Roomies

We're not done talking about this.” “Yes, we are, because in case you didn't notice, you just walked out, hence the ending of the conversation!” He comes back to say, “It will be resumed at a later date.” “I'm calling in sick that day.

Your father...isn't good with emotions.” “Yeah. Figured that out a while ago.” Like, when I was four and cried because our family cat died and he offered to have it stuffed as a means to make me feel better. It didn't.

A good thing about being so close to someone is that they know you so well. A bad thing about being so close to someone is that they know you so well.

Something you want to tell me?" "Um...your scrub top's on inside out?" "What?" He glances down. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" I shrug. "It was funny.

You look good there.” “Where?” “In my bed.” Duuuuude. Zart, Lindy (2014-11-20). Roomies (p. 110). . Kindle Edition.

I wear embarrassing like a velvet coat of awesomeness.

I'm going to go see if Graham needs first aid.” Or mouth to mouth. It is my civic duty.

Maybe I’m a little callous, a little insensitive, a little self-centered, but hey, that’s how I roll.

I want you. And I am not a needy man, but even I will admit that I need you. My life is so much better with you in it. It took a while for me to see why and I'm sorry about that. Sometimes it's hard to see what you have when, in your mind, the possibility of losing it is never a thought.” He pauses, smiling. “Your crazy makes my crazy make sense.

He so must have male PMS. And it really does exist 'cause I glanced at an article about it online once.

You know what is so appealing about you, in a twisted, messed up kind of way?" "What's that?" "You have no idea how tactless you are." "Well. I have some idea," I grumble.

Your crazy makes my crazy make sense.” “That makes absolutely no sense at all.” “Exactly.” “So... you love me? Like, love me like you want me to have your babies.” I grin, knowing that'll spook him. He is exceptionally mature about it , only going a little white. “Yeah. Like that. What about you?” “I don't want you to have my babies. Men aren't cut out for that. Wimps.” Zart, Lindy (2014-11-20). Roomies (p. 212). . Kindle Edition.

You should probably go to the doctor for that.” He rolls his eyes, stealing a bottle of water from the refrigerator and uncapping it. “Doctors are overrated.” “Yeah, funeral directors too.” He pauses with the bottle halfway to his mouth, bewilderment filtering through his eyes. “I don't understand half of what you say.” “Well, at least you understand the other half of it. There's hope for you yet. I mean, at least a fifty-fifty chance, right?” His eyes brighten. “There she is. 'Bout time you woke up. Good morning, Kennedy.” I mutter something that may or may not come out sounding like, “Fuck off,” and stomp into the living room to await what is guaranteed to be an outstanding day. I can feel the awesomeness ahead. Graham follows me, flipping a light switch and burning my eyes. “Did you just tell Blake to fuck off?” “I can't remember. It was so long ago.” I close my eyes and flop onto my back on the couch, hoping when I open my eyes it will be tomorrow. He frowns. “You never say fuck.” “Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck.” “Maybe you should go back to bed.” “Maybe you should fu—” A hand claps over my mouth, and I look up, finding twinkling eyes on me. “You're cute when you're upset.” I lick his hand and he yelps as he yanks it back. “Really, Kennedy?” I smirk, finally feeling halfway decent. “Really. Carry me to the truck, servant.” The quiet grows, which makes me think he ignored me and left the room, but then I am being tossed over a shoulder. I begin to protest— loudly. “Graham! Put me down. This is no way to treat your roommate.” A hand smacks my rear and I jerk at the sting that comes. “Licking hands is no way to treat your roommate either. You wanted to be carried to the truck. I'm carrying you. Blake,” he calls. “Let's go.” Zart, Lindy (2014-11-20). Roomies (pp. 159-160). . Kindle Edition.

Being an adult doesn't mean you're suddenly stuffy and boring—it just means you're a little more responsible, a little more considerate. Well, that's my definition of what being an adult means. And I'm always right, so, ya know, that's what it is.

your crazy makes my crazy make sense

If you get scared tonight, you can sleep with me. Or even if you don't.

It’s funny how just the right words, or maybe it’s not the words at all, but the person saying them, can make all the difference between self-loathing and understanding of oneself.

If people care about you, they won’t give up on you, no matter what you’ve done in the past or what you do in the future. We aren’t programmed that way. We’re made to find hope in the most hopeless of places and in the people that seem the least likely to deserve it, because they really need it the most, and something in us knows that, at least subconsciously. It’s what makes us human. No one is unworthy. Not even you. If people want to have faith in you, let them. And really, you can’t stop them. It’s not up to you.

why would someone request that their toenails be painted at a podiatrist's? Hot pink, even. We are not a salon. When I told the guy that, he got really irate and left.

I'm competing, Kennedy,” he breathes against my neck. “And I'm going to win.” Zart, Lindy (2014-11-20). Roomies (p. 154). . Kindle Edition.

What are you doing?” I finally ask. “I'm serenading you.” I slowly nod, fiddling with the strap of my tank top as I say, “You know those people that naturally sing really well and you could listen to them for hours and hours?” “Yeah.” I look up. “You're not one of them.” His lips twitch. “Isn't it about effort?” “Not with singing, no. It's about talent. You don't have it.” “I love you.” “That's not going to make you sound any better.” Laughing, he reaches for me and pulls me to his lap. Zart, Lindy (2014-11-20). Roomies (p. 218). . Kindle Edition.

