I refuse to be remotely turned on by the sounds of my roommate and a random woman going at it. Not today, Satan.
Despite being objectively hot, tattooed bad boys like Trevor are not normally my type. It’s the white-collar sort with front-pleated chinos, cross-country runner bods, and boy-next-door-turned-respectable-plant-daddy energy that usually make me feel some type of way. And while Trevor is an exception to this, I have no intention of crossing that line with him. After the year I’ve had, platonic, drama-free cohabitation is just what I need. Besides, given the gorgeous women he brings home, he’s certainly categorized me as nothing more than an obnoxious, sexless human.
Bleary-eyed and frustrated with the uninvited tension between my thighs, I throw on my favorite cable-knit sweaterdress from the floor and snap a cute bow over yesterday’s French braid. I even apply an extra layer of mascara, full foundation, and bronzer in preparation for my Live video session this morning with Grandma Flo.
By the time I drift into the kitchen for my morning Pop-Tart, the screaming coming from Trevor’s bedroom has thankfully dissipated, replaced by a relative calm. As I toss the singed pastry onto my plate, I catch Trevor’s hookup tiptoeing toward the front door. Aside from the wildly matted hair and general fatigue from physical exertion, her professional-grade winged eyeliner is smudge-free. The beam of light from the tiny kitchen window above the sink gives her tanned skin a luminous, postorgasmic glow.
When our eyes meet, she stops in her tracks. “Morning,” she whispers, promptly averting her gaze to her bare feet, as if bracing for judgment.
Because I’m an emotional beacon with far too many feelings, I won’t touch a man’s penis if I don’t know his middle name. But I don’t judge others for partaking in casual sex. In fact, I envy their ability to take what they need while avoiding emotional damage.
“Hi. I’m Trevor’s roommate.” I’m about to wish her well and continue on about my day, but for reasons beyond me, I thrust my plate in her direction. “Want a Pop-Tart? It’s raspberry.”
She eyes it like it’s a rare delicacy. “You are doing the lord’s work. I’m starving.” She plucks the Pop-Tart from the plate, basking in the underrated glory of that first sugary bite.
The familiar creak of the pipes and sputtering water down the hall tells me Trevor’s taking a shower, so I don’t bother using a hushed voice. “Not surprised, from what I heard. You need to replenish your calories.”
She half chokes on her bite. “Sorry.” She pauses. “I’m Gabby, by the way.”
I don’t bother to hide my eager smile. “Tara.”
Two Pop-Tarts later, Gabby and I are besties. Turns out, she’s a badass. At the ripe age of twenty-four, she already runs an Etsy business selling handmade jewelry （I’ve ordered a dainty gold necklace）。 She’s also a member at the same fancy gym as Crystal. And despite my initial protest against physical activity, she’s convinced me to join her for an aerial yoga class later this week.
The moment Gabby leaves to catch her Uber, Trevor sneaks down the hallway, freshly showered. His ashy hair is damp, unsure which way it wants to fall. A pair of gray sweatpants hangs low on his hips, and of course he’s shirtless.
When he spots me parked on the stool at the island, I zero in on the intricate bird wing sweeping from his robust right shoulder and over part of his sculpted chest. He has a smattering of other tattoos on his arms and back, as well as another set of Roman numerals on his left rib. And while he makes a regular habit of waltzing around shirtless, identifying the particulars of each design is like solving a jigsaw puzzle, slowly but surely, piece by piece.
Today, I follow the sweeping wing leading to the bird’s expressive eyes. Even colorless, there’s a ferocity that screams to be noticed.
“Is she gone?” he whispers before so much as setting a toe into the open-concept kitchen and living area.
“No. I asked her to be our third roommate.” My tone is far too sarcastic for early morning, but I don’t know how else to act after hearing that （and accidently visualizing it）。 As he enters the kitchen, my chest erupts in ugly red blotches, heat dotting the crests of my cheeks. I think I need to lie down. “Didn’t we talk about nudity in common areas?”
“I’ll throw on a shirt if you clean up your books.” He waves a vague hand toward the stack of paperbacks in the corner under the living room window. I used them for a book-stack-challenge photo shoot two days ago and have yet to move them back to my room, despite his numerous requests. In the meantime, he’s piled them alphabetically.
Trevor has a phobia of clutter, which I’m discreetly desensitizing him to by adding a few personal touches one by one, so as not to spook him. My first add was my heart-shaped throw pillows, then the succulents, and, most recently, an admittedly revolting starry-sky canvas painted by yours truly at a wine-and-paint night. Trevor says it hurts his eyes.
“I told you the other day, I have no more room on my bookshelf. And you should be thanking me for adding character to the place. Your apartment was a cliché barren wasteland of nothingness before I moved in,” I rightly point out.
If I had to describe my new apartment in one word, it would be minimalist, and even that’s being too kind. Before I moved in, every wall and surface was bare, void of any clutter, color, or décor. To be fair, it wasn’t always this way. Apparently, Scott took lots of stuff with him when he moved in with Crystal, leaving only a limited amount of basic furniture in the form of exactly one worn leather couch and matching armchair, a flat-screen television, and a small maple dining table tucked in the corner of the equally bland off-white kitchen.
I continue on. “And if you’re going to keep having loud sex while I’m across the hall, the least you could do is let me decorate.” My expression is pointed. The man disturbed my much-needed tranquility, after all.
He smirks as he opens the fridge. “Hey, I can’t control other people’s volumes.”
“Sounded like Gabby had a good time, at least.”
He tosses a ziplock bag of frozen kale on the counter, narrowing a suspicious gaze at the crumb-filled plates on the island. “Did you give her a Pop-Tart?”
I lift a shoulder, watching as he dumps a handful of kale into the blender. “She was hungry, and you didn’t feed her.”
His eyes bulge, like I’ve just suggested he take her hand in marriage, which I’m half-tempted to do. “Why would I feed her afterward?”
I make a sour face, pinning my stare at the swirly design on my plate and definitely not the swirly design on his immaculate bod. “To thank her for the sex? You could have at least walked her out. She’s so cool. Did you know she has a scuba diving certification?”
There’s a break in the conversation as he blends his smoothie to a puree. “That’s not how a one-night stand works.”
“Do you mind if I invite her over this weekend? We’re best friends now,” I gloat, mesmerized as he pours his healthy concoction into a tall glass. “I think you’d like her, if you got to know her. She’s wifey material.” I give him what I already know is a nauseating wink, mostly to get a reaction out of him.