My brothers roommate, p.9
My Brother's Roommate, page 9
There’s something wrong with you.
I’ve always known that to be true, but it hurts a whole lot more hearing someone else say it out loud. Even if it is an old hookup whose opinion shouldn’t matter much.
It hasn’t always been this way, though. Once upon a time, I was a normal horny teenager eager to experience sex and pleasure. But then one night when I was sixteen, I broke.
My dad’s girlfriend came into my bedroom in the middle of the night, and I woke up to a hand that wasn’t mine gripping me inside my boxers. It was foreign and strange, mostly because no one had ever touched me before. What made it even more so was she was someone that I’d looked at like a mother figure in my life.
At first, I was so stunned, I just lay there. My body wouldn’t cooperate.
I wanted to shout at her to get out, but my voice wouldn’t come. I wanted to push her hands away, but instead, I lay there motionless, unable to move an inch. I wanted her to know that my body’s condition wasn’t in response to her touch. I’d often woke up hard and aching, and now my body was betraying me.
Finally, I moved, rolling over to face the wall, and she quietly left. But the damage was done. Something clicked off inside me after that.
It shattered all trust. It torpedoed everything. The next day, I thought I was doing the right thing by telling my dad. He brushed it off, said I probably just dreamed the whole thing and Janine would never do something like that. My dad not listening to me was nothing new, I'd spent most of my childhood ignored and neglected, but his rejection about this hurt worse than anything. After, I sunk into a deep depression. I was incapable of feeling pleasure. And even now, it still haunts me. That sickening creepy feeling that churns low in my stomach when I think about that night. That apathetic dread that slammed through me at my own dad's denial. It broke something inside me.
And more than that, it complicated my sex life. Before, I'd been a normal, horny teenager eager to experience sex and pleasure. But something had clicked off inside me after that. When I finally got around to losing my virginity, it was a quick, emotionless affair and that was still the way I preferred things. Quick. Efficient. With no room for feelings or emotion. Get in. Get off. Get out. There wasn't cuddling or comfort or kissing.
The old me was long gone, replaced with someone I hardly liked. Someone distant. The kind of guy who can manage to spend one night tangled up with the most beautiful girl he’s ever laid eyes on, and be totally unable to let her touch him less than a week later.
If it were you, you’d probably be drinking alone on a weeknight too.
But the hurt in Penelope’s eyes when I left tonight . . . Fuck, that destroyed me.
Penelope.
Just thinking her name makes my heart ache, and my body hum to life in new and strange ways.
She’s different. I can see it in her expression and the hope that fills her wide blue eyes when she looks at me.
She thinks I’m a good man, a kind man, that I’d be a loving boyfriend who enjoys romantic movies and stolen kisses. The kind of man you could bring home to meet your parents, who would shake your dad’s hand and say, you’ve raised a hell of a daughter, sir. And then everyone would have a good laugh.
But I’m none of those things. To be honest, I’m barely functioning most days. I work, sleep, and hit the gym, filling my time so I don’t have to sit around and think about why I’m so broken. And when the ache inside me becomes too much to bear, I get drunk and fumble my way through a quick fuck that only leaves me feeling worse. Guilty and confused.
Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
I’ve been this way my entire adult life. And now Penelope with her pretty mouth and her shining optimism wants me to change? To smile at her and pull her into my arms and hold her while we make love?
It just doesn’t work that way.
Soon enough she’d discover what a piece of shit I am, all about my fucked-up past and why I couldn’t even keep Tessa happy. Then Penelope would leave too, and I’d be alone again, which is exactly the way it’s supposed to be.
12
* * *
PENELOPE
“So he just . . . left?” Scarlett blinks at me in disbelief from behind her coffee mug, her mouth hanging open in shock.
