12. Chapter Twelve
Chapter Twelve
Katie
"So?" Phoebe asks, leaning way over her counter at Flour Power, to eye me curiously from up close. "How's it going with your new roommate?"
Luke put his foot down yesterday and made me promise to go to my weekly Flour Power date with Phoebe, threatening to steal my phone and call in sick for the next week if I wouldn’t. Apparently, I needed that kick in the ass, because now I’m here, and I’m glad I am, and not only for the amazing pastries, but they definitely play into it.
"Careful, Phoebe, you're about to tip over," I chuckle and gently push her back by her shoulders until her feet touch the ground again. "Give me one of those delicious-looking strawberry tartelettes and a coffee and I'll tell you at the table."
"Tell her what?" Harper comes rushing into the store, clearly only catching the last bit of our conversation.
"About my new roommate."
"Oh, yeah, I want to know too! Hey Phoebe," Harper leans over the counter to greet Phoebe with a one-armed hug, before eyeing the display. "I'll take a - holy shit, is that your white-chocolate-matcha cupcake? Okay, I'd like ten please, nine to go."
Phoebe shakes her head at her and puts two of them on a plate for her. We carry our food and drinks over to our usual table and I sigh contently when I take my first sip of coffee for the day. It’s my first delicious coffee of the week, considering all I have at home is my crappy filter machine.
"So, the roommate." Phoebe immediately returns to the topic, and I feel a bit of a heat rush to my cheeks. Good thing I'm going to work right after this and am already wearing makeup.
"The roommate." I nod, hiding a small smile behind my mug. "I'm not going to lie, it's really weird to have another person in the apartment."
"I can imagine. Now, you can't waltz around naked anymore," Phoebe says and giggles, while I roll my eyes at her. Of course, that’s the first thing she mentions.
"Yeah, that's off the table," I chuckle and take a sip of my coffee. "But so far, it's going okay. He is quiet enough not to wake me and I have to admit it’s kind of nice to have someone to talk to when I’m home. Usually, Luke and I miss each other with him going to school right as I come back from work, or our time at home only overlaps for only a few minutes. So, it’s nice to have someone there. ”
“Okay, and what is he like?” Harper asks with wide eyes, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips before she digs into her cupcake.
I stayed strong and haven’t told any of them that it’s Pax. Now that my crush is back, it’s killing me. Anytime I hear him in the flat, I’m alert, my heart beating in my throat. Anytime I run into him, I’m flustered, barely getting out a word. It’s confusing, really, because I’m still not too happy about him and his comment about Luke taking me as a role model.
Maybe if I don’t talk about my crush and ignore it instead, it will just disappear on its own.
‘What is he like’ is such a loaded question, though. And I want to spill the tea, oh I want to spill it so badly. My vocal cords are itching with the need to just blurt it out. Talking to Micah helps, I mean, he knows anyway. But he wasn’t there back then. He didn’t know what Pax was like before he got famous, and he doesn’t know what Pax became with fame. He’s neither the Pax I fell in love with back then nor the one I cut contact with. It’s so confusing.
"Surprisingly considerate," I answer after thinking about that question for a moment. I mean, there are hiccups. A lot of them. After all, Pax has gotten used to not lifting a finger.
I was wondering if he was telling the truth about only having yes-men around in the show business, but seeing how much he struggles with basic human empathy and, sometimes basic decency, is eye-opening.
There are issues like Pax using a bunch of our stuff, with the promise to buy it new with his next grocery run, which has yet to happen. He'd empty the orange juice and wouldn't replace it in the fridge or leave his dishes in the sink. I've started to put those in his room, and I think he is slowly but surely starting to get the hint.
The very first day, he left his clothes all over the living room, but I immediately reminded him of the 'clean up after yourself' rule. He'd smiled at me sheepishly and muttered "Sorry, force of habit."
Overall, I can see his efforts to be less selfish, but talking to him becomes exhausting at times. It’s less of a conversation and more of a lecture. Sometimes I can listen to it, other times I’m just really not in the mood, which angers him because he wants to talk to me.
“Well, I’m not a puppet available for you at the snap of your finger,” I’d finally sighed after some passive-aggressive comments when I told him I needed to sleep instead of listening to him bitch about some festival that fucked up recently. “I’ve just worked a ten-hour shift and I need to sleep. Either talking to me can wait that long, or you need to find someone else to listen to you. Maybe they’d be more inclined if you left some room for them to join the conversation, though.” I’d winked at him and disappeared into my room.
It's exhausting. It’s like I’m dealing with a child that has to learn social norms. Even Luke wasn't that hard to educate when he was little. Then again, if those kinds of conversations are the only symptoms displaying his remaining narcissism, it’s not so bad.
