never asks about Phoebe. Could be he's trying to deflect the attention from him and Sally. And...no. That's not happening. “Uh, no. Her first patient is at 8:30, so she should be here soon.”

He brusquely nods his head. “Good. I’m just going to…” he trails off, practically running to get to Sally.

I hold in a laugh and go about my duties.

Two hours later, Dr. Olman bandages up two feet, wishes Richard Hermsen a good day, and exits left.

“You have to come back one more time. We didn't get as far as we'd hoped to today,” I tell the patient.

Richard is in his sixties, has two hearing aids, and mumbles a lot. I don’t know if it’s on purpose or something he has no control over. But how can you not be able to control such a thing? I always want to yell at him, “Enunciate! Enunciate!”, but of course I don’t.

He runs a hand over his gray head, mutters something, and gets out of the chair.

“What?”

Mr. Hermsen blinks his brown eyes at me. “Huh?”

“What did you say?”

He leans his hands on the chair and slowly straightens to his full height of about five feet three, three inches shorter than me. “What?” He looks confused.

I let out a helpless sigh. I know I have a soft voice, but really, he has his hearing aids in so he should be able to understand me. I almost want to ask him if they're turned on, but I do have enough sense to realize that could be interpreted as rude.

“You have to come back one more time and Dr. Olman will finish working on the last bunion .”

He stares at me. I stare back. I don’t know if he comprehends a thing I’m saying. I’m about ready to shove him from the room and let someone else deal with him when he nods. I let out a deep breath and follow him from the room. I tell Sally what’s going on and quickly escape back to the op, but not before I give her a wink. Have fun, that wink says.

I remove the dirty instruments from the room, toss them in the ultrasonic unit (which basically vibrates germs and other gross stuff from the instruments) in the lab, return to wipe down the room, and go back to the lab. I take the dirty instruments out of the ultrasonic unit and put some of them in the heat sterilizer, the rest of the instruments that can’t be cleaned with heat in the cold sterile container, and head back to the op to set up the room once more. I finish typing my notes in Richard’s computerized chart, and click out of it just as the office door chimes, most likely signaling the arrival of the next victim—patient. There I go again.

Phoebe pops her head in the doorway. “Hey, Kennedy. How’s your morning going so far?”

My co-worker’s lucky, and not just because she’s almost too skinny, tan, blond, and blue-eyed; although none of those things hurt, but because her patients actually want to see her. When my boss tells someone they need treatment, it’s not exactly something they want to hear. Let’s just say, it doesn’t make their day; it even infuriates some of them. People seriously look at him sometimes like he’s lying about their podiatric health. It would be humorous if, well, if it was.

“Oh, you know. Like butter.” I grin at her.

She smiles back, showing off her straight, whitened teeth that appear to glow. I tried whitening my teeth once, but they got so dang sensitive, I had to stop.

She hovers somewhere in the above average height and below average weight category. She’s got her fine blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, which just accentuates her facial beauty all the more. Her eyes are large and she has a small chin and dainty ears. Phoebe’s just so cute even I can’t hate her. And believe me, when I first met her, I tried. She even looks good in her pale blue scrubs, whereas I feel like a scrub in my dark purple ones. And yeah, I got my hair pulled back in a ponytail as well, but my hair is thick and probably weighs twice as much as hers, so it just doesn’t look nice pulled back. It looks heavy.

“I think your patient’s here,” she tells me, nodding in the direction of the waiting room.

“The suspense is killing me.”

She blinks. “I know you’re being sarcastic, but I don’t know why. It’s Nathan Mezera,” she whispers, leaning close to me.

Her one flaw: she smokes. Therefore, she smells like a big butt most of the time. Cigarette butt, that is. And don’t get me wrong, I’ve tried smoking a couple times, but I just didn’t have the talent to make it a habit. I know—I am such a disappointment. And sometimes, when I drink, I feel the urge to smoke, but otherwise, I’m not a smoker. It’s sad, really. I can’t even be an overachiever at that.

“So?” I know why she’s looking at me the way she is, but I’m going to play dumb. Nathan Mezera is a construction worker, which isn’t to say he’s naturally buff and hot, but he is.

She closes her eyes and counts. I know this 'cause even though she’s not speaking, her lips are moving—in the form of numbers. Phoebe pops her eyes open and states, quite loudly, “He is hot! On fire hot. So hot he sizzles when he moves. Do you not see this?” She widens her already slightly too large eyes and makes a sweeping motion with her hand.

“So hot you could catch a fever?”

“Yes!” She nods her head up and down so fast I fear she may get whiplash.

“So hot he’s smoking?”

“Yes, yes!”

This is getting to be fun. I try to think of another analogy, but Dr. Olman ruins my good time.

“Hey!” He snaps his fingers in front of our faces. “Stop drooling over the next patient and get the next patient. You, Phoebe, Sally has a question for you. Move it, move it,” he commands, sounding like a drill sergeant.

Phoebe sprints from the room, but I just stand there and look at my boss. He returns my stare until I raise an eyebrow. He sighs and leaves the room, mumbling something about good help being hard to find. Then I snap to it and hurry for the next patient. I don’t want to appear too eager, like Phoebe. I wouldn’t want my employer to actually think I listen to him.

NATHAN MEZERA IS twenty-four years old. I know this because I looked at the date of birth on his chart. He’s probably about five feet ten inches of all muscle. He’s got light brown hair that curls on the nape of his neck and over his ears, and it looks so soft, like silk. Of course, his brown eyes are dreamy and always have a sleepy look to them, like he just got out of bed or had great sex. His skin is tanned dark brown from being outside in the sun most days. He always wears these straight-legged jeans that mold to his thighs and butt, and stretchy t-shirts that show off his awesome physique. Phoebe’s right—he is hot. Definitely drool-worthy.

 

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“Nathan, how’s your mom and dad?” Dr. Olman asks in a booming voice, shooting a look my way and completely interrupting my daydream.

My face burns and I fiddle around with the mouse pad. I suppose I can at least try to look like I'm working, and straightening the mouse pad counts in my book—which is yet to be written. I would so buy that book. Because, I mean, if the mouse pad isn't straight, then the mouse on top of it won't be, and how will I get anything done in the chart with an imbalanced mouse sitting on a crooked pad? Exactly! Aligned mouse pads are key to a productive workday. That could be the opening line of the book.

“They’re doing really good. Their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary is this weekend. You should come. There’s an announcement in the paper; everyone’s welcome. They’d be thrilled to see you—as long as you don’t bring your scary instruments.” He and the doc laugh. I somehow refrain. “It’s at the country club. Tomorrow night. Seven o'clock. Bring your staff,” Nathan adds and wiggles his eyebrows at me when the boss man isn't looking.

My mouth drops open—not because he can wiggle his eyebrows, or even that he did so at me while in the presence of my boss, but because I think maybe he just flirted with me. My boss and I exchange looks. I try to shrug discreetly, but I have a sneaky suspicion I look ridiculous bobbing one shoulder up and down, so I stop.

“Sure, sure. We’ll try to make it.” Dr. Olman gives me a pointed look. I pretend I don’t see him, which is hard to pull off as he is standing directly before me.

“So, uh, Nathan has some callouses on the soles of his feet that he'd like treated,” I rush to tell him.

“We'll shave them off for you, how's that sound?”

“Sounds good,” he tells him, fairly oozing self-confidence from where he sits in the patient chair.

“We'll numb the areas up first.”

“Nah. I'm good. Go at it.” He puts his hands behind his head to show just how good he is.

My boss and I look at each other, and then he shrugs. “Kennedy, where is the scalpel?”

“Uh…” I force my gaze from Nathan and try to think. Scalpel. Where's the scalpel? What is a scalpel?

Dr. Olman gives me a look of disgust. I lift my hands, palms up. I can’t help it. He’s really good at making my brain mush, to the point where words I should know, I no longer do.

“I'll get the scalpel,” he says.

I nod, not really paying attention. Nathan's smiling at me. Why does he keep smiling at me? It makes me want to smile back, especially with him looking all cute and into me. And then I realize, on top of all of this, we're about to shave callouses off his feet. My smile dims. I mean, the whole experience seems odd. Here, flatter me and make me blush while I watch my boss remove hard, dry skin from your feet. Yeah. Weird. I have an epiphany as I am mulling this all over—I so could not date him.

Well, at least I know. It would just—feet, him, me? No. I'd be thinking of his feet while kissing him and that is totally gross.

“I'll get the scalpel,” Dr. Olman says again, and his voice sounds ominous.

Then he waves at me to follow. With a sigh, I do. Once in the hallway, he wordlessly points to the lab. I enter and twirl around to face him. He closes the door and leans against it, crosses his arms, and waits. I wait too, wondering what we're waiting for.