We’ve spent the better portion of our lunch breaks huddled in this West Loop coffee shop, hashing out the details of the last few weeks of my dramatic life. It’s quite the story, beginning with Wolfie playing the role of my fake boyfriend on a work retreat, and ending with him walking out on me last night. A story that, unfortunately, ends with a bunch of big, bold question marks instead of a happy ending.
I nod somberly. “Yup. He just broke away from me while we were kissing and bolted out the door.”
Scarlett’s eyes are brimming with such intense sympathy, I can’t even look at her without feeling pathetic. Instead, I focus on stirring my spoon in lazy circles through my hot chocolate.
Well, it’s really more like room-temperature chocolate now with how long I’ve been rambling. Normally, I’m a latte girl, but when a man flees your apartment in the middle of a hot make-out session, you buy yourself a damn hot cocoa. Tack on the homemade marshmallows this place advertises, and I couldn’t say no.
“Okay, so then what?” She splays her fingers across the white faux-marble table, leaning in with anticipation. “Did he come back? Did he call you and explain himself, begging for forgiveness?”
Girl, I wish.
I release a slow breath and shake my head. “Nope. That’s it. He just left, and I haven’t heard from him since.”
The truth is, I wasn’t sure if I should text him, or call, or just wait for him to make contact when he’s ready. It’s like he’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders. While he’s told me a little about his preferences, he hasn’t told me the reasons why he is the way he is. And I honestly just don’t understand him as much as I’d like to.
Scarlett nods slowly, her brow furrowing as she digests my words. “Okay, so . . . that’s a lot.”
“Yeah. Tell me about it.”
For a moment, the only sound between us is Scarlett’s manicured fingers drumming on the side of her white ceramic mug. “And you’re sure things were going well before that? He wasn’t giving off any weird vibes?”
Talk about a loaded question. Wolfie Cox is in a constant state of giving off weird vibes. But Scarlett knows this—we’ve all hung out in the same circle of friends for years.
Actually, Scarlett’s known Wolfie longer than I have. I only met him through my brother once they became roommates. Scarlett and Caleb have been inseparable for years before that. She’s always been a bit of an older-sister type to me, which actually gives me an idea. I should ask for her advice on all this. Plus, she is a few years older than me . . . and she’s been through her share of awful guys. I’m sure she has some wisdom.
But as I open my mouth to speak, I realize that would involve me telling her about Wolfie’s intimacy issues, and exposing his insecurities doesn’t feel like the right move. He told me those things in confidence, and even if I have no idea where I stand with the man, I’m not going to betray his trust.
Maybe this is just part of who he is. Maybe he runs when he gets scared . . . or overwhelmed. Or turned on? God, I don’t know. I heave out a sigh and press my fingers into my temples.
Things started off so easy last night. It didn’t seem like he was worried about anything. He was sweet and easygoing, his usual armor of anxiety nowhere to be found. It was like I’d had him over for dinner dozens of times. The conversation was easy and natural. Even when things got physical, he was still so relaxed. Until, well, until he suddenly wasn’t.
“I swear it was smooth sailing up until then. Totally normal. And then out of the blue, he grabs his coat and runs.” My stomach hollows out at the memory, the sting of rejection as Wolfie’s gray eyes went dull just before he dashed out my door.
Retelling the story is proving to be as hurtful and confusing as living it out in real time. With the edge of my spoon, I scoop a gooey melted marshmallow from my mug and pop it between my lips, letting the sweet, sticky sugar rush go straight to my head. They say laughter is the best medicine, but I’d have to argue that sugar gives it a run for its money.
She nods once. “Wolfie is a complicated guy. He deserves the world, but try telling him that.”
I make a sound of agreement, thoughtfully eating a second marshmallow.
Scarlett pushes back from the table a little, as if to give herself space to process this mess. “Well, I can confidently say that when you told me we needed to discuss your boy problems, I definitely wasn’t expecting that.”
I lift a shoulder, a hint of a sad smile pulling at my lips. “What can I say? I’m always full of surprises.”
She only shrugs.
