Page 3 of The No Touch Roommate Rule
I definitely did my share of sleeping around, but even as my star grew and puck bunny attention gave way to supermodel and pop star attention, a part of me still held Makena close. Becauseshe wasn’t just beautiful or sexy—though she absolutely was, andis, both of those things—she was funny. And real. And raw and a little wild and fearlessly determined to live her life the way she wanted to live it.
She was also my friend. A person who seemed to get me, andlikeme, for exactly who I was, in a time when that wasn’t the norm.
I’m a likable guy. I’ve always known what to say to get a laugh, but I also feel things clear to the fucking bone. I always have. Most people—namely, my parents and other twelve-year-olds—weren’t interested in indulging that part of me. But Makena was. We spent almost as much time in deep conversation about our hopes and dreams as we did giggling over cartoons.
That mixture of depth and silliness isn’t something that’s easy to find.
Or to forget. So, when we ran into each other again as adults, I didn’t hesitate to shoot my shot.
At first, it seemed to be going well.
That night at The Brass Monkey, as Makena and I made out over deliciously rancid cocktails, I was positive we were well on our way to making all my adolescent dreams come true. I was going to pleasure Makena DeWitt out of her goddamned mind, make her my girlfriend, and hell…maybe even live happily ever after.
Stranger things have happened.
With the salty-sweet-sour-meat-stick taste of my second Trash Panda cocktail and Makena mixing on my tongue, anything felt possible.
Then, she ran away. Flat outranfrom me, leapt into a getaway Uber, and refused all my attempts to figure out what spooked her, no matter how many times I begged our mutual friends to beg her to give me her number.
I was starting to think that maybe I’d lost my touch with the opposite sex. That Makena was never going to let me take her to coffee, let alone take her as my lawfully awesome girlfriend.
But maybe I was wrong about that…
That look…
That wasn’t just a horny-bridesmaid-at-a-wedding look. There were feelings in those baby blues, I’d bet my lucky game day socks on it.
And sure enough, fifteen minutes later, when we’re finally allowed to adjourn to the air-conditioned ballroom for dancing and drinks, I’ve barely shucked my coat and downed half an icy beer, when Makena is suddenly there.
Right in front of me.
Looking sexy as fuck in that sheer, peach bridesmaid’s dress with a hint of runny mascara under her eyes and a determined expression on her face.
“What do you want, woman?” I murmur, soft and low, jumping right back into the conversation she bailed on over seven months ago.
“Dance with me.” She doesn’t wait for an answer, just grabs my hand and pulls me onto the floor.
The band’s playing “White Wedding,” a weird choice in light of all the romance in the air, but the dirty, chaotic energy suits us just fine. Makena and I dance like we used to jump on my trampoline as kids. Like lunatics. Intense. Wild. Holding nothing back, making every person who bops by us laugh, and several people whip out their phones to record our “routine.”
But it’s not a routine, it’s my particular flavor of crazy meeting her particular flavor and creating something weirdly and wonderfully ours. It’s beautiful. And fun, exactly the cathartic rush I needed to banish all the heavy “musings on love in a hopeless world” shit weighing me down after the ceremony.
It must be exactly what she needs, too. Because when “White Wedding” gives way to “Rock the Kasbah,” we keep the party going.
We dance until we’re sweaty again, and they finally play a slow song. Then, she’s in my arms, her head on my chest, making my soul ache as the plaintive strains of “I Want to Know What Love Is” by Foreigner fill the ballroom.
I want to know what love is, too.
And I really wantherto show me.
We dance and dance, breaking only to toast the bride and groom, stuff cake into our mouths, and suck down a vodka and cranberry with a splash of lemon that’s nowhere near as good as a Trash Panda, before getting back on the dance floor.
We close out the night at two a.m., along with the last men and women standing, long after Elly and Grammercy have left on their long-delayed honeymoon and Grammercy’s mom has taken her step-granddaughter back to her place.
So far, Makena and I haven’t said a word after those first two sentences. Not a single word. Not with our lips, anyway.
But her eyes on mine, her head on my chest, her fingers gripping my hand tight as she pulls me through the kitchen after the last dance is through…they’ve all told me, I’m not crazy.
There’s something here between us.