“Something you want to tell me?”

“Um…your scrub top’s on inside out?”

“What?” He glances down. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

I shrug. “It was funny.”

He quickly pulls the article of clothing off, rearranges it, and shoves it over his head. “Anything else?”

I look him over, but no, I don’t find anything else to point out to him—at the moment. He has two facial masks hanging around his neck, but I’ll mention that when he tries to put them both on—as he’s done in the past.

“Noooo. Why?”

He jerks his head at the door behind him. “What was that in there with Nathan? Is he hitting on you or something?”

“I really don’t know,” I say, quite honestly too.

I don’t know what that was about. I can count on one hand the number of boyfriends I’ve had (and the most recent before I moved in with Graham. Sad, I know. He has kind of ruined other guys for me). I’m pretty much clueless about men and have almost no experience. Especially when nothing serious happened and I didn’t really like any of them. Except for one, and that was lukewarm.

When the silence gets awkward, I say, “I think we should get back to the patient.”

He nods, looking relieved.

Amid lots of blushes and restrained giggling (completely out of character for me), I get through Nathan’s appointment. Dr. Olman looks ready to shoot either me or himself by the end of it. My mind has wrapped around, and won’t let go of, Nathan’s parting words: “See you Saturday?” He said this to me, while looking at me, and waiting for me to answer. So I nodded. Of course. I'll just try to keep the image of his feet out of my head from this moment on.

“I’m glad I don’t have kids,” my boss says as we await our final patient of the morning.

“Why’s that?” I ask, leaning against the counter in the lab.

“I feel like I need to protect you, or give you some advice, or ground you.”

I raise my eyebrows.

He gets a helpless look on his face. “Do I?”

I vehemently shake my head. “No. No way. You just don’t worry about a thing with me and boys, okay?”

A curious expression forms on his features. “What would your father tell you in a situation like this?”

I think of my dad, a manly man with black hair pretty much everywhere but on his head, brown eyes, and an inclination to call me on a whim. He wanted a boy to hunt, fish, and watch football games—and let's not forget, burp and fart—with, but got me instead. Poor guy. Or rather, poor me.

I laugh. “He wouldn’t say a thing. He still thinks I’m a guy.”

He looks perplexed.

“Never mind.”

“Okay,” he says slowly.

The bell chimes from the waiting room, saving me from explaining my dad’s curious view on life, and saving Dr. Olman from the confusion of listening to it all. I give him a cheeky grin and head for the front of the building.

I’M TURNING OFF the last of the lights in the office. The day is finally over and the weekend is about to begin. Hallelujah. Dr. Olman and Sally are up front, conversing in lowered voices, and Phoebe is following me around like my more perfect shadow, bombarding me with questions.

“He really asked you to go to his parents' party? Like, he asked you on a date?”

I flip the light switch off in the examination room. “No. Not like a date. He was talking to Dr. Olman and said we should all go.”

“Even me?”

I look at her. “Yes. Even you. He said to bring his staff. That includes you.”

Phoebe smiles widely. “Oh. Wow. How cool. Want to go together?”

I walk the length of the hallway and end up in the reception area. The inflatable organ is limp and falling to the side. I place my hands on my hips and scrutinize it, aware that Dr. Olman and Sally both fell silent when I entered the vicinity.

“Sure,” I absently tell Phoebe, knowing without even looking that she’s hovering over my left shoulder.

“Are you two going to the anniversary party?” she asks Sally, totally unaware of the undercurrents in the room.

 

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Dr. Olman straightens from where he’s practically folded over the countertop in an attempt to get closer to Sally without actually going around the desk. She sits upright in her chair, too straight-backed and frozen to be natural—or comfortable. They wear identical expressions of guilt. I almost want to tell them to knock it off and quit acting all mysterious ‘cause I already know what they’re up to. But I don’t. It’s too much fun watching them nervously jump around and fumble about trying to cover up their tracks. Stealth-like, they will never be.

“What do you mean by that? By us two?” she asks suspiciously.

Phoebe looks confused. “Because we’re all invited.”

“Yeah, the four of us. Are we all going to show up together or…in pairs?” I raise one eyebrow and stare at them.

My boss straightens his tie, avoiding my gaze.

Sally looks like she’s torn between glaring at me and ignoring me all together. She thinks I might know, I can tell. She’s more astute than her lover boy. She flips her feathered hair and states, “Let’s all meet here at 6:30. Then, the four of us, will ride together. How’s that sound?” Her blue eyes bore into mine.

I smirk. “No can do. What if I get lucky? We’ll need to take two cars. Phoebe might have to hitch a ride home with you two.” I’m completely joking, but apparently they don’t know this.

Phoebe gasps.

Sally’s eyes narrow.

And Dr. Olman, well, he looks like he’s having a hard time swallowing.

“I was so kidding,” I tell them when the silence gets awkward.

Phoebe giggles nervously.

Dr. Olman gives me an injured look, like, how could I joke about such a thing?

Sally does glare at me this time. “Not funny,” she clips out.

“Sorry,” I say, still smiling. “But we probably should have two cars. In case some of us want to leave before the rest.”

“Good idea,” Phoebe agrees.

“All right. Have a good night,” Dr. Olman says.

“See you tomorrow,” Sally adds.

They’re obviously waiting for me and Phoebe to hit the road. Fine. I can take a hint. Phoebe, not so much, I realize, as I drag her from the room. I wonder if they’re gonna get it on in the office after we leave. I shudder. Please, no.

“Why are you in such a hurry?” she asks, pulling her arm out of my firm grip.

The sun beats a warm path on my head and I squint. It’s gotta be about ninety degrees out. I like it. I close the front door and look at her. “It’s Friday.”

She perks up. “Oh, yeah. What are you going to wear tomorrow night?”

We walk to our cars, mine a blue Ford Focus; hers a black Jeep Cherokee. Her vehicle is much cooler than mine. An ABBA song about money flitters through my mind.

“I don’t know. Probably a sundress or a skirt. You?”

She ponders my question, taking it way seriously. “I have a black mini skirt I’ve been dying to wear and a new silver wraparound halter tank top. Oh! And these black open-toed stilettos that I haven't worn yet. What do you think?”

I think I want to groan. But I don’t. She can’t help that she has long, tanned legs and a Skinny Minnie frame that will look sexy as hell in an outfit like that. I should be happy for her. I almost snort. Yeah. Right.

“I think you will look amazing,” I tell her.

“Really?” She gives me a blinding smile, looking pleased. Wow, I’m actually a pretty nice person. I had no idea.

“Really.”

“Do you want me to stop over and help you pick something out?”

She’s trying to be nice, knowing there’s no way I’ll pick an outfit out even close to being as cool as hers, but I am not a charity case and I do know how to dress myself.

“Come over at six and you can give me your opinion on what I’m wearing.” And then I’ll most likely keep wearing whatever it is I’m wearing.

“Five or five-thirty would be better. To make sure we have enough time,” she says in all earnestness.

I squint my eyes and negotiate. “Five forty-five.”

She jumps up and down in excitement, much too worked up about this. “Cool. I can’t wait! This will be so much fun. We haven’t gone out together in forever.”

The last time I puked. “Yep. Should be fun.” Hopefully not as much fun as last time.

“Oh, it will be. See you then!”

“’Bye.”

With a little wave, she gets in her car, blares the stereo system, and peals out of the parking lot.

Mine is a much more subdued exit.

I’M FRETTING ABOUT Graham’s brother, whom I should meet in about two minutes. The inevitable confrontation was in the back of my mind all day—as Graham always is. There’s not enough room in there for two Malone boys. It made my head hurt. I don’t like this at all. I chew on my lower lip as I park my car. He better not be a punk. ‘Cause if he’s a punk, I am so saying the word red.

It’s about five o’clock and I’m mentally exhausted from work, which usually transmits to physically exhausted as well, since the two seem to go hand in hand. I need to exercise, though, so I tell myself to suck it up. I haul my purse out of the backseat, lock the doors, and trudge up to the entrance of the apartment building. It’s a brown, rectangular-shaped structure with thirty apartments in it. We lucked out, or I should say, Graham lucked out, when he filled out an application for the apartment. You open the door, turn to the right, and voila! There’s our apartment. It rocks.

I steel myself for video game noises and a voice hitting puberty but am surprised to hear neither. I close the door, and take in the living room. A stranger that is so obviously not Graham’s brother sits on the couch. He is leaning forward with his head bowed, elbows on his knees, moving a beer bottle back and forth between his palms. Something about his pose tugs at me. He looks despondent. I am not a nurturing person by nature, so he must look really pathetic to get a reaction out of me. He appears to be Graham’s age and has shaggy hair so dark it might be black. He looks up and I suck in a really blatant deep breath, then outwardly, yes, outwardly, cringe. Subtle I am not.