Not that my attraction to Wolfie should come as much of a surprise to her. The only person who knows as much about my Wolfie fantasies as my journal is Scarlett. And thank God she does, because I can’t hold all this in without inevitably exploding, and I certainly can’t tell the rest of our friends. Scarlett is so perceptive, she guessed at my feelings one night over cocktails, and I’ve been confiding in her ever since.
Scarlett chews her lower lip in thought for a long moment, then straightens in her seat, her eyes brightening with realization. “Here’s a thought. What if dinner didn’t sit right with him, and he had to . . . you know.” She clutches her stomach, miming illness, which earns her a much-deserved scowl from me.
“This was not an invitation to make fun of my cooking, Scar. I’m looking for actual advice.”
She folds her arms over her chest and shrugs. “I’m just saying, rosé and alfredo sauce don’t exactly mix. Maybe he wasn’t feeling well.”
Deflated, I sink deeper into my chair. Part of me wants to believe she’s right. It would be less painful than the alternative explanation—that Wolfie just isn’t interested in being physical with me again.
I must be staring into my hot cocoa for a little too long, though, because moments later, I feel the reassuring warmth of Scarlett’s hand over mine.
“I’m just kidding, P. Don’t overthink it. You know how weird Wolfie can be. But you said he opened up to you at the lake house, right? That’s a big deal. Especially for him.” When I don’t respond, she gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “Hey, I bet you learned more about him in one night than the rest of us have over the last four years.”
“You’re right,” I say begrudgingly, softly squeezing her hand back. “He was just so vulnerable that night. So open and honest. I want to see that side of him all the time, you know?”
“I get it. And you deserve that,” she says firmly. “But maybe he’s not ready yet. Don’t force it. Just be your usual supportive self, and it will come.”
A low groan rolls from me as I bury my face in my hands. “Ugh, you’re right, you’re right.” I split my fingers enough to peer out at her. “Why do you always have to be right?”
Her laugh is soft and bubbly as she tosses her auburn hair over one shoulder. “I can’t help it. Being right is in my DNA. But so is being on time, and I do have a meeting with a potential client in ten.”
“Oh, don’t let me keep you.” I press to my feet, shooing her toward the door. “Get out of here. I’ll have plenty of drama to talk through another day.”
She cocks her head, barely holding back a smile. “You sure? I don’t want to pull a Wolfie and bolt right in the middle of something.”
My eyes narrow in disapproval, but I can’t help the smile pulling at my lips. “If this mug weren’t ceramic, I’d throw it at you, you know that?”
A mischievous grin breaks out on her face as she shoots me a wink. “I know. But it is, and you won’t. Let’s do this again soon, though, okay? I like this place.”
We return our empty mugs to the dirty dish bin and button up our coats, hurrying through our good-byes at the door so as to not keep Scarlett’s client waiting.
She makes a sound that’s some combination of a sympathy and a sigh, laying a hand on my shoulder like a proud mother. “You’re a rock star, you know that? Wolfie’s a lucky guy.”
I smile, but there’s a sadness behind it.
Here’s to hoping he thinks so too.
13
* * *
WOLFIE
When Connor walks through the door of our storefront on Wednesday morning, I hardly recognize the man.
First of all, he’s forty minutes late, which is entirely out of character. Tardiness has never been Connor’s style—first, because he rides his motorcycle everywhere, meaning that he can weave through all the traffic on Lake Shore Drive and handily beat any of us to work, bars, anywhere we’re meeting up.
Second, the guy looks like a ghost, and it’s not just the pale, haunted look on his face. His hair is a mess, and I’d put money down that he didn’t shave today, his overgrown stubble creeping down the front of his throat. No way am I letting this bastard wander into neck-beard territory. Somebody needs an intervention.
“Did somebody just dig you out of your grave?”
Connor doesn’t even respond, which is all the proof I need that something’s up. If he were in his right mind, no way would he let me get away with a comment like that.
