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Roomies Quotes
Roomies
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Christina Lauren88,629 ratings, 3.76 average rating, 9,181 reviews
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Roomies Quotes
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“Maybe the reason I can't write about fictional life is because I haven't actually lived.”
― Roomies
― Roomies
“Will anything ever be permanent? What the hell am I doing with my life? 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?”
― Roomies
― Roomies
“There is a high that comes from live shows, a collective energy in a large group of people all gathered for one reason. The beat slices through the melodies and then drops; the crowd bounces and undulates like ripples of water.”
― Roomies
― Roomies
“Calvin clears his throat. “Do you have anything to drink?”
Booze. Right. This is the perfect situation for some booze. I jump up, and he laughs, awkwardly. “I should have thought to get champagne or something.”
“You bought the dinner,” I remind him. “Obviously the champagne was on my list and I dropped the ball.”
Pulling a bottle of vodka from the freezer, I set it on the counter and then realize I have nothing to mix it with. And I finished the last beer the other night.
“I have vodka.”
He smiles valiantly. “Straight-up vodka it is.”
“It’s Stoli.”
“Straight-up mediocre vodka it is,” he amends with a cheeky wink.
His phone buzzes, and it sets off a weird, giddy reaction in my chest. We both have full lives beyond this apartment, which remain complete mysteries to each other. One difference between us is that Calvin likely doesn’t care about my life outside of this. Yet I care intensely about his. Having him here feels like finding the key to unlock a mysterious chest that’s been sitting in the corner of my bedroom for a year.
Buzz. Buzz.
Looking up, I meet his eyes. They’re wide, almost as if he’s not sure whether to answer.
“You can get it,” I assure him. “It’s okay.”
His face darkens with a flush. “I . . . don’t think I should.”
“It’s your phone! Of course it’s okay to answer it.”
“It’s not . . .”
Buzz. Buzz.
Unless, maybe, it’s some Mafia drug lord and if he answers his ruse is up and I’ll kick him out. Or—gasp—maybe it’s a girlfriend calling?
Why had this not occurred to me?
Buzz. Buzz.
“Oh my God. Do you have a girlfriend?”
He looks horrified. “What? Of course not.”
Buzz. Buzz.
Holy shit, how long until his voicemail puts us out of our misery?
“. . . Boyfriend?”
“I don’t—” he starts, smiling through a wince. “It’s not.”
“ ‘Not’?”
“My phone isn’t ringing.”
I stare at him, bewildered.
His blush deepens. “It’s not a phone.”
When he says this, I know he’s right. It doesn’t have the right rhythm to be a phone.
I lift the vodka to my lips and chug straight from the bottle. The buzzing has the exact rhythm of my vibrator . . . the one I tucked beneath that cushion on the couch days ago.
I’m going to need to be pretty drunk to deal with this.”
― Roomies
Booze. Right. This is the perfect situation for some booze. I jump up, and he laughs, awkwardly. “I should have thought to get champagne or something.”
“You bought the dinner,” I remind him. “Obviously the champagne was on my list and I dropped the ball.”
Pulling a bottle of vodka from the freezer, I set it on the counter and then realize I have nothing to mix it with. And I finished the last beer the other night.
“I have vodka.”
He smiles valiantly. “Straight-up vodka it is.”
“It’s Stoli.”
“Straight-up mediocre vodka it is,” he amends with a cheeky wink.
His phone buzzes, and it sets off a weird, giddy reaction in my chest. We both have full lives beyond this apartment, which remain complete mysteries to each other. One difference between us is that Calvin likely doesn’t care about my life outside of this. Yet I care intensely about his. Having him here feels like finding the key to unlock a mysterious chest that’s been sitting in the corner of my bedroom for a year.
Buzz. Buzz.
Looking up, I meet his eyes. They’re wide, almost as if he’s not sure whether to answer.
“You can get it,” I assure him. “It’s okay.”
His face darkens with a flush. “I . . . don’t think I should.”
“It’s your phone! Of course it’s okay to answer it.”
“It’s not . . .”
Buzz. Buzz.
Unless, maybe, it’s some Mafia drug lord and if he answers his ruse is up and I’ll kick him out. Or—gasp—maybe it’s a girlfriend calling?
Why had this not occurred to me?
Buzz. Buzz.
“Oh my God. Do you have a girlfriend?”
He looks horrified. “What? Of course not.”
Buzz. Buzz.
Holy shit, how long until his voicemail puts us out of our misery?
“. . . Boyfriend?”
“I don’t—” he starts, smiling through a wince. “It’s not.”
“ ‘Not’?”
“My phone isn’t ringing.”
I stare at him, bewildered.
His blush deepens. “It’s not a phone.”
When he says this, I know he’s right. It doesn’t have the right rhythm to be a phone.
