Living with Fallon Zabek is driving me fucking insane. She’s only been staying at the house for a week, but I swear to fuck she must have doused every surface with her body spray because I can smell the intoxicating blend of vanilla and peaches every-fucking-where.
Tossing my backpack by the door, I’m relieved I’ll get a little respite this afternoon. She takes the same yoga class Dean’s girlfriend does, and I know they’re both there right now which means I can make a sandwich in peace and grab a nap before heading to practice in a couple hours.
When I step through the archway to the kitchen, I stop cold. “What are you doing here?”I ask, fully aware that I sound like a dick, but unable to stop the words from pouring from my mouth and my hands.
Fallon sighs loudly and tucks an errant strand of hair behind her left ear. “We’ve been over this, Ollie. I live here now. Get used to it.”
Blue chuckles and I want to wipe that stupid smirk off his pretty fucking face. “We’re making smoothies,” he sayswith pride, as though tossing ingredients into a blender is akin to performing open-heart surgery.
I stalk toward the fridge and start pulling out everything I’ll need to make my lunch. I grab a cutting board because I fucking can and because doing so means Blue has to move over a couple inches. I’m spreading a thin layer of mustard on a thick slice of sourdough bread when I catch sight of what Blue’s adding to the concoction he’s making.
Without a second thought, I grab the small dish of blueberries and empty it into my palm before tipping my head back to toss a few in.
“The fuck?” Blue mutters, scowling as he nabs the empty dish from my hand.
At Fallon’s look of disbelief, I shrug. “You’re welcome,” I tell her, pressing the tips of my fingers to my chin before thrusting my hand forward.
In response, she touches her middle finger to her chin, then thrusts it forward in a clear indication that she doesn’t appreciate the favor I was trying to do for her.
“You hate blueberries,” I say matter-of-factly before gobbling up the last few berries and returning to the work of making a sandwich.
“I do not hate blueberries,” she tells me, her eyes blazing.
“Since when?” I ask. “Because I distinctly remember you calling them ‘sour little lie-berries’ and saying you’d rather eat prunes than choke down a blueberry muffin.”
“Prunes are actually a really good source of potassium and fiber,” Blue interjects, but Fallon and I aren’t paying our know-it-all health-nut of a roommate any attention.
“I may have felt that way once,” Fallon begrudgingly concedes, “but people can change—feelings can change.”
I hold her gaze. “People can change, huh? I didn’t know youwere aware of that fact,” I say, knowing full well that I’m letting my frustration get the better of me.
Fallon doesn’t even blink. She’s got balls of steel and a spine to match. “Of course, people can change, Ollie,” she says, her hands moving swiftly as the words leave her mouth. “But that doesn’t always mean that they do.”
The words hang heavily in the air between us until Blue clears his throat and brings us back to the here and now.
“I’m just gonna make my smoothie and go,” he says, holding his hands up in mock surrender.
“Make it quick,” I say.
“You don’t need to leave,” Fallon insists.
Blue laughs again, so I spare him a glance. “Believe it or not, I’ve got better things to do than stand here catching strays. Maybe I’ll find Liza and see if I can piss her off. That’s always a fun game.”
Before I can tell him that’s a bad fucking idea, he presses a button on his fancy-ass blender, and it roars to life. Less than a minute later, he’s filled his glass and walked out to the patio. I turn back to Fallon, but her chair is empty.
Fucking great. I’ve pissed off one roommate, alienated another, and now I’ve got a sink full of dirty dishes to deal with. Oh, and I’m currently failing a class.
Christ. Can today get any worse?
The universe laughs hysterically and answers my question immediately in the form of Mickey stomping through the entryway.
“Mr. Tittles is missing,” he announces without preamble.
“You brought that mangy-ass cat to live here?” I ask.
“He’s not mangy,” Mickey says, getting defensive. “He’s rugged. There’s a difference. And no, he doesn’ttechnically live here. Mr. Titles is a man of the world. But we do have sleepovers, and he hasn’t attended the last three.”
I’m tempted to ask who the fuck else gets an invite to these sleepovers, but then I quickly decide there are some things that I just don’t want to know.