But, his eyes. I’ve always been an eye gal. I’m drawn to them, eyelashes and all; the color, the shape, the expression in them. The eyes really are the window to the soul. And this guy’s eyes are way intense. He’s stabbed me in place with one glance and I can’t move. I force myself to take in the rest of him. His brows are slanted low over those expressive gray eyes, his nose is hawkish, cheekbones carved by a knife, his lips are on the thin side, and there’s a cleft in his chin. I’m usually not attracted to clefts in the chin, but his fits. The guy’s pale too, like he hasn’t been out in the sun enough. He’s like a sexy (possibly vampiric) bad boy with a deep soul within.

Holy guacamole, I’m spouting poetry.

From what I can tell, with him slouching and all, his frame’s lean and long, and covered in a black t-shirt that says 'Nirvana' on it with worn jeans gracing his legs. I cock my head, thinking he seems familiar, but knowing I’ve never met him before.

“How's it going?” he murmurs in a deep, quiet voice that has a slight derisive cast to it, like he really isn't the greeting kind of guy.

I hear him perfectly well, but feel like I need to strain to hear him anyway. I straighten, unaware until now that I’d actually been leaning in his direction. I bet I looked really dumb too.

 

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“Hey.” I nod. “Who are you?”

A smile quirks half of his mouth and I find it oddly attractive. “I’m Blake. You’re Kennedy?”

“The one and only.” I feel like I should strike a pose. But I don’t. I glance around the room, knowing Graham’s not in it, but double check anyway. “Where’s Graham?”

“He’s in the shower.”

I nod again. “Okay then. Nice meeting you.”

The almost smile makes another appearance. “You too.”

I have an intense urge to whistle as I leave the room and just barely restrain myself. I get into my bedroom, slam the door shut, and lean against it. Graham didn't decorate this room—which is why it's an eclectic mess of colors and clothes. I don't really have a theme, unless you count the three winter-ish landscape paintings that Graham got me and the silver and plum curtains that match my bedspread. Otherwise, it looks like a rainbow vomited in my room, in the form of clothes and accessories.

My knees are weak. No idea why. I take a few deep breaths—loud ones—and try to get myself under control. I must seriously be overly hormonal right now. Graham, Nathan, Blake. Attractive men are doing funny things to me lately and I swear it’s because I’m the oldest virgin alive. Possibly. Okay, so not the oldest, but one of the older ones, for sure. Although, I mean, I just plain love Graham. To death. Forever and ever and until the day after infinity. He’s it for me. Really. I know this.

But Nathan is available and likes to flirt with me, which makes me feel good and is also awesome for my ego. He would definitely be a fun time, if I was of the mind to have an uncommitted-not serious-wouldn’t last long fun time. That is, if I could not envision myself making out with his toes as I was kissing him.

Of course, I just saw this Blake guy for the first time ever, but he seems like he could induce some heavy, deep, passionate, soul-searching feelings.

And what would Graham think of that? I tilt my head as I ponder this. Would he be jealous? He probably wouldn’t even notice. I frown. Plus, he might be pissed if I messed around with his friend. And why hasn’t he ever mentioned this Blake guy before? Maybe he just started working with him or something.

I’m sure all my current thoughts are the product of the fact that I haven’t had sex, like, ever. Except for the deal with Graham—the infatuation with him is real.

I shrug out of my work clothes and leave them in a pile on the floor near my dresser. Where the heck is Graham’s brother? Did he not show? I can’t say I wouldn’t be slightly, okay, ecstatically, happy to learn this is the case. I pause with my black workout shorts halfway up my legs. Am I a bad person? Nah. Maybe less than good. But not bad. I nibble my lip. But if I have to keep asking myself this, it’s not really an encouraging sign, is it?

I finish pulling my bottoms up, squeeze into a purple and pink tie-dyed shirt, and dig my running shoes out of the closet. I tighten the ponytail holder in my hair and am ready to exercise, after I find my iPod and earbuds, that is—which I do in record time.

I open my bedroom door, which is directly across from the bathroom door—and I squeak. There stands Graham, with nothing but a towel around his waist. Steam billows out of the bathroom behind him, surrounding him like he’s a magician and just appeared out of thin air. And he could be. ‘Cause he’s got me mesmerized. Hypnotized. Feeling magical. Under a spell. Blah blah blah. You get the point. I feel a zing! in my stomach and slightly lower. I want to lick the water from his body. Run my hands up and down his stomach and chest. Press my body against his and never move away—my naked body.

His hair is wet and clings to his scalp as rivulets of water make a trail down his neck. My eyes follow them to his chest—his tanned, nicely sculpted chest. I swallow with difficulty and jerk my eyes back to his face. He’s watching me with a quizzical smile on his lips. Like he’s wondering what I’m doing. Good question.

“Hi,” I croak.

His smile turns blinding and I almost choke. “Hi, Ken. Going for a walk?”

I’m about to demand how he would know such a thing until I realize what I’m wearing. “Yeah.”

“Cool. You want to get a pizza with me and Blake when you get back?”

I stare at him.

“You met Blake, right?”

“Yeah,” I answer slowly. “Are you two hanging out tonight or something?”

It’s his turn to stare at me.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Yeah, remember? He’s staying here for the next couple of months, so yeah, we’ll be hanging out tonight. And many nights to come.”

My brows lower. “Um. What?” I’m just not grasping what he’s trying to tell me. Why would his friend be staying here? What about his brother?

Graham grabs at his towel and my attention is drawn down to the fabric unraveling at his hip. I couldn’t be so lucky. “You feeling okay?”

Does he know what I’m thinking, that I’m anxiously anticipating the complete slip of his towel to show me all his naked glory? My eyes snap to his face. No. He’s adorably unaware, as usual. Or annoyingly unaware. Whichever.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just…where is your brother? Did he decide not to come?”

He lets out an incredulous laugh, jams a hand through his hair, and then lunges for his towel as it loosens up more. He leans against the doorframe, one hand tightly clasping the two ends of his towel together. Pity, that.

“I think we’re having a miscommunication,” he tells me, looking amused.

“I’m not following.”

“I realize that.”

“Okay.” I wait.

“Blake is my brother.”

I blink at him. “Say what?” I blink some more. What is he talking about?

“He’s my brother.”

I laugh. “No he’s not.”

“Yes.”

“Nuh-uh.”

He leans close to me and gazes into my eyes. I can smell his shampoo and soap and it's a wonderful moment. “Blake is my brother. Blake Malone, same last name as me. My brother.”

“No way. Your brother is, like, sixteen. You said younger,” I accuse.

He straightens. “He is younger.”

“How much younger?”

“A year.”

“How is that possible? How can you only be a year apart?”

“Well, you see, when a man and a woman…”

“He looks nothing like you!”

Graham presses his lips into a thin line. “Yeah, well, he’s my half-brother. Same dad, different mom.”

“But…but,” I stutter as he patiently waits. “I didn’t even know your parents were divorced. I just assumed you had a mother and a father and that they are married—to each other. I feel like I don’t even know you!” Okay, slightly melodramatic, but it’s true. How could I not know this?

Graham's mom lives in Texas, having moved there after Graham graduated from high school, so I've never actually “met” her, but we have skyped plenty of times. She's a feminine version of Graham, so of course she's beautiful and lovable. (She loves me. Obviously.) I can't believe I never realized there's never been a guy on her end of the screen. I am so ignorant. How can I call myself Graham's friend and not know this significant detail of his life?

He gives a slight smile. “You don’t know everything about me.”

 

Roomies
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“I should know that.” Maybe I shouldn’t, but I really feel like I should. Graham’s pretty much the most important thing to me; I should at least know his family history. He knows mine. Well, most of it. Some of it. Enough...

“Now you do. Are we done? I really need to put some clothes on.”

“But…you said he was in school,” I finish lamely, my voice dropping to a whisper.

“He’s in college.”

I scowl at him. “You purposely led me to believe that your brother was some pimply teenager who was going to mooch off you for the remainder of the summer, not…not…” I jab a finger in the direction of the living room.

“Not what?”

“Not some hottie!” I blurt out, and then wish I hadn’t.

Especially when Graham rears back and gets a funny look on his face. “You think my brother’s hot?” His voice is even, but his eyes look weird. Like, angry or something. A thrill goes down my spine at the thought of my comment having that effect on him. Could he be jealous?

“Yes.” I nod firmly.

“Huh.” He looks away.

A dash of regret has the audacity to chase the little thrill away. I wonder if I’ve upset him, but then decide I haven’t. Why would he be upset? Unless he doesn’t know I think he’s hot too. So I figure I should tell him. It would be rude not to.

“You’re also hot.”

He gives me a look; part incredulous, part I don’t know what. “Thanks,” he says faintly.