I lift the vodka to my lips and chug straight from the bottle. The buzzing has the exact rhythm of my vibrator . . . the one I tucked beneath that cushion on the couch days ago.
I’m going to need to be pretty drunk to deal with this.”
― Roomies
“This is a conversation. Holy shit, I’m having a conversation with the stranger I’ve had a crush on for months.”
― Roomies
― Roomies
“As I slip in, I wonder whether, in ten years, I’ll hear a riff or an opening chord to one of the songs and be transported back immediately to this time in my life. It makes the shadow thought follow—what will I feel when I think of these times? Will I think, Wow, those were the hardest days, trying to figure out who I was? Or will I think, Those days were so easy and free, with so little responsibility?”
― Roomies
― Roomies
“love to read, but whenever I pick up a novel that blows me away, I think, There’s no way I have something like that inside me. Is Jeff right? Am I unable to create anything because I see myself in a supporting role? Doomed to always be the friend, the daughter, the linchpin in everyone else’s story?”
― Roomies
― Roomies
“The thing about this music is that if you just stand here and listen, you’ll never appreciate it. You’re supposed to be part of it—part of the party. I think that’s why I like it so much.”
― Roomies
― Roomies
“I used to refer to her as social lubricant, but Robert made me promise to never use that phrase again.”
― Roomies
― Roomies
“Do you have cats?” I blink. “Cats?” “I’m allergic.” “Oh.” I frown. This is really where his brain goes first? Mine went straight to bare skin and sex sounds. “No cats.”
― Roomies
― Roomies
“But this...writing about how it feels to listen to music, to have found him--it almost feels like I'm writing a description of how my organs work together, what keeps me breathing. I don't think I've ever felt this before. ”
― Roomies
― Roomies
“I have no idea what I want to do. I want to write and read and talk about books with people. I want to listen to music, go out to dinner and just live."
"That is a life," he insists. "That is a good life.”
― Roomies
"That is a life," he insists. "That is a good life.”
― Roomies
“Shoot me in the face.
Have you ever tried to do your own tax returns? Immigration paperwork is a lot like that, but with less math and far more opportunities for perjury.”
― Roomies
Have you ever tried to do your own tax returns? Immigration paperwork is a lot like that, but with less math and far more opportunities for perjury.”
― Roomies
“But I knew I wanted to be with him, and he wanted to be with me, too, and also knew what he wanted to do with his life. So, we compromised. He took the job in Des Moines, and it was my responsibility to get a job that would make enough money for what we needed, and that I enjoyed enough. I didn’t have to love it, but it didn’t matter whether I did, either, because I had him. I kept trying new things, too, and eventually discovered pottery. It’s fun, of course, but the most important part is that I didn’t feel like my job had to be my everything.”
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 know.”
― Roomies
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 know.”
― Roomies
“I rarely admit this ambition anymore because it seems to always garner this exact reaction: an odd combination of surprised and impressed. And I can’t tell whether people respond this way because they like the idea that I want to do something difficult and creative, or because nobody looks at me and immediately thinks She’s got stories buried inside her.”
― Roomies
― Roomies
“Hungry?” he asks.
“The wager?” I remind him.
“I’m getting there—it’s related to my question.” He lifts his chin to the meat locker. “They have good steaks here.”
And just like that, I’m interested in whatever he’s suggesting. “They do. What’re you thinking?”
“They have a porterhouse for two, three, or four.”
I haven’t eaten in nearly twenty-four hours, and the idea of a big juicy steak has me salivating. “Yeah?”
“So, I say we split the one for three, and whoever eats more wins.”
“I’m going to guess their porterhouse for three could feed us both for a week.”
“I’m betting you’re right.” His adorable grin should be accompanied by the sound of a silvery ding. “And your dinner is on me.”
For not the first time, it occurs to me to ask him how he makes ends meet, but I can’t—not here, and maybe not when we’re alone, either. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I think I can handle treating my wife to dinner on our wedding night.”
Our wedding night. My heart thuds heavily. “That’s a lot of meat. No pun intended.”
He grins enthusiastically. “I’d sure like to see how you handle it.”
“You’re betting Holland can’t finish a steak?” Lulu chimes in from behind me. “Oh, you sweet summer child.”
***
As we get up, I groan, clutching my stomach. “Is this what pregnancy feels like? Not interested.”
“I could carry you,” Calvin offers sweetly, helping me with my coat.
Lulu pushes between us, giddy from wine as she throws her arms around our shoulders. “You’re supposed to carry the bride across the threshold to be romantic, not because she’s broken from eating her weight in beef.”
I stifle a belch. “The way to impress a man is to show him how much meat you can handle, don’t you know this, Lu?”
Calvin laughs. “It was a close battle.”
