Roomies

by Christina Lauren

Tonight, I’ve concluded two things about gin: it tastes like pinecones and is clearly the devil’s sauce.

I’ve always been obsessed with words—so why can’t I seem to write a single one?

There’s a high that comes from live shows, a collective energy in a large group of people all gathered for one reason.

Calvin turns back to Devon. “Dev, this is my fiancée, Holland. Holls, this is Devon.” Holls. Fiancée. And I die.

I used to refer to her as social lubricant, but Robert made me promise to never use that phrase again.

“What I said before was true,” he says quietly, as if he’s speaking only to me, “about how Holland tries to see herself clearly and seems to end up in a pretty good place. But I also think she sees herself as a supporting character, even in her own life story.”

He explodes into action, grabbing his clothes from the couch, jogging back to the bathroom. I catch a flash of bare ass and find religion.

“I’ve had friends like that,” he says, “the ones you outgrow but keep anyway.”

I only get one shot at this, and right now, I’m finding my value only in being valuable to others. How do I find value for me?

This is what I have to keep reminding myself. Sometimes a job can just be a job. We aren’t all going to win the rat race.

“I want to tell you I’m sorry,” he says, voice a low burr. “Come home and kick me in the teeth if you need to, but then kiss me.”

“I’ve never done this before. I just know I’m falling for the girl I married.”