“Yeah.” I start to feel dumb about pretty much the whole conversation. “Okay. ‘Bye.”

“’Bye.”

I glance back at him. He is staring at me with a frown pulling his mouth down. “You should put some clothes on.”

“Right.”

I enter the living room. Blake is studying a fake plant in the corner of the room, which pretty much confirms that he was listening to our complete word exchange. Wonderful.

He glances up as I pass. I see some teeth with this smile. “We’ll wait till you get back to order pizza. If you want.”

Yeah, like I could endure an evening with the Malone men, feeling awkward and ridiculous, knowing they both know I think they’re hot.

I make a sweeping gesture with my hand. “Uh, no thanks. You guys go ahead.” I avoid his searching eyes and race from the apartment.

I cannot believe what a fool I just made out of myself, I think as I walk the circular length of the high school track. (Isn’t a sign of insanity doing the same thing over and over expecting different results? Why am I walking in a circle? Even better question: why do Nascar drivers do it?) There is no breeze and the air is damp with humidity, making me think I should have foregone the whole walking thing today. Surrounding the track is a fence, and beyond that is the high school and trees—lots of trees. Trees cause humidity, therefore, at the moment, I loathe trees. Never mind that they also produce oxygen, which, ya know, we all need to breathe. It's a moot point.

I don’t really care that I thought Blake was going to be young and obnoxious and found out he isn’t. What I care about is that Graham thinks I’m a moron and Blake most likely does too. Well, really, it’s not my fault. So I assumed something and was wrong. Big deal. My face feels like it is on fire, telling me that, yeah, it is a big deal. I start lap three. The music in my ears is doing nothing but annoying me so I turn the iPod off.

They’re probably sitting at the apartment, drinking beer, eating pizza, and laughing at me. I scowl. I know Graham implied that the guy was a kid and still in high school. Didn’t he? Didn’t he? I search my brain. Crap, I can’t remember. By lap twelve I’m tired and feeling slightly better about the whole situation. I’ll just pretend like that bizarre conversation never happened. Everything will be fine. Really.

I walk the seven blocks back to the apartment complex, my legs wobbling like Jell-O. It’s a good feeling. I pass by familiar houses and establishments, feeling like I'm at home in the town I've lived in since I was five. Lancaster is sort of lame, coolness-wise. Don't get me wrong—it's a super awesome decent town, it just...what is there to do in Lancaster? Not much, that's what.

On the plus side, there are more women than men. Wait. Maybe that's not a plus side? Either way, there's more women than men living in Lancaster. 2% more, to be exact. There are also two historically noteworthy facts about the town that are not lame.

The town received the first ever Civil War monument dedicated in 1876.

Pleasant Ridge, located on the edge of town, was a home for free slaves and one of the first integrated schools in our nation.

So there's that.

I stop outside the apartment building, eyeing it like a potentially deadly disease is waiting inside for me. I’m sweaty and smelly and self-conscious about it. I’m also breathing funny. I usually just hightail it to the bathroom before Graham can catch too much of a whiff or glance of me, but now there’s two of them to look out for. This really sucks. How am I going to survive like this for the next few months? I’m not, that’s all there is to it. I’m going to have to stay at my parents' or something. Or not. Only a life or death situation would take me back to my parents’ doorstep. And this, so far, is not that dire. But it could turn into that. Oh, yes, it could.

I throw the door open before I lose my courage, relieved to find that the living room is empty. I'm almost disappointed—all that near hyperventilating for nothing. My eyes take in the off-white couch with the light green blanket on the arm of it, the matching chair, the TV that is off, and the stereo system that is silent.

Where are they? I distinctly remember seeing Graham’s black Dodge truck in the parking lot. I tiptoe to the kitchen and dart my head around the doorframe, finding it devoid of human life as well. Only the three empty beer bottles on the counter signal they were ever in this room. I sniff the air for signs of food cooking and smell nothing but the coconut air freshener Graham likes. I frown. No pizza boxes. Hmm. I whirl around to the right and peer out the patio doors. Nothing. I’m starting to get dejected. I do one more sprint and leap into the living room, but there’s still no sign of life.

“What are you doing?”

I whip around so fast I bump into the end table by the couch. I curse, rubbing the tender place on my thigh. Graham is in the hallway, unfortunately dressed in dark blue jeans and a gray and red striped t-shirt. He has a curious look on his face and his head is tilted, like he can’t figure me out. And he can’t. I already know this.

“Uh…nothing.” I put my hands behind my back and try to look innocent. “Run, wine, run!” I blurt out, thinking fast on my toes.

He walks into the living room, coming to a stop at my words. “What the hell was that?”

I shrug, avoiding his eyes. “Tears of a wine? To the world you may be wine, but to me, you are wine. To you, with wine. To infinity and wine.” I clamp my own hand over my mouth to shut me up.

Graham laughs, shaking his head. “You're trying to distract me.”

“I was doing nothing,” I remind him.

“It didn’t look like nothing.” He glances behind me. “It looked like you were trying out for one of the ‘Mission: Impossible’ movies.”

I give a nervous laugh. “Don’t be silly.” I pause. “Those are done now.” I mean, otherwise I would so get the leading role if I ever deemed it worthwhile to try out for it.

 

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He waits, watching me in that studious way of his.

I glance down the hallway. “Where’s your brother?”

A scowl appears on his face. “Why?”

Whoa. Can we say overreact? “I stink. I need a shower. Is he in the bathroom?”

“He went for a walk.”

“Oh.”

“Apparently, he needed some fresh air. Doesn't like to be cooped up indoors for too long. His words, not mine.” He shrugs, like the notion is inconceivable to him even though he needs to be outside so much he got a career where being one with nature is a given. In the fall, he helps cut and stack wood for various buddies who have wood burning stoves. In the winter, he slaps a plow on the front of his truck and rescues locals from snow. Basically, he's outside as much as he can be, no matter what time of year it is—also, talk about ginormous heart.

“Huh. Did you get your pizza?”

“Blake offered to get a couple on the way back from his walk.”

“Oh.”

“Pepperoni and mushroom. And I knew you’d be hungry, so your favorite too. Vegetable.” He wrinkles his nose. “Mmm-mmm. Delicious.”

Graham loves meat. Vegetables, not so much. He’ll drink vegetable juice and have pizza sauce and spaghetti sauce for his vegetables. Me, I prefer vegetables to dead animals. We all have our flaws. But his thoughtfulness redeems him time and again—it also doesn't hurt that he's nice to look at.

I give him what I hope is a sweet smile and he blinks. “Thanks, Graham.”

He smiles back and it’s my turn to blink. Man, he’s beautiful. “No problem.”

“What’s his deal with not being inside for too long? One of his manias?”

He shakes his head of messy blond locks and I desperately long to smooth his hair from his forehead—or grab it and yank his face to mine to do some lip lockage. Either would do.

“I guess. I don’t know that much about him and I feel bad about that.”

“Yeah, I’m confused about the whole thing.”

One corner of his mouth lifts.

“And don’t you dare say it doesn’t take much for that to happen. Or something similar,” I warn.

“I would never,” he states, putting a hand over his heart.

“You’re so full of it.” I walk into the kitchen and sit at the table. He follows. “I don’t get how you have a brother that’s only a year or whatever younger than you and you barely see him and you don’t know much about him. What gives?”

He sits down opposite me and drums his long fingers on the tabletop. “It’s complicated.”

“Really?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Really.”

“Explain.”

“I will. But not right now. Later.” At my unconvinced look, he adds, “I promise.”

“All right. But I won’t forget.”

“I know. You're tenacious. Like a dog.”

“Or a mountain lion.”

“That was my second choice.”

I stand up and stretch my back. “I’m going to take a shower. Save me some pizza.”

He doesn’t answer and I shoot him a look. He looks away from what I think might have been my chest. Huh. It’s not like there’s much to look at. I double check, just to make sure. Nope. Still the same size as they were when I got up this morning.

“Graham?”

He meets my gaze. “Yeah?”

“Save me some pizza, okay?” I repeat.

He nods, eyes trained on a spot behind my right shoulder that is so obviously not my chest it becomes apparent he really was looking at my bosom a moment ago. I wonder if that was the first time he's ever checked me out. Somehow I doubt it. I'm pretty much a sexy beast. Reow.

“That’s your cue to make some comment about how I don’t have to worry.”

“You don’t have to worry,” he says with absolutely no inflection at all.

“Some people,” I mutter and make my way from the room.

“You really think he’s good-looking?”

I freeze, unsure what the correct answer is. I slowly turn around and look at my roommate. He's chewing on his lower lip in that way of his that signifies something is puzzling him and he needs to figure it out. Do I deny it or admit it? Didn’t we already discuss this? What gives? He must need some reassurance or something.

