Page 40 of The No Touch Roommate Rule
Right now.
As I dash for the kitchen, I’m moving so fast that I nearly crash into Parker as he steps out into the hall from the kitchen.
I dig my heels into the carpet, grinding to a stop just seconds before I collide with his sexy bare chest.
“Whoa, hey there. Good morning, sunshine,” he says, holding up a cautious hand between us, instantly sensing that something’s up. “You okay?”
“Shirt. You promised to wear one in the common areas,” I snap, forcing my eyes away from his stupid muscles. I have more important things to worry about than how delicious he looks half naked. “And, no, I’m not okay. I just got off the phone with my insurance company. After what Luis said last night about his policy, I wanted to check mine, and—” I break off, a sour taste flooding my mouth as I add, “Anyway, they just said theywon’tcover my stuff. Any of it. Just the building, and I don’t even own the stupid building!”
“What the fuck?” Parker growls, clearly outraged on my behalf.
“I know,” I agree. “It’s insane. But my claims person said I could come down and talk to her supervisor this morning, and maybe he could do something for?—”
“I’ll drive you,” he says, already shifting around me on his crutches, heading for his bedroom.
“But you have PT. Don’t you?” I call after him.
“I’ll reschedule, this is more important,” he says. “Just give me ten minutes to get dressed. Coffee’s in the French press if you need a cup.”
I should argue. I should insist on his getting to his trainer, while I handle my own disaster, like an independent woman.
Instead, I call, “Thank you. So much. I really appreciate it, Parker.”
He pauses at his door, glancing back at me with that warm, patient smile that’s both comforting and terrifying. “Of course, weirdo. I’ve got your back. No worries. Get coffee, and let’s get on the road.”
Fifteen minutes later,we’re on the highway, zooming toward our hometown on the other side of Metairie.
Good old Saint Magnus, the place where the upper middle class go to send their offspring to excellent schools and pretend everyone in New Orleans has access to the same. Where the food is abundant but bland, the “historic” downtown is faux Mid-Century garbage built in the 1980s, and everyone gets very upset when you don’t stick to the assignment.
Fine, noteveryonegets upset.
My fathergets upset.
My father has never forgiven me for going to culinary school instead of college. He’s been making his frustration with my choices known for the past decade, leading to fewer and fewer shared family holidays or summer BBQs on his back porch. The last time I went home, we shouted at each other over Aunt Fran’s Easter ham for a good twenty minutes, giving everyone indigestion.
We’ve barely texted at all the past two months.
Still, if he finds out I was in Saint Magnus and didn’t swing by to say “hi,” he’ll be upset. Since the flood, he’s been blowing up my phone, begging me to move into my childhood bedroom so he can “help me get back on my feet.”
But I know what that really means.
He wants to help me get back on the feet,hethinks I should be on.
At this point, I would rather live on the street than with my father. If I were forced to move in with one of my parents, it would be Mom—even though she lives in a tiny home in Maui, with barely enough room for her and her three golden retrievers. Still, she has a “guest room” in her loft and has made it clear that I’m welcome to move in and stay as long as I need.
My mother is a lovely, free-spirited person who lets me be me.
She also gave Dad full custody when I was ten years old without a fight.
He insisted the schools were superior in Saint Magnus. She agreed that the education system on Maui, where she’d grown up, wasn’t ideal, and…that was that. I saw her every summer, but it wasn’t even close to the same. Living alone with Dad wasn’t easy, even back when I was still a relatively compliant preteen. And I just…missed my mom. A lot.
I could probably benefit from some therapy to get over my lingering resentment for my mother and myactiveresentmentfor my father. And the suspicion, deep down in the hidden places I don’t look at too much, that I’m a deeply flawed disaster of a person, and that’s why one parent left me and the other was unhappy with me all the time.
But fuck…who has the time or money for that much therapy?
Especially when there’s a much more logical explanation for why it feels like my life is cursed. “Did I ever tell you what my name means in Hawaiian?”
Parker glances over. “No, what?”
