Page 17 of The No Touch Roommate Rule
Quit complaining and start the crepes,the ricotta says.And don’t add any more lemon juice. I’m starting to curdle.
“Bullshit. I didn’t use juice—I used zest,” I mutter, calling the ricotta on its lies as I set the filling bowl aside and fetch the gluten-free crepe mix I made earlier. “This isn’t my first time at the filling rodeo.”
Or your first time at the hetero-fatalism rodeo,it claps back.Not all straight men are awful, and there are plenty of asshole lesbians out there.
“I’m not a hetero-fatalist,” I say. “I’m a realist. If ninety percent of the men I’ve dated have been awful, chances are the next one will be, too. That’s just statistics, and I don’t have the energy to deal with a romantic meltdown right now. Especially not with a completely inappropriate person. It would be a tragic waste of time. Not to mention super depressing. Some random guy letting you down is bad enough. It’s way worse when it’s a man you thought was a sweetheart.”
And who basically saved your life,the ricotta agrees, finally seeing the light.
“Exactly. Now you’re getting it.” I pour the batter into the pan.
The crepe sizzles. I take a breath.
Center myself.
Remember why I’m here.
I’m here because my restaurant/home is underwater. My phone also went to a watery grave, and I own exactly one bra, one pair of panties, zero shoes, and the pair of fancy earrings I forgot to take off when I stripped out of my bridesmaid’s dress last night. I’m homeless, jobless, and wearing clothes that smell vaguely of Parker’s mom’s perfume.
And despite all that, I’m weirdly…happy?
Looking forward to Parker waking up and walking through that door?
Because I’ve been crushing on him for months, and I’m thrilled to the tips of my tits about the chance to shack up with him for a few weeks/months/as long as he’ll have me?
No.I’m just grateful to be alive. That’s all. This is post-traumatic euphoria—a documented neurological response to surviving a life-threatening event—nothing to be taken seriously.
“Get it together, DeWitt,” I tell myself. “You’re not a Disney princess shacking up with Prince Charming. You’re the nanny from Peter Pan. You should be upset that the kids are flying out the window, not thinking about how cute John looks in his top hat.”
Wasn’t the nanny a dog?the ricotta pipes up.
“Yes, but you know what I meant,” I say, flipping the crepe with the flair that got me through culinary school on scholarship after my father refused to release a dime of my college fund for training for a “dead-end job.”
Fuck.
Dad…
I’m sure he’s going to have plenty to say once he learns every dime of my investment is underwater. And yes, I have insurance, and it covers floods, but I’m going back to square one. Dad’s going to get to say “I told you so,” all over again, the way he did after Christian drained our joint savings and left me with five grand in credit card debt that wasn’t even mine.
“Fuck,” I mutter aloud, fighting tears as I flop the crepe onto a waiting plate. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“Are my pans that bad?” Parker rumbles from the doorway. “The lady at the store said they were decent, but I never cook, so…”
I turn and there he is, my white knight, propped against the doorframe, looking like a cautionary tale about what happens when you give one human being too many gifts. No guy shouldbe this hot and funny and hot and good-looking and talented and hot, all at the same time.
You said hot at least twice,the ricotta says in a smug voice that makes me wish I’d used lemon juice, after all.
Maybe a little curdling would have encouraged it to keep its mouth shut.
“No, they’re fine, I’m just…” I trail off with a shrug. “Just thinking post-flood thoughts.” My gaze drifts down, landing below the hem of his basketball shorts. I wince. “Ow. Your knee still looks bad.”
He glances down, as if just remembering that he has knees. “This old thing? It’s fine. Just embracing the eggplant aesthetic. I’ll be right as rain in no time.” He starts across the room, his limp worse than it was last night.
“Parker, you can barely walk.”
“I wonder where that phrase came from?” he continues, ignoring me. “There was nothingrightabout the rain last night. That rain was fucked up. I think I hate rain now, actually. I used to like it. Especially a rainy Sunday on the couch watching movies, but now, I’m anti-rain.”
“Sit.” I point at the kitchen table with my spatula. “Now.”
