Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 95340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Me: CALL THE LANDLORD
I throw my phone onto Brodie’s blue bedspread so I’m spared the rest of any conversations with my roommate and glance up at the guy who unwittingly found himself helping me.
“That was my roommate,” I explain. “I was checking in with an update.”
He nods, stepping into the room, hands in his pockets the same way they’d been outside when we were discussing our options.
“What did she say?”
Good question. I can’t exactly tell him she wanted to know if he was staring up into my ass or my cooch and she loves the sound of his voice (though he likely heard that), shamed me for not reading our state’s renter’s rights, or that she brought up suing our landlord for…what, I don’t know.
“She’s going to keep calling our landlord and see if she can get ahold of him.” I’m not sure how to make myself at home here; where to stand or sit now that he’s back in the bedroom, hogging up all the space with his size.
Brodie crosses the room and goes to his closet, my eyes trailing along after him, watching when he pulls a pair of blue and white check pajama bottoms off a hanger, then a tee shirt. Then he turns toward me.
Oh.
Ohhh. “Should I leave?”
“I can go do my thing in the bathroom.”
“You shouldn’t have to go a different room to change because I’m here. I’ll go to the bathroom,” I reason. “Plus I have to pee.”
I groan inwardly. I have to pee?
WHY AM I TELLING HIM THIS? Who tells a guy they have to PEE?
Me.
I say that. And it’s not like I’m trying to get Brodie to like me or anything; and I’m not trying to impress him. And I sure as hell am not flirting.
“I’ll um, go to the bathroom and let you do your thing,” I say, already halfway out the door. “Uh—which way is it?”
“Next door on the left.”
“Got it.” I give him a thumbs-up, my awkward meter shooting up to an all-time high. I need to be stopped before I say or do anything stupider! Thank god for small favors.
Sticking my head out of the bedroom door, I glance to the left, then to the right, checking for roommates or boys or whomever might be lurking, though I hadn’t heard any other voices while I’ve been here so the coast is clear.
The bathroom is exactly as one would expect in a houseful of dudes, not tidy, not clean, not organized.
I shudder, glad I’m wearing both socks and slides, and search around for cleaning solution before I sit my ass on the toilet, and find a bottle beneath the sink. The boys have no paper towels around so when I spray the toilet seat, I have to use toilet paper to wipe it off, particles of it sticking to the bowl and surrounding area—not that I care.
This is the cleanest that this toilet has undoubtedly been since they moved in!
I avert my eyes while I pee, not wanting to look into the tub—or at the floor in front of the toilet where the laminated tiles are surely covered in urine.
Gross.
Not that girls are any better; the bathroom my roommates share upstairs has so much hair, hairspray, and dust that you could draw on the countertops with the tip of your finger and leave a message. And the sink is always clogged.
But the urine on the floor? I can live without it.
I finish, wipe, flush, and wash my hands, fluffing my hair while staring at my reflection in their dirty mirror, splash drips from the faucet streaking the glass. Then my gaze grazes the shelf under the mirror and I can’t help noticing one…
Two.
Three retainer cases.
“Don’t do it,” I mutter to myself as I eyeball the hot pink one. “Don’t touch it, that’s gross. And it’s none of your business.”
Plus it’s gross and the containers themselves probably have a shit ton of germs on them, and DNA, and I don’t have to add my fingerprints or my DNA to them, too.
But why are there three of them?
Are they retainers or mouth guards?
Wait. Don’t hockey players get their teeth knocked out a lot? Could that be what’s inside these containers? Dentures?
Ew, what if it is!
Brodie has all his teeth—at least it looks like he does—not that he’s smiled at me once, which is weird, right? That he hasn’t smiled? He’s been so broody.
I muse about it as I open the medicine cabinet in his bathroom and peer inside, curiously looking at the items on the shelves. Pain reliever, hot cold patches, Band-Aids. Floss. An empty toothpaste tube.
One gold hoop earring. A floral scrunchie.
A tampon.
“Interesting,” I muse, closing the cupboard, done with my snooping.
Don’t bother looking left and right in the hallway, assuming it was empty, which is my mistake because the second I swing open the door, I’m greeted by a surprised face.