So I say, “I said hot. I think he’s hot.”

Okay, so I like my confrontations, and annoying Graham. If I can’t have him to hug and kiss and love on, I might as well harass him, right? I see I've accomplished the whole annoying thing when his eyes flash a darker shade of green. There's tightening in his face that if I didn’t know better, I’d think he was super pissed. But I know he’s not, so I just ignore the look and leave.

PICTURE A CREAM-COLORED couch. Now visualize one brooding dark-haired sex machine (I’m assuming, but I have a strong feeling about this) sitting on one end and one golden being of near perfection on the other. Then there’s me, in the middle, literally squished between two yummy smelling men, and…I just want to escape. The pizzas have been demolished (I ate half of one myself) and now an awkward silence has descended. It doesn't help that I keep thinking of pornos and threesomes. I am honestly waiting for corny seventies music to start.

I was here first. I don’t feel like I should have to be the one to move. But I’m awfully uncomfortable. There are other places to sit in the room; a recliner even. Ya know, super comfy, so comfy you can recline. So one of them could move to that. I almost think they’re enjoying this. Like, they’re having fun at my expense because they know I think they’re hot.

Why did I blurt that out?

“So, what’s with the name Kennedy?” Blake wonders in his deep timbre that doesn’t really sound like Graham’s, but reminds me of him all the same.

I turn my head to the right, careful not to move any other body part, and meet his challenging gray eyes. He’s, like, two inches away. So close I can see green flecks in his eyes. I think he’s a little too amused by my predicament, if the upward curve of his mouth is anything to go by. One inky black eyebrow lifts as he waits.

“It’s my name.” I raise a single eyebrow back. I can do that too, the look says.

His smile deepens. “Yeah, but, what were your parents thinking? Kennedy? For a girl? And technically it’s a last name.”

My eyes narrow. Oh, so it’s to be like that, is it? “So is Blake,” I retort and give myself an imaginary pat on the back. “And Graham,” I add triumphantly.

“Leave me out of this,” Graham states from my left.

I notice Blake’s shirt reads ‘blink-182’, and unfortunately, I have to give him more props for that.

“Did your parents have a thing for the Kennedys?” Two eyebrows go up this time.

I get my mental pistols ready—it’s obvious there’s going to be a showdown. I straighten my spine. “What do you mean by a thing?”

My, totally in this moment one hundred and forty-nine percent resented, roommate groans.

He shrugs one broad shoulder. “You know. An infatuation. An unhealthy obsession. Fanaticism. A thing.”

“You really shouldn’t have started this,” Graham intercedes, leaning around me to give his brother a look.

My face is on fire and my hands are in tight fists in my lap. I stare at the television, which is on and no one’s paying attention to, and say very softly, “I’ll have you know, the Kennedys were, and are, an iconic family. I feel it an honor to be named after them.”

 

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Blake grunts.

“Do you deny it?” I ask the TV.

“Nope. I just wondered about your family.”

I jerk my head around and give him a look full of venom. “We will not discuss my family.”

He holds his hands up in surrender, but there's a gleam in his eyes. What is wrong with this guy? “Easy there, Ken.”

I growl.

Graham sighs beside me.

“Don’t call me that,” I state through gritted teeth.

He looks over the top of my head. “Touchy, isn’t she?”

Graham’s head slumps against the back of the couch.

“So, Blake,” I begin in a sweet voice, “what’s up with you and red?” I go still, holding my breath. Did I really just say that? That was so not nice. I wait with anticipation and dread.

Graham stops moving on the other side of the couch.

Blake stares at me, his lips parted. Then he looks at his brother. “What’s she talking about?”

My about to be annihilated roomie makes a sound of dismay.

I twist around to glare at him. He looks like a young boy who just had his hand caught in the cookie jar; guilty and disappointed that his fun has been halted.

“Don’t say the word red, huh?” I jump to my feet and back away until both men are within my line of vision. “You know what?”

They both look at me, obviously not knowing what.

“This means war!” I jab a finger in the air to emphasize this.

I think I hear Graham make another incomprehensible noise as I stomp to my bedroom and it’s obvious Blake finds the whole situation amusing, if his low chuckle is anything to go by. I close my bedroom door, unable to keep from smiling.

WHAT AN EXCITING Friday night this turned out to be. Not wanting to strain my brain for quick-witted comebacks (and I have a feeling that’s all I’ll do around Blake), I’ve banished myself to my bedroom. He’s like a kindred soul of sarcasm. Possibly. I'm gathering from our one verbal encounter (the first encounter didn't count, as I didn't know what a nuisance he was yet and we barely exchanged words) I have to be at my mental best to spar with him. Now, not so much the case. Work and exercise and hormones and men have exhausted me.

I’m lying on my queen-sized bed, nothing but the glow of a lamp for light and…I’m reading another smut book. I know, I know! But I can’t stay away from them lately. They're so informative—and unrealistic. At least there is an actual story to this one; it’s not just sex. Well, some of it isn’t sex.

“Hey, Dad,” I answer as soon as my cell phone rings.

“Mosquitoes are bad.”

I smile. “Are they? I'm inside, so I wouldn't know. Walls are good that way.”

“Cock suckers. I got bit at least fifty times today.” He pauses. “Caught some fish though.”

My smile fades. “Good for you.”

“Going to bed now.”

I say good night and end the call, knowing he only mentioned going fishing to rub it in that I don't go with him anymore. A soft knock on the door alerts me to a visitor. I glance down at my clothes; red and pinked striped shorts and a white t-shirt with hearts on it. My PJs. They'll have to be adequate 'cause I refuse to move from my current position.

“Yes?” I aim a pointed look at the door and wait.

It slides inward, revealing Graham. He’s in his PJs as well, which consist of gray athletic shorts and a yellow shirt with cut-off sleeves. I got him the t-shirt, hence why it reads 'Ken and Barbie For Life' in pink cursive letters. I love that shirt. Proof that he loves me in some form is the fact that he wears it.

He has a sheepish look on his face. He’s been wearing similar facial expressions a lot within the past few days. “Hi.” He ambles into the room, closes the door, and sits down with his back against it.

“What’s the matter? Bored with your brother already?” Do I sound snobbish? It’s possible. I feel dethroned as his hang-out buddy. Which is really just wrong anyway. I don’t want to be his buddy.

“He wanted to go out.”

I tense.

“But I didn’t.”

I relax.

“So he went by himself.”

This arches my eyebrows. “He went to the bar by himself? How…alcoholic of him.”

“He didn't say that was where he was going, but I don't know. I guess I don’t know him well enough to say. I hope not.” He shrugs.

I toss my book aside. “And why is that, exactly?” I rest my arms on my knees and prop my chin on them, waiting.

Graham’s eyes catch mine. He laughs. “Okay, okay, I can take a hint. Time to air the dirty laundry, right?”

“Past time. It reeks.”

He grins, wiping a hand over his face, then looks at me. “Okay. It’s like this—my mom and dad never married.”

“Bastard,” I gasp.

He shoots me a disgruntled look. “Yeah, if it was the 1800s. Anyway. Can I continue?”

I sweep a hand across the air. “By all means. I’m waiting with bated breath.”

“Blake’s mom and my dad were married for a couple years before I came along. And still are.” He waits for me to grasp something.

I squint my eyes and sit upright as I figure it out. “Ooooh.”

“Yeah. My dad was messing around with my mom while married to another woman.”

“Ooooh,” I repeat. “Positively sinful. Does the debauchery have no end?”

He gives me a look of exasperation. “Would ya quit?”

I put my hands up, trying to look innocent. “What?” The devilish glint in my eyes may ruin it though.

He gives a snort of laughter. “You know what is so appealing about you, in a twisted, messed up way?”

“What’s that?”

“You have no idea how tactless you are.”

“Well. I have some idea,” I grumble.

His laughter becomes full-fledged.

“Was that a compliment?”

“Do you see it as one?”

I cock my head and think. “Yep.”

There’s a twinkle in his eyes and I’m glad I put it there. “Then it’s a compliment.”

“Do you want a hug?”

Before he can respond, I’m off the bed and on my knees beside him. Any excuse for physical contact. Although, that probably really did suck growing up. Poor kid. I wrap my arms around him and pull his head to me. Fortunately, or unfortunately, however you want to look at it, his face is pretty much smothered by my breasts. But he doesn’t complain, nor does he pull away. So he must like it, at least a little bit. I suppose there is the possibility that he just can't breathe, but...eh.

“I’m sorry. And you know I'm kidding. You're not a bastard, even if you would have been in the 1800s. I would totally kick the ass of anyone who ever called you that, FYI.” I take a much needed breath of air. “Was it awful as a kid?”

His response is muffled, but sounds like, “I survived.”

