Roommates (Soulmates #1) (8 page)

Chapter 15: Jenny

I woke up Thursday morning in a pair of thick socks that didn't
belong to me.

Yesterday, it was an extra blanket.

Either I looked really cold when I slept, or Ethan felt guilty about
something. Perhaps it was the fact that he'd been curt with me ever since the
kiss.

I figured there was something else on his mind, though, because
I don't see how I could've offended him during our read through. After all, I
kissed him back and didn’t initiate anything more. I merely followed his lead.

And I would've done it again in a heartbeat.

But he didn't offer to help me practice again.

I don't know if he thought once was enough or if he felt weird
about kissing me, but I was starting to think it was time to clear the air
between us.

I pulled the thick socks off my feet, feeling relieved that I'd
painted my toes a bright tangerine color before my trip out here. At least I
could rest assured that my feet hadn't offended him- though I had no idea how
he put them on without waking me…

Especially considering my audition was today, and I'd woken so
many times in the night from nerves.

Of course, I must've slept deeply at some point because I kept
dreaming I was the girl in The Notebook kissing Ryan Gosling in the rain over
and over again.

Hopefully I wasn't making soft little groaning noises in my
sleep whenever he got home. That would be embarrassing.

Speaking of sleepy noises, I could tell by the sound coming from
under his door that he was still conked out.

Yesterday, I waited until he woke up naturally again and was
bursting for the toilet by the time he stumbled shirtless out of his room.

I was starting to think that was actually his preferred level of
dress and that he wasn’t actually doing it to torture me.

Though it still did.

Why did the hottest guy I knew have to be my stepbrother?

Had I been a murdering bandit in a past life? A Spaniard with a
blanket full of small pox? Judas himself?

I mean, I'd only kissed him once and already I knew I'd probably
compare every man I ever met going forward to him no matter how hard I tried
not to.

But it was more than that.

For instance, just watching him fold his laundry at the kitchen
table made me feel like I was going to break out in a heat rash. I don’t know
if it was my fascination with his military precision or the fact that he was
shirtless at the time, but being around him was overloading my senses.

I seriously needed a Xanax.

Not that I’d ever taken one, but isn’t that how a professional
actor would’ve coped with this situation?

Ugh.

Even the low laugh he let out when he was reluctant to find
something funny made my stomach feel hollow in a way that only his mischievous
smile could fill up.

It was fucked up.

And the kiss had only made it worse. Because for the first time
since I tried to catch his eye on the bus at age fourteen, I actually felt like
I had his full attention, and it was a high better than any drug.

Or so I imagined since my experience with drugs was very
limited.

Sure, I'd puffed a few joints in college, but that didn't really
count as drug use in my opinion.

And I did smoke cigs like a chimney sophomore year, but when I
realized that I was only doing it because everyone else was and that it can
make your boobs saggy, I packed it in after forty eight hours of extremely ticklish
coughing fits.

The point is, I still remember when he got on that bus.

He was older than me. I probably shouldn't even have attempted
to make eye contact with him, but I felt really great about myself that morning
because the front of my backpack was full of perfectly sharpened number two
pencils, brand new notebooks, and folders I really liked.

I hated when my mom left school shopping until the end of summer,
and I was forced to choose the half a dozen folders that I found the least
offensive.

But that summer- perhaps because she knew I was nervous about
going to high school in the first place- she took me in July so I got my pick
of the bunch.

I realize now that my level of excitement for pretty folders probably
only enhanced the toxic eau de geek I gave off back then, a scent Ethan and his
friends could probably pick up a mile away.

But I wasn't that unhappy when he didn't sit down next to me. I
had this weird calm in my chest, as if I knew I would have a chance to get to meet
him another time, as if I sensed that we were destined to know each other
sooner or later.

And I was right. It just didn't happen the way I would've liked.

I took a deep breath outside his door and cracked it open.

On account of my audition, I couldn't wait for him to wake up. I
needed to get in the bathroom to get ready.

He was sleeping face down, the top covers dangerously close to
his butt, his solid back looking good enough to eat off of.

