Page 32 of My Brother's Roommate (Frisky Business 2)
“Okay, so then what?” She splays her fingers across the white faux-marble table, leaning in with anticipation. “Did he come back? Did he call you and explain himself, begging for forgiveness?”
Girl, I wish.
I release a slow breath and shake my head. “Nope. That’s it. He just left, and I haven’t heard from him since.”
The truth is, I wasn’t sure if I should text him, or call, or just wait for him to make contact when he’s ready. It’s like he’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders. While he’s told me a little about his preferences, he hasn’t told me the reasons why he is the way he is. And I honestly just don’t understand him as much as I’d like to.
Scarlett nods slowly, her brow furrowing as she digests my words. “Okay, so . . . that’s a lot.”
“Yeah. Tell me about it.”
For a moment, the only sound between us is Scarlett’s manicured fingers drumming on the side of her white ceramic mug. “And you’re sure things were going well before that? He wasn’t giving off any weird vibes?”
Talk about a loaded question. Wolfie Cox is in a constant state of giving off weird vibes. But Scarlett knows this—we’ve all hung out in the same circle of friends for years.
Actually, Scarlett’s known Wolfie longer than I have. I only met him through my brother once they became roommates. Scarlett and Caleb have been inseparable for years before that. She’s always been a bit of an older-sister type to me, which actually gives me an idea. I should ask for her advice on all this. Plus, she is a few years older than me . . . and she’s been through her share of awful guys. I’m sure she has some wisdom.
But as I open my mouth to speak, I realize that would involve me telling her about Wolfie’s intimacy issues, and exposing his insecurities doesn’t feel like the right move. He told me those things in confidence, and even if I have no idea where I stand with the man, I’m not going to betray his trust.
Maybe this is just part of who he is. Maybe he runs when he gets scared . . . or overwhelmed. Or turned on? God, I don’t know. I heave out a sigh and press my fingers into my temples.
Things started off so easy last night. It didn’t seem like he was worried about anything. He was sweet and easygoing, his usual armor of anxiety nowhere to be found. It was like I’d had him over for dinner dozens of times. The conversation was easy and natural. Even when things got physical, he was still so relaxed. Until, well, until he suddenly wasn’t.
“I swear it was smooth sailing up until then. Totally normal. And then out of the blue, he grabs his coat and runs.” My stomach hollows out at the memory, the sting of rejection as Wolfie’s gray eyes went dull just before he dashed out my door.
Retelling the story is proving to be as hurtful and confusing as living it out in real time. With the edge of my spoon, I scoop a gooey melted marshmallow from my mug and pop it between my lips, letting the sweet, sticky sugar rush go straight to my head. They say laughter is the best medicine, but I’d have to argue that sugar gives it a run for its money.
She nods once. “Wolfie is a complicated guy. He deserves the world, but try telling him that.”
I make a sound of agreement, thoughtfully eating a second marshmallow.
Scarlett pushes back from the table a little, as if to give herself space to process this mess. “Well, I can confidently say that when you told me we needed to discuss your boy problems, I definitely wasn’t expecting that.”
I lift a shoulder, a hint of a sad smile pulling at my lips. “What can I say? I’m always full of surprises.”
She only shrugs.
Not that my attraction to Wolfie should come as much of a surprise to her. The only person who knows as much about my Wolfie fantasies as my journal is Scarlett. And thank God she does, because I can’t hold all this in without inevitably exploding, and I certainly can’t tell the rest of our friends. Scarlett is so perceptive, she guessed at my feelings one night over cocktails, and I’ve been confiding in her ever since.
Scarlett chews her lower lip in thought for a long moment, then straightens in her seat, her eyes brightening with realization. “Here’s a thought. What if dinner didn’t sit right with him, and he had to . . . you know.” She clutches her stomach, miming illness, which earns her a much-deserved scowl from me.
“This was not an invitation to make fun of my cooking, Scar. I’m looking for actual advice.”