The stubble of his jaw scrapes the tender flesh below my neck and above my chest. I pull away and look down at him. He’s got a dazed look on his face and I’m hoping it’s from the carefully placed position of my girls directly in his face.

“Do you have any other half-brothers or half-sisters?”

He shakes his head, his gem-like eyes clearing. “No. I didn’t really know what was going on until I was much older.” He smiles, but there’s a twinge of sadness to it with a healthy side of bitterness. “Apparently, from what my mom’s told me, my mom and dad were in love, but they broke up for a while, he got Blake’s mom pregnant, she miscarried, but not until after my dad felt duty bound to marry her. I came along a few years after that. And then there was Blake after me. No other kids for either mom. My mom by choice and Blake's mom from too many miscarriages.”

 

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“Your dad married Blake's mom because she was pregnant, she lost the baby, but he stayed with her after that even though he only married her because of the baby she was no longer carrying? Am I getting this right?”

The corners of his luscious mouth tighten and I want to kiss his pain away. “Right.”

“And your mom was, like, his mistress, but he really loved her and not Blake's mom?”

“Supposedly.”

“Your mom was okay with that? With being his woman on the side?”

A grimace steals over his features. “No. She wasn't. But she loved him. I'm sure he had all kinds of flowery words and promises to keep her hanging on. I was twelve when she finally ended it. My mom was fed up with my dad, told him to stay away from her, told me the truth because I didn't understand why she told him to leave and never come back. I mean, my dad is a dick, but he's the only one I have. I didn't want to lose him, no matter what he was or wasn't.”

“Dads,” I say in commiseration.

Graham swallows, looking down. “Yeah.”

“That’s awfully young to try to understand something like that,” I say, placing a hand on his forearm. The muscles constrict beneath my touch.

He looks into my eyes, then glances away. A prolonged silence follows. “I guess. After that I only saw my dad when I had to, once a summer for a two-week stay, which stopped when I turned sixteen.”

“What about every other weekend and holidays?”

“My dad and his other family moved to North Dakota, so that was impossible. I think it was Blake’s mom’s idea to put the extra distance between my mom and dad. She knew about everything, but she couldn't stop it. Blake and I—we didn't know what was going on until we were older. We knew we were brothers, but we didn't understand the logistics of it.”

“That is all seriously messed up.”

“I know.”

“Why did you stop going?”

He gently rubs his forehead against mine, back and forth, smooth skin on smooth skin. I close my eyes. “Because I wouldn’t go anymore. My mom tried to make me, my dad demanded I go, and I wouldn’t. I said I’d run away if she tried to make me go and she believed me. My dad was furious and pretty much hasn't talked to me since I went against his wishes. He's the bastard.” He takes a deep breath.

I open my eyes and pull back to look at him. “Was it so terrible there?”

He shrugs, avoiding my eyes. “I was the outcast, the interloper, the one who didn’t belong. Blake’s mom hated me. My dad acted like I was a possession more than a son. My dad wants to control everyone and everything around him. Blake had his own problems dealing with it all.”

I nod. “Oh yes, the mental issues and suicidal tendencies.” I pause. “What’s that all about?”

He rubs his face, looking agitated. “The first summer I didn’t go there he tried to kill himself.”

Uncomfortable with that admission, I shift my position. “How? What happened?”

“Took some pills, had to go to the hospital to have his stomach pumped, counseling, all that fun stuff. My dad blamed me.”

“What a prick.”

He smiles wanly and pats my arm. Really? The arm? Why not get crazy and go for the shoulder? “Said it was my fault for staying away when my brother needed me.”

I feel my face droop in sorrow. “Graham. That’s awful.”

“It’s fine. It was a long time ago.”

“You know that’s not true, right? About it being your fault?”

He shrugs. “I guess. But I still feel responsible. I did stay away. And Blake probably did need me.”

I grab his face, his unshaven skin rough but welcome to my fingertips. “Look at me.”

He does.

“You know I wouldn’t lie to you, right?”

He nods, the faintest of smiles on his face.

“It wasn’t your fault,” I state slowly.

He stares into my eyes for a long time, then oh so slowly, nods. This time he gets it.

I let go of his face and clasp my hands together in my lap. “What else?”

He examines my features. “How do you know there’s a what else?”

I grin. “I just do. Call it intuition.”

He sighs and straightens his back against the door. “All right. This doesn’t leave this room, right? As far as Blake knows, unless he tells you himself, you have no knowledge of what I’m about to tell you. Right?”

I shiver in excitement. “I love secrets.”

He gives me a look.

“Okay, okay. Right. I know nothing.”

“I never thought I’d hear you admit that.”

“Funny.” I resituate myself so that my back is against the bed frame. I put my feet on Graham’s legs and motion for him to continue, holding completely still so as not to spook him away when his thumb absently draws a circle into the top of my foot.

“He got into drugs when he was seventeen. Had to go to juvenile detention until he was eighteen for numerous petty thefts and to be rehabilitated. I don't know if going there helped at all. I don't think it did, but I don’t know a lot about what was going on then and he’s never said much about it. It’s hard to get him to talk about any of this. I guess he was in love with this girl, they were drinking, he was driving, they wrecked, she died.”

My mouth drops open.

“He gets into drugs again.”

“Do these drugs include alcohol? 'Cause, you know, he was drinking here earlier, and he did maybe go to the bar by himself. Aren’t you worried?”

He drops his head against the door, eliciting a thud from the wood. “Yeah. But he’s a big boy and he doesn’t need or want me looking out for him.”

“Right.” I don’t know if this is true or not, but whatever. “So he gets into drugs again and?”

“He overdoses.”

“What the hell?” I exclaim, ready to jump to my feet in frustration. “Does he never learn?”

“He says he didn’t mean to that last time.”

I snort, showing what I think of that.

“To make a long and sad story short, he checks himself into a private rehabilitation center, stays clean, and goes to college. The end. Those beers you saw him drinking? They were non-alcoholic.”

“Yeah right.”

“They really were.”

I lean forward and give him the evil eye.

“What?”

“The whole red thing? Not very nice.”

Graham winces. “Sorry about that. You’re just so obtuse about, I don’t know, human things sometimes that I can’t help but pick on you a little.”

“There you go, complimenting me again.” I roll my eyes. “Keep it up and I’ll think you like me.”

“I do like you.”

My smile falters. Yeah, as a big brother would like a kid sister.

“You’re not seriously pissed, are you?”

“No. I’m not. But I have to get you back. It's a law.”

“Really, Kennedy?” He sighs. “A law?”

“Really. It's in my book of laws.”

“I'd like to see that book. Fine. Knock yourself out.” He unravels his lanky frame and stands. He holds out a hand and helps me to my feet.

“I can’t believe you never told me about any of this before.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“Dysfunctional might be a better word.”

“Thanks.”

“Sure.”

“Want to make some hot cocoa?”

 

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I look at Graham; my best friend, my roommate, the love of my life, and something inside me melts at the sort of, maybe hopeful, look in his eyes. Obviously he needs comfort, he doesn’t want to be alone, and he's asking me to be with him.

“Of course. But only if there’s marshmallows.”

“Well, yeah.” He gives me a Duh look and I fear I may be rubbing off on him.

“And popcorn.”

“You can’t have hot cocoa without popcorn.”

I follow him into the hallway. “Not the microwave kind. The stove top kind.”

“For you, anything.”

“You can’t have popcorn and hot cocoa without a movie. It's just wrong.”

He laughs. “Definitely.”

“Oh, and one more thing.”

Graham turns and waits, both eyebrows raised.

“If I ever see your dad, I am so going to punch him in the face. Just so you know.”

He looks at me for a moment, then nods, smiling a sweet smile. “I would expect no less from you.”

“Just so we’re clear.”

“Yep.”

“Good. Because I mean it.”

He reaches into a cupboard, pulling two mugs the color of pumpkins out. “Kennedy?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you shut up now? Just for a minute?”

I sit down at the table and prepare to watch him make magic in the kitchen. “Okay.”

IT’S THREE IN the morning. Graham went to bed a while ago, but I couldn’t sleep, so I stayed up and watched 'The Golden Girls' for a while. One of Graham’s flaws is that he refuses to watch this epic show with me. It’s a good thing he has so many other good qualities.

I turn off the TV and lamp in the living room, scowl at the blanket and pillow Graham set out on the coffee table for his elusive brother, and creep into the kitchen. I fumble around in the dark until I find the light switch on the wall, blinking in the sudden brightness. I feel dumb tiptoeing around to see whether or not Blake is drinking, especially in my own place. It’s not my problem. None of my business. But like either of those details has ever stopped me.

I open the pantry door and direct my gaze down. The recycling bin is where it should be and so are the beer bottles. I snatch one up, sniff it (I don’t know why), and examine the label. O’Doul’s.

