Nothing to Everything (Roommate for Roommate Book 1)

by Maia Aaron

Boy. Pretty. Pretty boy.

Oh, what an… “Asshole,” I mutter under my breath. His neck snaps in my direction at that. Wow, okay. So that, he heard.

Oh, right. Did I mention Professor Willis is my mother?

LMAO GIRL NO YOU DIDNT

God, she’s so fucking beautiful.

All I know is that Wendy Marin is the only thing that gets my heart pounding in my chest, and she’s the only one who’s ever been able to make my whole body heat up from a simple brush of her hand against mine.

“I’m slamming your head onto the piano keys. Multiple times. Until that pretty boy face of yours is all smashed in.” My heart flips in my chest. Did she just call me a pretty boy? As in, she thinks my face is pretty? Does Wendy Marin think I’m pretty?

“You think I’m pretty?” I ask, trying not to show how fucking elated I am that Wendy Marin just called me pretty.

I know it’s a small detail, almost insignificant, but when you spend the last six months thinking the girl you’re head over heels for has never had a single positive thought about you,...

Wesley’s

Wes <3

All month, when my mind wasn’t consumed by thoughts of do better, work harder, practice more, it spent the free time thinking of Fitz fucking Higgins.

“Damn,” she breathes out. “Ten bucks says Fitz is gonna have to hide a boner on stage after he sees you in this dress.” I slap her on the arm.

I don’t want her to cry. I want to take away whatever is hurting her and let it become my pain instead. I’d do anything if it meant she’d never cry of sadness or pain or anger or any negative feeling ever again.

What startles me is that she’s looking up at me now, her eyes locked on mine, but not even that distracts me from the way the rest of her fingers join her pinky until our hands are pressed together, like she wants to… Like she wants to hold mine.

Does she… Does she want to hold my hand?

I squeeze her hand once. She squeezes mine back. But I don’t wake up, because this isn’t a dream. I’m really holding Wendy Marin’s hand. Wendy Marin is holding my hand. Holy fuck.

it’s everything I imagined holding hands with her would be like except it’s also a million times better. I don’t even care that I’m probably blushing like an idiot right now because I can’t think of anything but Wendy’s hand in mine and how fucking right it feels to be there.

But I can’t help it. That’s just how Wendy makes me feel. Like I’ve just discovered feelings and crushes and butterflies in your stomach and fluttering pulses and daydreams and fantasies and wanting and needing something so badly it feels more important than air. Like I’m passing secret notes in class and rushing to meet her at the park for playdates and thinking that there’s nothing that could possibly feel bigger and more important than holding a girl’s hand.

God, I would’ve done this competition a hundred times over if I knew getting Wendy to smile at me was the fucking prize.

“Thank you. Really.” “You don’t need to thank me when I would crawl to the ends of the earth just to make you this happy and even happier every single day for as long as you let me,” is what I want to say, but it only comes out as, “You’re more than welcome.”

He’s holding me.

“Hey,” I croak out, and the soft smile Fitz gives me in response hits me right in the stomach. He lifts a hand to pinch a stray strand of my hair in between his fingers, and then he gently tucks it behind my ear. “Hi.”

I never would’ve guessed that crocheting is how he chooses to spend his free time. Why do I find that… attractive?

“So. Who’s your favorite artist?”

“You mean like music?”

“Oh. Well, that’s easy. Tay...

“Huh,” Fitz says. “...

“Well…” I say, breaking the awkward silence. “Does that mean you can crochet me a cardigan?”

“For you, Wendy? Anything.”

“What’s your favorite Taylor Swift song?”

“Hm… Probably Lover. It’s really romantic.”

“Romantic? Do you like a lot of romantic things?”

I blush a little. The answer is I love every...

I’m not ashamed of what I like to read, but disclosing these things to Fitz somehow feels… intimate. I’m not sure why.

Oh, God. Am I the problem?

“I don’t think Fitz hates you, and I don’t think he’s as much of an asshole as you think he is. I think you hate him because your mother doesn’t, and that makes you feel bad.”

I just don’t know if Fitz wants it to mean the same thing.

I know something you don’t

“Your mom doesn’t pay me, Wendy.” Pause. “What?” “Well, I mean, I was supposed to take money for your lessons. That was the deal. But when I saw you for the first time… I just couldn’t do it. I didn’t take the money. I never took any money.”

“What? You’ve been doing this for free for six whole months? Why?” Fitz turns to look at me, his eyes serious. “You don’t need me, Wendy. You never did. Taking money to teach you nothing was unfair.” He takes in a breath, swallowing hard. “But I still wanted to see you. Wanted to spend time with you. Wanted an excuse to be around you. So I kept doing our lessons together even though I never believed you had anything to learn from me.”

“It’s nice to see him come out of his shell with someone other than me.”

“Fitz has always been the quiet type. Never really talks to anyone unless he wants to. Not for any bad reason, he’s just… shy. Gets nervous easily. I remember when we first met, I had to sit through ten minutes of one-sided conversation before he finally gave in.”

“He’s always been a man of few words when it comes to most people, but with you, it’s like he can’t shut the fuck up. He jokes around and smiles a lot with you. It’s good to see.”

Fitz is shy? And quiet? And gets nervous easily? That’s not the Fitz I know. The Fitz I know doesn’t give people the time of day if he doesn’t think they deserve it. The Fitz I know is cocky and arrogant and doesn’t know when to stop. The Fitz I know looks down on people who he believes are beneath him and thinks he’s the salt of the earth. Actually, scratch that. The Fitz I thought I knew.

But now… Now I wonder if he was simply shy. Now I wonder if the reason he was so quiet when we first met wasn’t because he thought he was too good to even speak to me, but because he’s just quiet. Could that be it? Could Elle be right? Could I really have misjudged him too fast and held onto those false judgments so tightly they became my only reality? I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.

God, he’s so beautiful, it hurts. And I hate him for it.

Suddenly, the song Gorgeous by Taylor Swift starts playing in my head as I watch him, and that’s when I know I need to get the fuck out of here.

It’s one thing to let myself think I might not hate him and that he’s not terrible-looking, but the fact that I’ve started to correlate Taylor Swift songs to him? Yeah, ...

Since when does Fitz Higgins look at me like… Like he might actually like me? And since when do I wonder if I might feel that way about him, too?

His lithe fingers start gently pressing the keys, playing notes that I don’t recognize at first. It’s not for another few seconds that it finally sinks in what he’s playing. It’s the song Lover. By Taylor Swift. The one I told him was my favorite that day when we played Twenty Questions after my panic attack. I can’t breathe.

Do I focus on the fact that he learned how to play a song I told him I loved?

Or do I focus on the way my heart is beating so loudly it almost rivals the volume of the music?