I raised one hand beside my face like a blinder and tiptoed like
a cartoon cat towards the bathroom.

"Morning," he groaned.

"Morning," I whispered, hoping he would notice how
respectful I was trying to be of his space.

He rolled onto his side and propped his head up with his hand.

I dropped my blinder and looked at him. His face was still soft
and sleepy.

"I'm sorry if I woke you," I said. "I just have
to get ready for my audition so-"

"It's fine. I have to get up anyway."

"Oh good," I said, prying my mind away from the
question of whether he was naked under the covers. "Thanks for the socks
by the way."

He scrunched his face. "The socks?"

"That you put on me last night when you got home?"

"Oh. Sure. Don't mention it."

I took another step towards the bathroom door.

He scooted up and leaned against his navy blue pillows.
"You nervous about today?"

I shrugged. "A healthy amount. Or so I'm telling myself.”

He nodded and yawned. "I'm sure you'll do great."

I raised my eyebrows. "Yeah?" Kind words from him were
like puddles in the desert- too few and far between to ignore.

"Somebody has to get the part, right? Might as well be
you."

"Thanks." I reached for the bathroom doorknob, trying
to keep my eyes from scouring his chest.

"Just kiss him the way you kissed me and you'll definitely
get the part."

I forced a smile and closed myself in the bathroom.

What the fuck was that supposed to mean?

"Hey Jen?"

"Yeah?" I called through the door.

"Don't lock the door. I gotta take a piss, but I'll wait
until you get in the shower."

My eyes grew wide. "Great," I said. Absolutely
freaking fantastic.  

Chapter 16: Ethan

I did have to piss, but I could’ve waited. I didn’t need to go
in there when I knew she was naked and soaping herself up on the other side of
my city skyline shower curtain.

I guess I did it just to torture myself.

Though the flush was to torture her.

And when she called me an asshole, I felt like I was back on
track. After all, the more she pushed me away, the sooner she’d stop feeling
like the carrot at the end of my fucking stick.

Besides, I had to do something after she called me out for
giving her my best socks. Why did she have to mention it?

And why did she have to kiss some theatre tit to get a part?

That thought alone was completely ruining my day.

In fact, I found it so upsetting that I threw on a hoodie and
headed to MoMA to distract myself.

It was one of my favorite places.

Where I was from, there were no museums, no interesting
sculptures, and nowhere that didn't smell like farm.

Hell, the closest I ever got to any culture as a kid was the
Ohio State Fair, and there are only so many times a person can get excited
about seeing a life size cow made of butter.

But MoMA was exciting every time.

I even met a woman at the club once who invited me to see some
of the older pieces in the archived collection that was down in the basement
and no longer on public display. She showed me some new stuff while we were
down there, too, but that's a story for another day.

A day when I'm not trying to avoid the thought of rough,
inappropriate sex.

Of course, museums are pretty sexy places.

Sure, modern art was a bit hit and miss, but it was the hits I
was after.

Every now and then I'd come across something with such
surprising colors or shapes that I could admire it for ages, seeing something
new in it every few seconds. I liked the modern stuff because it raised
questions, whereas more classic art seemed to be about providing answers.

But that was just my take. I suppose the whole point is that
it’s subjective, that it reflects more about the viewer than the artists
themselves… Unless we’re talking Frida Kahlo’s work in which case that is some straight
autobiographical craziness.

The other thing I liked about the museum was that it was a place
for quiet contemplation. Like church, but without the forced religious undertones.

I remember seeing Ferris Bueller's Day Off as a kid and watching
that part where Ferris and his friends stand in front of paintings at the Art
Institute of Chicago.

At one point, his buddy Cameron studies Seurat’s
Day in the Park
,
and his eyes zoom in on the pointillism, his focus on fewer dots in every shot.

That's how I felt as a teenager the first time I noticed the
freckles on Jen's nose. Like Seurat wishes he'd painted something so
interesting.

But I’d always liked things that could be appreciated from
different angles, different distances. And I liked modern art because it wasn't
the kind of art I made so I could just enjoy it without feeling the need to
compare it to my own work.

