My Summer Roommate (9 page)

Natasha chuckles, but it sounds nervous. I think she’s
aware of being terrible at ordinary life. I feel sorry for her. She seems a nice person, just absent-minded.

“It’s fine,” Chloe says. “As long as you didn’t bring
the family albums.”

“No, not whole albums, I
just brought your naked pictures,” Natasha deadpans.

I snort with laughter, and Chloe rolls her eyes.
These two must be the most fun mother-daughter duo I’ve ever met. I can’t stop grinning.

“So,”
Chloe says as she drops her bag on the floor and sits down. “What have you two been up to while I was gone?”

The way she asks, she sounds worried. I figure, if she’s worried,
what her mom and I’ve been talking about must mean something to her.
I
must mean something. See? I can do this psychology thingy, too. The better I know her, the easier she is to read. And if I add to that what her Mom’s told me about her … I’ve got a pretty clear picture of what my chances are to win her. Pretty high, I think.

I make her a
tea and she thanks me with a smiling gaze when I pass her the mug. In the past few weeks, I’ve figured she’s not a grand gestures sort of girl. Renting a limo to take her to dinner in a posh restaurant would be lost on her. Cooking her lunch or helping her put a picture frame on the wall is what gets her. I like that. She’s not like one of those girls that are competing with each other whose boyfriend or parents got them the most expensive gifts. Her needs aren’t extravagant. She’s got her priorities straight. Without wanting to, this only makes me more smitten with her. Depending on how things develop in the next few weeks, her moving in with me might just be the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Or it might well be the worst.

Chapter Nine

CHLOE

My mom visiting while I was out worries me. She knows me like the back of her hand. I know she suspects what troubles me about Chris. And I know her well enough to know she’s capable of telling him all about it. Privacy boundaries are not a concept she’s familiar with.

I don’t want Chris to know any more than he needs to. Fighting him off is difficult enough as it is.

After a crapload more inquisitive questions and blatant hints, Mom leaves and I can breathe more easily.

The first few moments alone again in the apartment, Chris and I are quiet. Because I don’t know what
Mom told him, I’m not sure what is safe to say and what is not. But he surprises me when, after avoiding my eyes for long minutes, he says, completely unrelated, “I’m sorry about the other night.”

“What?”

“When I drove you back from the party drunk. It was a dick move. I should know better. I’ve been meaning to apologize but I missed you every time or I was out.”

“Ah
…” I don’t know what to say. I sure wasn’t happy about it, but it is a thing of the past. “It wasn’t cool. But we were fine.”

“Yeah,” he says on a long, slow exhale. “But shit could’ve happened. I wasn’t thinking.” Obviously embarrassed, he adds, “I feel so stupid, with you seeing that video and all.”

“Don’t do it again. I’d hate for something bad happening …” ‘To you’ is on the tip of my tongue but I manage to bite it off just in time. Still, the sentiment persists, settling with a cold weight in my stomach when I think of him crashing the car, getting injured or injuring someone else and then feeling guilty over it. Or worse.

It unnerves me, this deep worry. I can barely look at him when I excuse myself, saying I’ve got another piece of clothing to design, and retreat into my room. Unfortunately, the heavy feeling
follows me, and instead of being creative and productive, I just mope around, feeling constricted and miserable.

By the
evening when Isabelle comes to watch a DVD with me, I’m almost relaxed again.

We’re watching
Casablanca
, a film we’ve been wanting to watch together for a long time.

At the last
minute, Chris’s buddy Ral cancels their plans, and Chris decides to watch it with us. I’m none too pleased with this, but I can’t say no. It’s not just that it would be rude. I simply can’t.

Because you
want him to be there. You miss him when he’s not.

Izzy, who’s more tech savvy than
I am, is prepping the DVD, while I get some napkins from the kitchen to eat the pizza that just arrived.

Chris is lounging on the couch so I have to swat his legs to move and make
space for Iz and me.

“I can’t believe you were ever a competitive athlete. You’re so lazy.”

He chuckles, but doesn’t comment.

“No, really. You don’t seem the competitive sort.”

“I reserve competitiveness for the slopes. Or used to, anyway. And even there the important thing is to enjoy yourself. You can’t win otherwise.”

“Hm.” I think I understand what he means. I saw it in my mother too. Not the competitiveness, but the passion. Her best illustrations were the ones she painted with love. Sometimes she worked on commissions that she didn’t particularly like but she had to
take them on to earn some money. She always struggled with those, and was never quite satisfied with the creations.

“Hm?” He raises his eyebrows, grinning.

“I get it, what you’re saying. I think.”

“I know you do.” He says it so surely that I want to ask how he knows. But his gaze is dangerously charming, and I decide he’s up to something and I better leave it at that. When he sees my hesitation, he grins.
He enjoys seeing me squirm, I can tell, and that fires up my fighting spirit, so I have difficulty holding back.

Izzy, oblivious to the exchange we just had, sits back and presses play. The movie starts, and we go quiet. Izzy’s curled up in the corner of the couch,
and the pizza is going cold in her hands. Chris, however, is finishing his third slice, and he seems to be watching the screen only cursorily. I can’t focus on the story, either.

When
Rick says, ‘Tell me, who was it you left me for? Was it Laszlo, or were there others in between or … aren’t you the kind that tells?’ Isabelle says, “That’s harsh.”

For a second everything’s quiet and I think the moment has passed. The
n Chris says, “Harsh, but right.”

“But he didn’t have to say it like that,” Izzy says.