"There is a learning curve, but overall, having a roommate is not as uncomfortable as I thought it would become." There. That's pretty diplomatic and I'm not giving too much away.
The only thing that annoys the hell out of me is his bike. It's so fucking loud whenever he arrives that it wakes me up. But I can't exactly ask him to park like a block away just so I'd have a restful morning, so I'm going to have to deal with it.
"Is he hot?"
I shake my head at Phoebe's question. Of course, she'd ask that.
"Yeah," I bite my lip to stop the grin from spreading on my face, but I'm unsuccessful.
“Uh, interesting!” Harper exclaims and scoots her chair closer, as though she wants me to reveal a secret. “Scale of one to lava.”
“Campfire,” I chuckle, and Phoebe hits my upper arm. “Ouch! What was that for!”
“You not showing us a picture. That’s what it’s for!”
“Listen, Phoebe, I love you, but not ‘I’m-taking-secret-pictures-of-my-roommate’ much.”
“He doesn’t have social media?” Phoebe sounds suspicious, but I just shrug.
“Not that I know of,” I answer. I’m sure he has but that would defeat the whole ‘keeping a secret’ purpose.
“So, you’ve snooped,” Harper states and I roll my eyes. “Oh, look how fidgety she’s getting. Awe, she has a crush,” Harper remarks and the smile immediately falls off my face. Fuck.
“Oh, look how she’s panicking; she does,” Phoebe chuckles and props both of her elbows on the table to support her head and props her chin on the heels of her hands as I hide my face behind my coffee mug. “Look at her throat, she’s turning red. On that note, you need to tell me what foundation you use, holy shit, that's good coverage."
"I'll send you a picture later," I assure her, my hands subconsciously wandering to my throat. My thoughts spin in my head like a carousel. Fuck, they’re not going to let this go.
"So?" Micah asks after I've filled him in on the conversation with the girls. "Do you have a crush on him?"
"I don't know." I clear my throat and start stacking glasses behind the bar counter, so I can grab them easier once the customers come in. "It feels like it. We've fallen into this familiar pattern way too quickly. It's not quite the same as back then, but similar, and maybe, only maybe a butterfly or two might have hatched in my stomach." I turn around to check which alcohol needs to be refilled or replaced.
"A very weird picture to put in my head, thanks for that," Micah says, and through the mirror lining the wall behind the bar, I see him grimace as he imagines it.
"Sorry," I say, sounding not sorry at all.
"So, now what?" Micah asks and I shoot him a confused look through the mirror.
"What do you mean?"
"Are you going to act on it? Seduce him while your brother is at school?" He wiggles his eyebrows and I throw a towel at him.
"I will do no such thing." I shake my head vehemently. "I’ve been there, done that, don't have the urge to repeat the disaster."
"And that's why you can't look me in the eye?" Micah walks around the counter and circles me until I have to look at him.
"Can we change topics?" I ask him, my eyes fixed on his sternum instead of his face.
"I'd prefer if we didn't."
"And I'd prefer winning the jackpot, tough shit." I exhale heavily, annoyance bubbling in my stomach. Annoyance by my recurring feelings, by Micah, by my whole situation. "I am going to keep my head down and hope the four months are over soon. Then I'm looking for a new flat and Pax is probably going back to Hystoria, off to return to fame. Our ways will part, we’ll probably never see each other again, and everyone will be happy. Well, I might be sad at first, but I won’t have a broken heart."
"Okay, we can change topics," he says pacifyingly and raises his hands in defense.
"Good. Any chance you can refrain from dragging me along the dirty stage floor today? I've just washed my hair this morning."
"Aye, captain. I'll refrain," he chuckles and grabs himself a water.
"What the hell?" I groan as I wake up. Loud clanking from the kitchen makes my temples throb and any hopes of falling asleep again dissipate immediately. There are more groans as I get up from bed. While Micah hasn't dragged me over the stage, he found plenty of other ways to cause me to be sore again. I awakened a monster. Damn sadist.
I’ll have to find a way to make it up to him. Maybe I can leave some seeds on his car so that birds gather and shit on his windshield. That would make him furious.
There’s another loud clank, this time accompanied by what sounds like a bunch of cookware falling to the ground.
I close my eyes and try to exhale calmly. Finally, I have fewer worries, so I can actually go to sleep without tossing and turning for half the night, and now I have to deal with being woken at this, for me, ungodly hour?
What the hell? I told Paxton when I come home and what my sleep schedule is. Does he really have to give a damn drum concert in the kitchen right now?