Your crazy makes my crazy make sense.” Zart, Lindy (2014-11-20). Roomies (p. 212). . Kindle Edition.

I totally pulled those words from my basket of awesomeness.

He leans against the door frame, one hand tightly clasping the two ends of his towel together. Pity, that.

Every day is a new day to be awesome.

Part of living is accepting you do not control everything.

She throws away the inedible toast and looks at me, her blue eyes sad. “I'm a bad cook.” My first inclination is to say, “You're just realizing this now?”, but I don't. Instead I shrug. “You're good at a lot of other things.” “I can't crochet either.” I purse my lips to keep from agreeing. “Well...you—” “And I can't sing. I don't even remember the shade of my natural hair color and I've had this outfit since the eighties.” I glance at her red top and tan pants. Yeah. Those should really go—along with a lot of other things in the house. “You're sort of making it hard for me to make you feel better when you keep tossing all the things you aren't good at, at me.” I brighten. “You can dance! You're a great dancer.” “I'm having a mid-life crisis.” “You're forty-six,” I scoff. “You're too young for that. I mean, maybe in four years...

Roomie Rule #1: Never put a gallon of milk back in the fridge when there is only an inch of milk left in it. (Graham's) Roomie Rule #2: Do not put a knife in the peanut butter and then use the same knife in the jelly. (Graham's) Roomie Rule #3: The television must be on football if football is on the television. (Graham's) Roomie Rule #4: Use your own razor. (Graham's) Roomie Rule #5: Any chocolate in the apartment belongs to Kennedy, regardless of who bought it. (Mine) Zart, Lindy (2014-11-20). Roomies (p. 169). . Kindle Edition.

Yeah, I'm confused about the whole thing." One corner of his mouth quirks up. "And don't you dare say it doesn't take make for that to happen. Or something similar," I warn. "I would never," he states, putting a hand over his heart. "You're so full of it.

Graham went to the gym to work out, as he does almost every day. There's a pile of unfolded clothes on the couch beside me and a bag of cheese puffs in my lap. I love it when he goes to the gym, if only because I can be the massive sloth I naturally am in peace. If he were here, he'd be eyeing up my laundry and staring at the edible garbage in my lap and on my fingers, internally freaking out over the possibility of powdery cheese getting on the furniture. One hand in the bag, one hand wrapped around the stem of my wine glass—this is my idea of perfection. 'Girls Chase Boys' by Ingrid Michaelson is presently keeping me company from the stereo system. When my phone rings from where it resides on the back of the couch, I jump and send the bag flying. Orange confetti falls to the floor and I swallow, knowing I am so dead if Graham walks in the door right now. “What?” is my less than friendly greeting. “What'd you do?” How does he know me so well? I guess because he made me. “I just let off a bomb of cheese puffs. Although, technically, I'm blaming it on you since it was your phone call that scared me into dumping the bag over.” “Your mother is knitting again.” Eyes glued to the orange blobs on the pale carpet, I reply, “Oh? I'm sure it's marvelous, whatever it is.” Are they seeping into the carpet as I watch, even now becoming an irremovable part of it? Graham is going to majorly freak out over this. “Looks like a yellow condom.” I choke on nothing. “I have to go, Dad.” He grunts a goodbye. I fling the phone away and dive to my knees, hurriedly scooping up the abused deliciousness into my hands. Of course this is when Graham decides to come home—when my ass is in the air facing the door and I look like I'm eating processed food off the floor. I groan and let my head fall forward, smashing a cheese puff with my forehead. He doesn't say anything for a really, really long time, and I refuse to move or look at him, so it gets sort of awkward. “Never thought I'd come home to this scene. Ever.” Just to rile him up, I shove a cheese puff in my mouth and chomp away. “I can't believe you just ate that!” I get to my feet as I pop another into my mouth. “Mmm.” Graham's face is twisted with horror, his backpack dropping to the floor. Sweat clings to him in a delicious way, his hair damp with it. “Do you know how dirty the carpet is?” “You clean it almost every day. It can't be that dirty.” “I don't get everything out of it!” he exclaims, slapping the remaining puffs from my hands. “Go brush your teeth. No. Wait. Induce vomiting. Immediately.” I look at him and laugh. “You're crazy.” “Just...go drink water or something. I'll clean this up.” “I am perfectly capable of cleaning up my own messes.” He just looks at me. “Okay, so not as well as you, but still.” He remains mute. “Fine.” I toss my hands in the air and carefully walk over the splotches of orange beneath me. As I leave the living room, I pause by a framed photograph of a lemon tree, sliding it off-center on the wall. “I saw that,” he calls after me. “Just giving you something to do!” I smirk as I saunter into the bathroom. “I'll give you something to do.” I cock my head at that, wondering if that was meant to be sexual or not. I'm thinking not. I flip the light switch up in the bathroom and scream. Even with the distance between us, I can hear him laughing. The mirror is covered in what looks like blood, spelling out R – E – D. I put my face close to it and sniff. Ketchup. What a waste of a good condiment. “Not funny!” “So funny!