Page 37 of Dearly Unbeloved
“I wasn’t asking. Enjoy your bath,” she says, closing the door behind her just a little harder than necessary.
And just like that, everything is back to normal.
17
ROSE
Oh my fucking god. What the hell have I done?
18
ROSE
Is there a reason you need to have such a loud alarm at the ass crack of dawn? - S
P.S. One day down, 80 to go
Sierra always sleeps in on Sunday mornings, but she sleeps in longer than usual the morning after. I guess I tired her out. It’s pretty inconvenient, considering I’m waiting to talk to her.
I sit at the kitchen island, bouncing my knee and watching condensation gather on the oat milk iced lavender latte I picked up for Sierra. The only reason I know her coffee order is because Jazz drinks the same thing. Why anyone wants to drink flower-flavored coffee is beyond me.
I usually drink my cold brew unsweetened with just a splash of almond milk, not because I like it, butbecause that’s what I’m used to. The first time Iordered my favorite hazelnut mocha in front of my mom was the last time I ever ordered it. She didn’t even have to say anything. She just looked between the drink and my waist with pursed lips.
I’m self-aware enough to know that my parents only have power over me if I let them, but it’s not that I really care what they think anymore. Over the years, it’s become second nature to make decisions based on how I expect my parents would react. It’s not that I don’t want to choose the thingsIwant, I just don’t remember to.
That’s not to say I haven’t done anything for myself. I’m trying. There was the whole dropping out of med school thing, not to mention impulsively marrying my roommate, and even more impulsively suggesting we consummate said marriage.
The Rose of a few years ago would be scandalized.
Truthfully, the Rose of this morning is a little scandalized. I’m trying.
I take a sip of my plain-ass coffee and scrunch up my nose. Squaring my shoulders, I push back from the island, hop down from my stool, and brave Sierra’s kitchen cabinet.
We never intended to have separate cabinets when we moved in together, but just a few days living in the same apartment as Sierra was enough to make me separate everything. We each have two and a half kitchen cabinets (though her stuff often creeps into my half of our shared cabinet). We have half a fridge each, half a freezer each, and a small section of shared spices and condiments.
I tried to implement the same system in the rest of the apartment, but she has so much fucking stuff. It was a complete failure in the bathroom, so I just keep my stuffin a caddy in my room and take it with me when I need it like I’m in a goddamn college dorm.
I’m breaking a sacred roommate rule by rummaging around in Sierra’s stuff, inspecting the dozen half-empty bottles of coffee syrup, but what’s hers is mine and whatever the fuck else we probably said while legally tying ourselves to each other.
Everything is very… sticky. My skin crawls, and I grab the least sticky bottle I can see: s’mores. Could be worse, I suppose. I take the lid off my cold brew and pour a little of the syrup in, watching it swirl through the clear cup.
Our fridge is pretty bare, but I crouch down, looking through the bottles and jars at the back.
“What are you looking for?”
I sit up, banging my head on the glass. “Ouch. Fu—” I glare over my shoulder at Sierra, but the curse falls off my lips when I see her standing, sleepy, in nothing but a baggy sweatshirt and fluffy pink socks. “Could you not sneak up on me next time? Be a little louder.”
“What are you looking for?” she shouts sarcastically, and I wince.
“Coffee creamer.”
Sierra drops onto the stool opposite mine with a yawn. “We’re out. You don’t usually like creamer in your coffee.”
I stand up and close the fridge. “I wanted something sweeter today.”
“Is that for me?” Sierra asks, eyeing the latte, her brow furrowed.
“Yeah.”