There’s a clicking sound to the right of me and I spin that way. Blake is standing on the inside of the patio doors he obviously just shut, a closed expression on his face. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing. Why?” I feel guilty. I hate feeling guilty.

He nods his head down one time.

I follow his motion and look at the non-alcoholic beer bottle in my hand. Son of a! I almost let go of it, realize it’s glass and will break, and very carefully, slowly, put it back in the recycling bin. I’m hoping when I turn around Blake will be gone.

No such luck.

I go on the offensive. “What are you doing?” I gesture toward the patio, like it’s off limits and he was doing a terrible thing by being on the deck. Anything to direct the attention away from my misdeed.

“I was sitting outside, smoking.”

“Smoking what?”

His eyes narrow. “Cigarettes. Is that okay?”

“I suppose.”

“What were you doing with that beer bottle?”

“What were you doing with that beer bottle earlier?” See how I turn everything around? I’m suave in unimaginable ways.

“Uh, drinking it.”

“You were drinking a beer bottle?” His silence confirms he doesn't want to laugh too hard for fear of never stopping. It's okay—I get it. “How long were you outside?”

“How long were you and Graham making googly eyes at each other and flirting?”

I straighten my spine. “Excuse me? What were you doing, spying on us? Weren't you supposed to be at the bar?” I crinkle my nose, like that’s the last place I’d ever be, even though I plan on being in one tomorrow night.

“You’re really something, you know that?”

It doesn’t sound like a compliment, but I decide to view it as one regardless. “Thank you.”

Blake shakes his head, looking incredulous.

I stare back at him, crossing my arms over my hearts.

He takes a step closer, bringing the scent of tobacco and his body heat with him. “Why would I want to spy on you? Kennedy?”

I take a step back, trying to appear nonchalant, but my heart is pounding really fast and I feel just a smidge too warm. “Because you’re lame?” I offer up.

He stops moving, his gray eyes roving up and down my face, and then dipping past my neck. I shift uncomfortably, wanting his eyes away from my womanly parts so as not to confuse them into thinking they like his blatant perusal. Of course they don’t.

He laughs, sounding surprised. “You are something else,” he says again, softly, but this time his tone is different.

“Yeah. That’s me. Something else.”

Blake cocks his head, causing his too long bangs to partially cover the upper part of his face. Somehow, it makes him look even sexier. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

I blink. I swear he said, “Why aren’t you in my bed?”, but no, he didn’t. “Why aren’t you?”

“Insomnia. Plus I didn’t want to break up your touching scene with my brother.”

“How long have you been back?”

“Long enough to know you two are more than just roommates.”

I will not even bother to comment on that. “We’re just roommates who happen to be good friends. It’s allowed. Not that it’s any of your business.” I guess I will comment on that.

He is somehow closer to me than he was a moment ago and I stumble back.

“How good of friends? The kind with benefits?” he murmurs, his voice a sinful caress against my frazzled nerves.

I clamp my lips together so I don’t respond. “No! Just friends.” Okay, so that didn’t work.

“Hmm.” He dips his head, eyes intent on my face. “Prove it,” he whispers, his lips too close to mine.

I know he’s going to kiss me. Why is he going to kiss me? I’ve known Graham for over a year and he’s never tried to kiss me on the lips. Blake shows up and in one day is already putting the moves on me?

Why can’t this be Graham?

He goes still. Something must show in my expression because he pulls back and puts distance between us. He runs a hand through his hair of disarray, not looking at me when he says, “You got a thing for my brother, huh?”

My silence is my admission.

He turns to look at me. “But let me guess, he’s clueless?”

I chew on my lip and stare at my purple-painted toenails.

“He always was slow to figure things out,” he says, sounding amused and disgusted as well.

My head shoots up and I glare at him. “Graham is one of the smartest people I know.”

“Graham’s a damn genius,” he agrees.

I gaze at him, full of wariness. I don’t understand him at all. Granted, I just met him, but still, I should have an inkling of some kind about him, right? There’s nothing. He’s like a blank canvas and I am without a paintbrush. And again with the poetry?

“Good night,” he says as the silence intensifies.

I scowl at him as I hurriedly walk from the room. Dismiss me, will he? Obviously he will, because I’m walking to my bedroom at this very moment. My steps slow outside of Graham’s bedroom and my fingertips lightly trail across the door. Longing stabs me. I swallow and pick up my pace.

 

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Once inside my room, I take a deep, calming breath. I turn on the light and move to the dresser to stare at the face in the mirror above it. It's flushed with shining eyes. I enjoyed that. I mean, Graham’s fun and I love him to death, but he is not mine to have. With Blake—I felt like I was with an equal tossing insults back and forth. Am I so fickle in my feelings to quickly overturn my emotions from one brother I can’t have to the other I probably can have? Of course not.

I think...

“HI.”

I halt in the perusal of my closet and look at Graham. As always, a buzz goes through me at the sight of him. “Hi.”

His hair looks windswept and there’s fine stubble on his face that accentuates his cheekbones, making him look even more delicious. He’s got on straight-legged jeans with a couple tears in them, a red shirt, and gray Pumas. He’s dressed down, but looks better than most men at their best. And he smells really, really, really good—manly, but also sweet. So good I want to sniff him all over.

He shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “What are you doing tonight?”

“I got invited to a wedding anniversary with the gang from Dr. Olman’s. How about you?”

He walks into my bedroom more. “Actually, I was too. At the golf course country club; the Mezeras, right?”

“That’d be it, yes. Why are you going?”

“John Mezera is one of my students.”

“Oh.” One of his legitimate ones.

“Why are you going?”

I fiddle with a hanger. “Well…” I don’t want to mention Nathan. Why? Because, I don’t know, it seems like I’m betraying Graham. Which is ridiculous—I do know that much. Doesn’t stop the way I feel. I toss the hanger on my bed. “Do you know Nathan, their son?”

“Yeah. What about him?”

“He invited us.”

He looks taken aback. “The whole office?”

It is my turn to nod.

“Why?”

“Um…he likes us?” It seems like I’m asking him if Nathan likes us and that’s not what I wanted to do, but whatever.

“Huh.”

I go back to searching my closet for something to wear. I want to look hot tonight. I’m thinking trashy—only I don’t own anything trashy. I whip another hanger onto the bed in frustration.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” I mumble, staring into my closet like a killer outfit is going to magically appear. Maybe if I stare long enough…

“I was going to invite you to come along with me and Blake, but I guess I’ll see you there.”

I glance at him, too distracted by my lack of clothing to get worked up about spending the evening in the same vicinity as his brother. “Yeah, okay.” My eyes flicker to the clock. It’s almost five. There’s no way I have time to go anywhere to try to find a worthy ensemble. Why didn’t I do this sooner? Like, five hours ago.

“Kennedy?”

“Yes?”

“Would you look at me?”

I turn around and frown at my roommate. “What is it?”

He opens his mouth, closes it, and then shakes his head. “Never mind. I’ll see you there, okay?”

“Sure.”

Two minutes later, there’s a shout from the bathroom. “Really!”

I smile. Apparently Graham just looked at the sink countertop full of (unopened, of course) tampons and pads. Score one for me.

I WILL NEVER admit it out loud, but I am seriously ecstatic when Phoebe shows up at 5:15, even though I told her to be here much later. I need help. Desperately. She looks smoking hot with her teeny tiny clothes on her teeny tiny body and I’m instantly envious. I sigh and show her to my bedroom.

She claps. “Oh, I’m so excited! This is going to be so much fun. What do you have picked out?”

“Nothing.”

Her smile disintegrates. Poof. It's gone. “But…it’s almost time to go. You don’t have anything picked out?”

I give a helpless shrug. “I can’t find anything. I want to look good, really good, and all I have are boring clothes.” I grab her hands and stare into her large eyes. “I need your help.” That sounded melodramatic, but she doesn't seem to mind.

She presses her lips together and nods firmly. “Yes. You do. Go do your makeup and hair and I’ll find something. Go on, go.” She shoos me from the room.

Thankfully I have good skin, so all I need to apply is a bronzer to give my somewhat already tan skin a healthy glow. I put on glittery purple eyeliner, mascara, and peach lip gloss. And I’m done. I’m just not fussy about makeup.

My hair, now, that’s another matter. The thick layers hang halfway down my back and usually have a mind of their own; flipping this way and that and never in sync. My hair requires a lot of attention. I brush it out, pull the sides and front back and give them a poof (bouffant-like). I insert two dozen hairpins into my hair and spray it with a couple gallons of hairspray. When I’m satisfied it won’t be going anywhere, I head back to the bedroom.