“Not that close,” Mark says, beside him.
We went so far as to have the waiter split the cooked steak into two equal portions, much to the amused fascination of our tablemates. I ate roughly three-quarters of mine. Calvin was two ounces short.
“Calvin Bakker has a pretty solid ring to it,” I say.
He laugh-groans. “What did I get myself into?”
“A marriage to a farm girl,” I say. “It’s best you learn on day one that I take my eating very seriously.”
― Roomies
“The wager?” I remind him.
“I’m getting there—it’s related to my question.” He lifts his chin to the meat locker. “They have good steaks here.”
And just like that, I’m interested in whatever he’s suggesting. “They do. What’re you thinking?”
“They have a porterhouse for two, three, or four.”
I haven’t eaten in nearly twenty-four hours, and the idea of a big juicy steak has me salivating. “Yeah?”
“So, I say we split the one for three, and whoever eats more wins.”
“I’m going to guess their porterhouse for three could feed us both for a week.”
“I’m betting you’re right.” His adorable grin should be accompanied by the sound of a silvery ding. “And your dinner is on me.”
For not the first time, it occurs to me to ask him how he makes ends meet, but I can’t—not here, and maybe not when we’re alone, either. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I think I can handle treating my wife to dinner on our wedding night.”
Our wedding night. My heart thuds heavily. “That’s a lot of meat. No pun intended.”
He grins enthusiastically. “I’d sure like to see how you handle it.”
“You’re betting Holland can’t finish a steak?” Lulu chimes in from behind me. “Oh, you sweet summer child.”
***
As we get up, I groan, clutching my stomach. “Is this what pregnancy feels like? Not interested.”
“I could carry you,” Calvin offers sweetly, helping me with my coat.
Lulu pushes between us, giddy from wine as she throws her arms around our shoulders. “You’re supposed to carry the bride across the threshold to be romantic, not because she’s broken from eating her weight in beef.”
I stifle a belch. “The way to impress a man is to show him how much meat you can handle, don’t you know this, Lu?”
Calvin laughs. “It was a close battle.”
“Not that close,” Mark says, beside him.
We went so far as to have the waiter split the cooked steak into two equal portions, much to the amused fascination of our tablemates. I ate roughly three-quarters of mine. Calvin was two ounces short.
“Calvin Bakker has a pretty solid ring to it,” I say.
He laugh-groans. “What did I get myself into?”
“A marriage to a farm girl,” I say. “It’s best you learn on day one that I take my eating very seriously.”
― Roomies
“Trust your muse...But what if I don't have one? There's a part of me that worries I don't love to write enough to do it all day, my entire life...I think part of what's keeping me from starting is the fear that I won't actually love it, and then I'll be left with a degree I won't use, and no other prospects.”
― Roomies
― Roomies
“Ugh. Crushes are the worst, but in hindsight a crush from afar seems so much easier than this. I should stick to making up stories in my head and watching from a distance like a reasonable creeper. Now I’ve broken the fourth wall and if he’s as friendly as his eyes tell me he is, he may notice me when I drop money in his case the next time, and I will be forced to interact smoothly or run in the opposite direction. I may be middle-of-the-pack when my mouth is closed, but as soon as I start talking to men, Lulu calls me Appalland, for how appallingly unappealing I become. Obviously, she’s not wrong. And now I’m sweating under my pink wool coat, my face is melting, and I’m hit with an almost uncontrollable urge to hike my tights up to my armpits because they have slowly crept down beneath my skirt and are starting to feel like form-fitting harem pants.”
― Roomies
― Roomies
“I’ve never seen him arrive or leave, because I always walk past him, drop a dollar bill in his case, and keep moving. Then, covertly from the platform, I look over—as do many of us—to where he sits on his stool near the base of the stairs, his fingers flying up and down the neck of the instrument. His left hand pulls out the notes as if it’s as simple as breathing.
Breathing. As an aspiring writer, it’s my least favorite cliché, but it’s the only one that suits. I’ve never seen someone’s fingers move like that, as if he doesn’t even have to think about it. In some ways, it seems like he gives the guitar an actual human voice.
He looks up as I drop a bill into his case, squinting at me, and gives me a quiet “Thanks very much.”
He’s never done that before—looked up when someone dropped money in his case—and I’m caught completely off guard when our eyes meet.
Green, his are green. And he doesn’t immediately look away. The hold of his gaze is mesmerizing.”
― Roomies
Breathing. As an aspiring writer, it’s my least favorite cliché, but it’s the only one that suits. I’ve never seen someone’s fingers move like that, as if he doesn’t even have to think about it. In some ways, it seems like he gives the guitar an actual human voice.
He looks up as I drop a bill into his case, squinting at me, and gives me a quiet “Thanks very much.”
