Total pages in book: 244
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
“Ah, cauliflower, the latest vegetable to enjoy a renaissance.”
“First, there were Brussels sprouts. Now cauliflower. Next, it’ll be carrots,” she says.
“I truly appreciate the ride,” I say.
“I know. Don’t go sentimental on me. Just get out,” she says.
I do as I’m told, grabbing my bags. But she doesn’t pull away even as I head to the lockbox to fetch my key. When I glance back, the saltiest person I’ve ever known gives me a big wave, then the middle finger.
Laughing, I give the finger right back to her, then blow a kiss.
Once she leaves, I head inside, ready to see my new place and meet my new roomie.
Jittery with excitement, I turn the key in the lock. I don’t even care that this flat is on the stinking fifth floor of a rickety building. Don’t care about the garlic I smelled on the fourth floor or the barking dog on the third.
When the door swings open, I call out, “Hello, Terry.”
But my voice just echoes.
Cool.
I got here first. That means I can pick the better bedroom. Or, wait—is that kind of piggy? Perhaps I should wait. I’ll be polite. Olivia’s not the only one turned on by manners—they kind of make me swoon. Not that I want to make my roomie swoon.
But I’d like to be a good roomie, so, yeah, I think I’ll wait.
I shut the door behind me, drop my bags, and drink in the sight of this furnished flat that I nabbed at a pittance. I am fucking proud of myself for my persistence.
Even if the couch is a drab gray.
And the kitchen table might be missing a leg.
Also, the sink looks like it’s seen better days.
Even if I wind up with the shittier bedroom, who fucking cares? Not this bloke.
This flat is close, close, close. That’s all I care about. Spinning around, I turn down the hallway—though that’s a generous term since it’s about three feet long. There are two doors off it, and I knock then open the first one.
There’s a bed, a dresser, and little square footage for anything else. But it’s big enough for bonking, and what more do I need? Nothing.
I knock on the second door. No answer, so I open that too. Two bags sit on the floor. Okay, so Terry picked a room already.
Fine, fine.
They’re pretty much identical.
This makes me wonder . . . I step back into the hall, peering back and forth at the two Lilliputian bedrooms.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I say to myself.
This place is not a true two-bedroom. They cut a one-bedroom in half. Well, this just shows that if something is too good to be true, there’s a reason.
But this is still better than a mansion in Reading.
I return to the living room to grab my bags, and I spot a note on a coffee table. Leaning over, I glance at the first line. It says Hey, Roomie, so I pick it up and read the rest.
I tossed my stuff into one of the bedrooms, but if you’d rather have that one, it’s cool. I’m good with anything.
Just ran out to grab a coffee. I’ll be out tonight, so if I miss you later, I’ll see you . . . whenever.
I know everyone says they’re chill, but seriously, I am. I don’t care if you take long showers, have friends over at all hours, or even play loud music.
As long as it’s not Zeppelin.
Sounds pleasant enough.
Setting down the note, I survey the tiny pad once more, then settle on the dull gray couch. “Well, Terry. I’ll be out tonight too, so it looks like we’ll get along just fine,” I say to no one.
The key rattles in the lock. Terry must be back with that coffee already. Maybe next time, I can put in a request for a proper cup of English Breakfast. But for now, I’ll be the casual roommate, sitting on the settee with an easy smile.
“Hello there, roomie,” I call out as the door opens.
And in walks the American I planned to shag.
7
THE CONSOLATION PRIZE
TJ
I’m a ponderer.
Every spare minute I’m asking myself questions.
Like right now.
Did I hallucinate or time travel to eight-thirty tonight when I hoped to bring Jude back to my place and have my wicked way with him?
Because . . . why the hell is he sitting on my couch?
“Hi, Jude?” It’s a question. Or really, it’s a slew of questions that all spill out at once. “What are you doing here? Why are you in my flat? Aren’t we meeting later? How did you get a key?”
Behind all those questions is the mother of them all, sitting leaden in my gut. I wish it were the dreadful coffee and not the feeling that I know the answer already to this question.
Are you the queer-friendly non-smoker I’m living with for the next year? Because I never got your name, and please, please, please tell me this is a giant mix-up or maybe a hilarious practical joke we’ll laugh about later.