Phoebe is sitting on the floor, surrounded by pretty much all of my clothes. She looks up, her teeth sunk into her lower lip. “I just…I don’t know, Kennedy. I can’t seem to find anything. I mean, you have nice stuff, but nothing flashy.” Flashy…trashy—same thing.

“You gave it your best shot,” I tell her. “Chin up, soldier.”

That seems to spark some determination back into her. She puts her shoulders back and starts digging in the clothes with renewed fortitude. “There’s…got…to…be…something.”

“It’s okay, Phoebe, really.” I’m getting concerned as clothes start flying everywhere.

“Ah ha!” She stabs her arm in the air, looking triumphant. Off her finger dangles a skimpy hot pink stretch dress that I will never, ever, ever wear. I bought it on a whim once and have forever regretted it. There’s nothing to it. It is way form-fitting and strapless and short. I can’t believe I ever bought it. I think I was drunk shopping at the time. It happens.

“I don’t know how I missed it before,” she murmurs, brows lowered.

“I do. It’s microscopic. I can’t wear that.”

Her face transforms into something scary. “You’re wearing it.”

“No. I’m not.”

She takes a menacing step toward me. “You’re wearing it and you’re going to look hot and you’ll thank me when Nathan asks you out on a date. Put it on.” She tosses it toward me and I catch it, disturbed by the fanatical gleam in her eyes.

“All right, just calm down.”

“I am calm.” She smiles sunnily. “I’m gonna go smoke.”

I look down at the flimsy material in my hands and sigh. Go out of your comfort zone and into your slutty zone. Right-O.

I SELF-CONSCIOUSLY TUG at my dress, for which Phoebe rewards me by slapping my hand. I give her a look.

She gives me a look back, but she's smiling. “Stop messing with your dress. You look amazing.”

“My ass is almost hanging out.” I point my leg out and look at my strappy three-inch silver open-toed heels. “Although, I really love these shoes and have been wanting to wear them for forever.”

She draws on her cigarette and squints at me through the smoke. “Your ass looks hot. Trust me.”

I sigh and nod. This is what I wanted, right? I just need to suck it up and not think about it. Have fun. But it’s hard not to be self-conscious when I feel like I’m baring all and I don’t like the feeling. This dress is like a second skin against my curves—and lack of. I added a wide black belt to feel not quite so naked, but you know what? For some reason, it didn’t help too much, probably because it’s a belt.

 

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Roomies Page 19



She puts her cancer stick out and weaves her arm through mine to pull me inside. “Where’d Dr. Olman and Sally go?”

I look around the country club. It’s filled with drinking, laughing people, but I don’t see anyone I know. My boss and the receptionist are most likely off in a corner necking. They pretty much deserted us the second we got here. Which is fine ‘cause if they hadn’t ditched us we would have ditched them; if for no other reason than what my boss is wearing. FYI: red and green striped shirts and navy blue pants do not go together.

There’s a DJ playing, so we have to shout to hear one another. “I don’t know where they went. Do you see Nathan?” I ask loudly, feeling majorly dumb when the song stops just as I say ‘Nathan’. I avert my eyes and hope no one knows I was the one shouting his name.

An elderly lady is casting a censored look my way and I jerk my head toward an unsuspecting Phoebe and mouth, “It was her.” I even add in a shrug when her eyes narrow.

The country club, generically called Lancaster Country Club and Golf Course, has a large banquet room, which is what we’re in. The lights are low, tables and chairs are set up around a dance floor in the center of the room, and the bar runs along the whole far wall of the joint. The place is packed and it’s hard to make heads or tails of any particular person.

“No. Oh, hey! There’s your roommate.” She waves, smiling prettily. Almost immediately, she grabs my arms and squeezes painfully. “Who is that super broody yet crazy attractive guy next to him?” Her voice got really high and breathless as she said that.

I stare at her for a minute, wondering where those intelligent words came from before I follow her gaze, already knowing who she’s talking about. My eyes land on Graham and my stomach flip flops. He’s talking to some pretty chick I imagine he gives lessons to. I want to be jealous, but try not to think about it, since I have no right to be. He’s a good-looking man. We women like good-looking men. I just have to deal. Plus, you know, he’s not mine or anything.

Then I shift my attention to Blake. He’s staring back at us. Or rather, at me. I feel my face heat up under the directness of his smoldering eyes. I swear he knows what I’m thinking at all times just from looking at me. He’s wearing a gray t-shirt with the 'Ghostbusters' logo on it, faded jeans, and black boots. It's annoying that he keeps wearing shirts that appeal to me. It's like he knows me or something.

I turn away from his gaze. “That’s Blake. He's Graham’s younger brother.” I carefully extricate my arm from her fingers.

Her mouth is a perfect O. “Why haven’t I heard of him before? Where does he live? What does he do? You have to introduce me.”

“He’s staying with us for the summer and working here with Graham. I don’t know where he lives and I guess he’s in college. For what, I don’t know.”

“Mommy likey.”

I give her a look, but she’s engrossed in her eye candy.

Hands cover my eyes, smelling faintly of cologne. I go still, wondering if I should be alarmed or not. “Guess who.” The voice is male and deep.

“I don’t have a clue.”

“Come on, guess.”

“Nathan?” I pull the hands away from my face, turning around to see exactly that person’s smiling face.

“Hey, Kennedy. Wow. You look great.” He nods, his eyes going up and down the length of me.

“Thanks,” I say breathlessly. I sound a lot like Phoebe did when she was drooling over Graham’s brother. I don’t like it. And should I be feeling good about him singling me out of the crowd and approaching me? Because I do.

His hair of unruly waves is especially messy tonight, but it looks good. His brown eyes twinkle at me and a dimple says hello. My heart races in response as my eyes coast over the length of his muscular body, taking in his blue and white striped buttoned down shirt, khaki pants, and end at his brown shoes, then go back up to his eyes. Visions of calloused feet swim in my head and something inside me dims. I feel I should admit defeat—I'm just not getting over that.

“Thanks for coming.” He looks amused, like he totally knows I was checking him out.

“Thanks for inviting us!” Phoebe trills next to me, flashing a megawatt smile his way.

Nathan’s dimple deepens. “Hey, no problem. How are you, Phoebe?”

“Wonderful!” She’s practically hopping up and down, she’s so wonderful.

He turns and searches the room. “Where’s your boss and the secretary? Did they come?”

I shrug. “Yeah, they came. But I have no idea where they went.”

“We’ll find them.”

“Do we have to?”

He laughs. “I guess not, no. You ladies in for some dancing tonight?”

“Definitely!” Phoebe exclaims. Does she have to be quite so excited?

He blazes me with his chocolate eyes. “What about you? You gonna dance with me?”

I give a nervous laugh. I can’t think when he’s looking at me like that, mostly because his head just turned into a big, dry foot. “Sure.”

“Don’t sound so happy about it.”

“Okay.” I almost groan. Sadly, I’m not even trying to sound sarcastic.

He laughs again. “I know you can't wait. I can tell. Can I get you ladies something to drink?”

“Are you playing host?” I ask, smiling. There, that’s better. I didn’t sound quite so ridiculous.

“Sure. Come on, the bartender’s a friend of mine.” He places a hand around my wrist and gives me a gentle tug. Phoebe, not wanting to be left out, attaches herself to my remaining arm. Our three person train weaves through the throng of people and ends up at the bar.

Nathan looks at me expectantly.

I’m a picky drinker. I like wine and a few mixed drinks. The only beer I drink is Leinenkugel’s. But I don't like other people making my drinks because they usually mess them up and I like fruity wines, which are hard to find at your everyday establishment. Therefore...Leinenkugel's it is.

“Leinenkugel’s Berry Weiss?”

His full lips curve up. “Good choice.” He turns to Phoebe. She simpers at him. “What would you like?”

She strikes a pose and announces, “I would like a Cosmo.” I mentally roll my eyes.

“Cosmo it is.” He talks to the bartender, who is red-haired and gorgeous. I can tell they’re flirting. She must be a good friend.

I pull my co-worker toward me. “Have you ever even had a Cosmo before?”

“No. But I’ve always wanted to try one. Have you?”

I shake my head.

A hand snakes around my waist and I’m pulled up against something hard. I look up and am staring into green eyes. “Hi, roomie.”

My heart sighs. “Hi. Having fun?”

He releases me and takes a drink of his beer. “Sure. You?” His eyes go from me to Phoebe to Nathan’s back.

“Yep.”

Graham’s eyes scrutinize me from head to toe. “You look…”

I smile expectantly.

“Different.”

I scowl. “Gee, thanks.”

He rubs the back of his neck, laughing. “Sorry. You just…I didn’t know it was you at first when I saw you across the room. You normally don’t dress like this.”

I clench my jaw. He is so not making it any better. “Like what?”

He silently gestures to Phoebe.