I was admiring the use of color in Matisse’s
The Parakeet and
the Mermaid
when my phone started buzzing against my thigh.

I pulled it out, silenced it, and slid it back in my pocket. A
moment later, it buzzed again. I did the same.

However, I knew from experience it was going to go off again so
I kept it in my hand and headed for the doors to the courtyard.

"Hello," I said, after it started ringing for the
third time.

"What took you so long?" my dad asked in an accusatory
tone that I doubted was good for his blood pressure.

"I was helping an old lady across the street." I could
practically hear him rolling his eyes. However, he was so tangibly obsessed
with my becoming a contributing member of society when I was younger that I couldn’t
help but find jokes about what a Good Samaritan I’d become hugely entertaining.

It was also the only thing he couldn't argue with, which was
exciting since my dad was the kind of guy who could start an argument with the
mirror.

"Where are you really?"

"At the art museum,” I said. “Helping the handicapped
people get up the ramp."

"Last try."

"Ringing my Salvation Army bell outside the
supermarket."

"Why do you insist on spewing such crap when you know I
have no sense of humor?"

"Because of the lifelong pledge I took to help you loosen
up."

He groaned.

"Yeah, yeah. I know it hasn't been working, but I consulted
the experts and they think prune juice might help."

"Is that a constipation joke?"

I smiled. "See? We're making progress after all."

"How's your sister?"

"I don't have a sister."

"You know what I mean. Jen. How is she?"

"Well, it's hard to say because I don't really know how she
normally is?"

"Normally she's bubbly and smiling and occasionally singing
to herself."

"I'd say she's herself, then, minus the singing, but
perhaps she's just shy around people who aren't tone deaf."

"I'm not tone deaf."

"Whatever you say."

"So she's fine?"

"Yeah.” I yanked on the strings of my hoodie. “She's at her
audition right now."

"Oh good. I hope it goes well. She really deserves a
break."

I furrowed my brow. "Can you put my dad back on the
phone?"

"What?"

"What happened to Mr. What-Doesn't-Kill-You-Ma-"

"She's strong enough already."

I rolled my eyes at the way he said it- like he was the fucking
authority on strength.

"Besides, she's put up with a lot of my shit over the
years, and it would be nice if someone else recognized how special she
is."

"Have you gone soft?"

"No."

Maybe she'd just melted him? Like she melted everyone else around
her, myself included.

"I just know how bad she wants this and she's delicate, you
know? I don't want her to have any setbacks, and I know what an unforgiving
industry it is that she's trying to break into."

"How? From all your days tap dancing with Hugh
Jackman?"

"You know what I mean."

"I'm not sure I do."

"Fine. Be dense. Just look after her, okay? She's not used
to being a small fish in such a massive pond."

"Right."

"She's trusting and naive and her street smarts are no
better than an earthworm’s."

"Something tells me she wouldn't appreciate that."

"All I'm saying is that I've seen her cry, and it isn't
pretty."

"Why would she be crying?"

"Just look after her, okay?"

"I am. What the hell? As if I had a choice after the way
she just showed up." I flinched. I didn't want to give him the
satisfaction of knowing he got one over on me.

"Sorry about that."

"About what? Getting a copy of my key cut without
asking?"

"Yeah."

"Apology not accepted." I shook my head. "Who the
fuck do you think you are anyway?"

"A concerned parent."

"Concerned isn't the word that comes to my mind."

"I said I was sorry, okay? That's the best I can do. Old
habits and all that."

"That's no excuse," I said. "You invaded my
privacy and then invited Jen to impose on me. Did it ever occur to you how
uncomfortable that must’ve been for her?"

"No."

I sighed. "Well, I've done my best to make her feel welcome,
but the guise you sent her here under didn't help things."

"Mmm."

"And I get that the Golden Rule wasn’t a big part of your
army training, but you might want to look it up."

"I take your point."

"Good."

"Have a nice day," he said. "And tell Jenny I
said hi."

"Yeah. Sure."

Love you, too.