Chris is sitting on my left, Izzy on my right, and Chris leans forward to look at her when he says, “I don’t understand you, women. What difference does it make if you tell the truth wrapped up in niceties or if you put it the way it is? It’s the truth.”

“It makes a big difference how you present it,” I say, because I know Izzy’s right.

“Why?”

“Because …” I’m trying to think of how to explain it in short. “Think about the
‘It’s not you, it’s me’ situation. Most people, when breaking up with someone, will say it’s their fault and not their partner’s. You don’t want to break up with them and then add insult to injury and accuse them of it being their fault. In most cases, both partners are to blame, of course, but you do the nice thing and assume the blame.”

“But it doesn’t matter, does it?” Chris says, and now his focus is on me. I can feel Izzy’s eyes watching us intently. “The breakup sucks either way.”

“It sucks more if you feel like shit for ruining everything.”

He makes a face like he’s thinking about it. “Maybe there’s a grain of truth in there somewhere. But I still think saying it straight is the best policy.”

His gaze is becoming too intense. I shrug and turn back to the screen. “Let’s agree to disagree, then.”

I t
ake a sip of beer just to give the impression of calmness. But I’m far from it. Just knowing that he’s still watching me makes me all antsy.

“Let’s,” he finally says. “But
if I like you, I’m just gonna say I like you. I won’t beat around the bush about it.”

The sip of beer almost goes down the wrong pipe.

I know he’s making it sound ambiguous on purpose, because out of the corner of my eye, I can see the hint of a grin on his face.

Izzy chuckles beside me. “Am I
in the way here? I could always go home.”

“Stay where you are,” I say, and it sounds terse and strained. I think both of them notice it. Shit.

I try to divert the attention back to the initial issue, and I say, “If subjective interpretation weren’t important, there’d be no need for Isabelle’s art. We’d just have photos. And even those contain a certain level of interpretation in them.”

Izzy raises her eyebrows at Chris. “She got you there.”

“I surrender.”

But even that simple verb hold
s double meaning. And I want to tell him about interpretations and insinuations and all that, but with Izzy there, I’d just dig myself a deeper hole.

After the movie, Izzy and I stay on the couch chatting, discussing the movie, making a list of movies still to
watch. Chris is there, but doesn’t actively participate in our discussions. Still, I feel his presence as he moves around the room.

It’s past midnight when Izzy leaves and even
then only when she realizes that the couch is where Chris sleeps.

“Oh my god, have I been keeping you awake?” she says, embarrassed.

“Are you nuts? If I’d wanted to go to bed, I’d kick you out,” Chris jokes.

“No, you wouldn’t. I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

“Iz, chill. He never goes to sleep before midnight.”

“Well, I might’ve today
if I’d had the chance.” He grins widely, but that doesn’t alleviate Izzy’s blush.

“Don’t be a douche, Chris,” I say, but he’s smiling at Isa
belle the way only he can smile—all soft and cool.

“It’s been nice having some fun company. Good old Chloe here gets boring after a while.”

I punch him in the arm, and he draws me in for a hug. It’s so unexpected, it takes my breath away. It’s just a short hug, warm and comfy, but it leaves a lingering sensation on my body when I walk Izzy to the door.

On impulse, I decide to accompany her down to the lobby in order for my body to cool down.

“Is he fooling around, or did he mean all that?” Izzy asks.

“I’m telling you, he never goes to bed before midnight. He spends hours on his laptop.”

“I meant what he said about liking you and all that. He seems into you.”

She’s watching me with an amused expression. I wonder how she can be so perceptive about Chris, when it took her months to see how deeply in love Harper was with her.

I don’t know what to tell her, but I guess that’s a good enough answer for her.

“He’s nice, Chloe.
Don’t mess it up.”

I want to say that I won’t, but it would be a lie, as I’m already planning an offensive on Chris the moment I return upstairs.

She hugs me. “He’s good,” she whispers, despite or because she knows all her advice means nothing once I make up my mind.

I take two stairs at a time
when I return upstairs. I burst through the door, incensed, but Chris is lounging on the couch, checking his email like nothing happened. This makes me pause. Have I been reading too much into this? Was he speaking just hypothetically? But no, it was his way of saying he hasn’t given up yet. It had to be.

“What was that all about?”

“What?” he asks, and smiles. He knows what I’m talking about. He knows, and still he teases me. But that’s good. If he’s annoying enough, I might start disliking him. It would save me a lot of trouble.

“
‘I like you, so I’m just gonna say I like you’…
?”

“It’s the truth.”

“Izzy didn’t need to hear it.”

“What are you afraid of?” He sits up and places the laptop onto the coffee table. His hair is all shaggy.

“I’m not afraid.”

“Why don’t you want her to hear it, then? She’s your best friend.”

“I don’t want her to hear it
because
she’s my best friend. Because she might misunderstand.”

He looks surprised at me
. “I thought I put it quite clearly. There was nothing she might misunderstand about me liking you.”

“Exactly.”

“Except what you’re afraid of is that she might misunderstand what
you’re
feeling about
me
, isn’t it?”

“No ...” I say half-heartedly.
What can I say? His observation is so spot-on, that it takes me by surprise.

“I bet you told her downstairs that there’s nothing there. That you don’t like me.” Even if the words were supposed to sound accus
atory, they don’t. He says them kindly. He’s not reproachful, not even now, when I’m turning him down for the second time in a week. What does it take for this guy to turn into a mean dickhead? He sucks.

Uh-huh.