But instead of hitting me with one of his usual digs, he just plods through the store, dragging his feet along the black tile. When he finally joins us behind the counter, he leans against the back wall with a defeated huff. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he needed the support of the wall to stay upright.
I look toward Ever, then Hayes, hoping one of them has an explanation for Connor’s behavior, but no dice. Hayes shrugs, and Ever just shakes his head.
Great. I guess I’ll be the one doing the detective work this morning. As if I didn’t already have enough on my plate.
When I turn back toward Connor, he’s staring down at the floor, totally zoned out. “Hello? You there, Blake?”
I wave a hand in front of Connor’s face, and he startles out of his daze, blinking at me with the kind of confused look he normally reserves for math or girls who turn him down.
“What? Uh, yeah. I’m fine,” he grumbles, one hand rubbing the tension from the back of his neck. “Totally fine.”
He’s obviously not fine. How am I not supposed to be worried about him when he’s acting completely deranged?
I side-eye the hell out of him. Connor’s easygoing charm is nowhere to be found, and it’s more unnerving than I expected it to be. He’s always been the glue that holds our crew together.
The last few years of starting a business together hasn’t always been easy, and there have been times when tempers flared and testosterone-fueled arguments broke out. Connor’s good-natured reliability always got us through. He was the one to step in, putting himself in the middle of any disagreement. He’s the person you can count on one hundred percent of the time to be calm and collected. Levelheaded. Chill.
But right now, that guy is gone. And in his place is a man I don’t recognize. It rocks me to my core.
But before we can get any deeper into it, the bell on the door chimes, and in walks a customer. A middle-aged woman with a brunette bob, her winter coat zipped up to her neck. She gives the four of us a quick smile before shuffling back toward the couples’ corner. It seems like she knows what she’s looking for, and thank fuck for that, because Connor is the one who usually makes the sales pitches around here.
I reach for our speaker system and dial up the volume on the ambient music. Just two notches, enough to hopefully drown out this conversation.
“Hey. What’s going on with you?” I shoot Connor one of my no bullshit looks. I’m not messing around here. There’s something up with him, and we’re not going to make it through a full workday if our top salesman is as useless as a one-legged cat.
Connor stuffs his hands into his pockets, barely managing half a shrug. “Nothing much. What’s up with you?”
Fucking hell. I don’t have the patience for this today.
I sigh, folding my arms over my chest. “No, I mean what’s going on with you? You look like shit.”
He scoffs. “Thanks, jackass. You don’t look so hot yourself.”
“No, I mean you look like a zombie with a third-degree hangover.” I raise one eyebrow at him for emphasis.
I should know. I’m nursing a mild hangover myself. I may have gotten a third glass of Jameson last night after Tessa told me off.
Between proving to both Penelope and myself that I’m too much of a mess for her and swerving my ex-hookup at the bar, there was a lot of edge to take off.
And to be honest, I’m still reeling. Not so much from Tessa, but from Penelope. I hurt her, and that’s bothering me. But I’m not going to let that show. And that’s more than Connor can say about whatever’s eating him up inside.
“I’m fine, okay?”
His voice is louder this time, strident enough to get the attention of our newest customer. She snaps her head toward the register, frowns at Connor, then goes back to reading the ingredients on the lavender massage oil in her hand.
Gripping Connor by the elbow, I pull him into the back office and bark at Hayes to man the register, tugging the door shut behind me. Connor flashes me an uncertain look but it’s too late. I have him cornered.
“C’mon, dude.” He groans, trying to maneuver past me, but I counter, anticipating his every move. When he steps left, I step right, blocking him with squared shoulders and a tight frown.
“I’m not letting you leave unless you agree to go back home and straight to bed.”
He levels me with a glare. “I don’t need to go home,” he forces out through gritted teeth, but his stern look quickly fades away to worry. “I, uh, actually . . . if I’m going anywhere, I need to go to the car dealership.”