He’s never done that before—looked up when someone dropped money in his case—and I’m caught completely off guard when our eyes meet.
Green, his are green. And he doesn’t immediately look away. The hold of his gaze is mesmerizing.”
― Roomies
“Calvin sits up, jerking his guitar to stand on one thigh. “Mr. Okai.” He swallows. “I didn’t realize you were standing there.”
“My niece tells me your name is Calvin.”
Calvin looks between the two of us, working this out. Robert, with his smooth dark skin and meticulously short hair. Me: pale and freckled with a chaotic, weedy bun on top of my head.
Robert reaches out a hand, and Calvin immediately takes it, standing. “Yes. Calvin McLoughlin.”
This makes my uncle laugh, and the boom of it eases the line of Calvin’s shoulders. “That’s a pretty Irish name for someone with such a good tan.”
“My mam is Greek,” he explains, and then looks back and forth between me and Robert again, as if asking a question of his own.
Robert tilts his head to me, releasing Calvin’s hand and saying in turn, “I married her uncle.”
Calvin smiles, quietly saying, “Ah.”
― Roomies
“My niece tells me your name is Calvin.”
Calvin looks between the two of us, working this out. Robert, with his smooth dark skin and meticulously short hair. Me: pale and freckled with a chaotic, weedy bun on top of my head.
Robert reaches out a hand, and Calvin immediately takes it, standing. “Yes. Calvin McLoughlin.”
This makes my uncle laugh, and the boom of it eases the line of Calvin’s shoulders. “That’s a pretty Irish name for someone with such a good tan.”
“My mam is Greek,” he explains, and then looks back and forth between me and Robert again, as if asking a question of his own.
Robert tilts his head to me, releasing Calvin’s hand and saying in turn, “I married her uncle.”
Calvin smiles, quietly saying, “Ah.”
― Roomies
“Calvin told me to do something with my brain, but how? Threads of ideas appear on the edge and are gone as soon as my fingers settle on the keys. There's no connective tissue to string them together, no skeleton to hold them up. I want to live my life with the intensity I see on the stage up there, want to feel passionate about something in the same way. But what if it never happens for me?”
― Roomies
― Roomies
“After the merch booth has closed, I join the melee, but am nudged to the middle of the mob, and then the back, where I stand on my toes to watch person after person embrace my husband. Jeff’s words from our pseudo-poker game rise to the surface of my consciousness and bob there, refusing to be silenced. This is the very definition of being a supporting character. But I don’t really mind that I’m this far away—I can still see the smile on his face as bright as a spotlight, and his joy seems to vibrate across the distance. Surely everyone knows what a big deal this must be to him, but I still look at him and remember the subway musician hunched over his guitar, sitting on a narrow stool, guitar case open at his feet. And now here he is, wearing a suit, standing beside Ramón Martín, and getting the praise and adoration of an entire cast and crew. I’m still on the sidelines, but I helped make that happen.”
― Roomies
― Roomies
“I’ve had the thought almost without realizing it—the encroaching awareness that I feel settled but in truth can’t see my future at all. I have a temporary job, a temporary marriage. Will anything ever be permanent? What the hell am I going to do with my life? 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?
Calvin told me to do something with my brain, but how? Threads of ideas appear on the edge and are gone as soon as my fingers settle on the keys. There’s no connective tissue to string them together, no skeleton to hold them up. I want to live my life with the intensity I see on the stage up there, want to feel passionate about something in that same way. But what if it never happens for me?”
― Roomies
Calvin told me to do something with my brain, but how? Threads of ideas appear on the edge and are gone as soon as my fingers settle on the keys. There’s no connective tissue to string them together, no skeleton to hold them up. I want to live my life with the intensity I see on the stage up there, want to feel passionate about something in that same way. But what if it never happens for me?”
― Roomies
“We found out yesterday that Robert has won the Drama Desk Award for Possessed, a huge Broadway honor. Jeff—who is over the moon about it—is planning a fiftieth birthday party/award celebration. Of course I have to be there . . . and of course Calvin will be, too.
No way am I going solo. I need major reinforcements, and nobody makes me laugh harder than Davis.
“I know where this is going,” he says once I’ve explained the situation. He lets out a long sigh. “Does this mean I need to get a plane ticket and rent a tux?”
“Well yeah, because I want my date to look hot.”
“That is some Flowers in the Attic stuff, Holls. Don’t be weird.”
― Roomies
No way am I going solo. I need major reinforcements, and nobody makes me laugh harder than Davis.
“I know where this is going,” he says once I’ve explained the situation. He lets out a long sigh. “Does this mean I need to get a plane ticket and rent a tux?”
“Well yeah, because I want my date to look hot.”
“That is some Flowers in the Attic stuff, Holls. Don’t be weird.”
― Roomies