My pulse quickens and the more I think about it, the angrier I become. Just because
Mr. ‘Look At Me, I’m A Rockstar’ is used to doing whatever the fuck he likes, doesn't mean he can do it here in my damn home. How dare he wake me up when he knows very fucking well I'd be sleeping. What the fuck is he thinking? When I open my eyes again I'm so damn angry. I'm surprised there's no steam coming out of my ears, like in comic books.
Seriously, how fucking dare he?
I jump out of my bed and within three angry steps I'm at the door, pulling it open with a vengeance, even though the poor door is not at fault for my bad mood at all. The clanking continues, though, covering the sound of the doorknob meeting one of the wardrobes cramped inside my room.
I reach the kitchen in five more angry steps, the sound of my feet stomping on the ground muffled by the carpet. It’s so unsatisfying. I’m fucking angry. I want to be loud, but it’s not fucking happening. When I reach the doorway to the kitchen, I stop.
Paxton is… cooking? Not that I thought he’d just throw cookware around for fun but, yes, I’m surprised. Another source of clanking seems to be the sink because a bunch of cleaned cookware is stacked right next to it, dangerously high.
I take a deep breath and try to calm down. The benefit of the doubt, Katie, give him the benefit of the doubt.
"What are you doing?" I ask him softly, crossing my arms in front of my chest. Pax jumps, almost knocking over one of the pans and curses. When he turns around, he has a proud grin on his face.
"I'm making my lunch, your breakfast!" He looks so proud; I just can't bring myself to remain angry. Instead, I sigh and put my hair up in a ponytail. I'm awake now anyway, I might as well help.
"Can I help?"
"No, you can go back to sleep, I'm managing."
"Well, the thing is, Pax, you're a very loud cook, apparently," I let him know and his face contorts into a grimace.
“No, I’m not,” he says and turns right back around, knocking an empty pot to the ground.
“Case in point.” I raise my eyebrow at him, and he turns to look at me sheepishly. “Don’t try to gaslight me, my friend.” I say it jokingly, but he notices the underlying seriousness quickly.
“Sorry. Force of habit.” He leans down to pick up the pot and sets it on the table. I grimace when he hits another pot doing so. I don’t even need to say anything, my glare seems to be enough.
“Okay, you’re right,” he concedes, and the frown slowly disappears from my face. "I’m sorry for waking you," he continues and deflates, the pride on his face slowly disappearing.
"Well, now you know and I'm sure it won't happen again," I say reassuringly and step up next to him. "So, what are you making?"
"I was thinking about doing spaghetti carbonara." I tilt my head and look at him confused.
"I don’t think we have cream in the fridge."
"Well, I’m making the original kind. Obviously," he says with a chuckle, rolling his eyes and I raise my eyebrow at him. "We had it in Italy on our first Europe tour and it was so much better than any carbonara I've ever eaten here. The ingredients are only eggs, bacon, pecorino cheese, and pasta, of course. And a shit ton of pepper. At least that’s what Google says.” He points at a pile of ingredients sitting on the counter. “I just suddenly had the urge to make it and I thought you'd like it too."
Oh, that's actually kind of sweet. But I've never heard of the original recipe, so I look at him confused. "Peco, what?”
“Pecorino cheese.” He reaches somewhere behind him and holds up a chunk of cheese. “It’s really good. Here, try!” He breaks off a piece for me and holds it out. I take it from his hand and pop it into my mouth.
“Okay,” my eyes grow wide. “The consistency is weird but it’s good. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten cheese with this much flavor.”
“Right? Just sit and wait ‘til I’m done. Now that you’re awake I can start the pasta.”
He reaches for a pot and of course, it clanks against the sink and the dishes he has yet to wash when he tries to put it under the faucet to fill it with water.
“Shit, sorry,” he says hastily and then handles the pot more carefully. When he sets it on the stove meticulously, it almost doesn’t make a sound.
I marvel at the scene unfolding. Taking criticism has never come naturally to him. He’d always start a discussion; the later in our friendship, the more heated they’d become. In the last ones we had he managed to misconstrue everything I said until the topic of discussion wasn’t what he did, anymore, but rather how I communicated my criticism.
I bite my lip to stop a smile from lighting up my face. I’m glad we’re not doing that anymore.
My hands are still itching to help, especially when he tries to separate the eggs, cursing when some shards fall into the bowl, but I do as he says and sit down at the table, watching him make our meal.
It’s cute. At times he seems confused by what’s happening and re-checks the recipe on his phone, but, overall, he's doing surprisingly well, considering he probably hasn't cooked in ten years.
Finally, he's done, and the kitchen only looks a tiny bit like a battlefield. Pots and bowls are stacked in the sink, and I eye them, fidgeting with my hands. I hate when there are dirty dishes and they're marinating in the dirt.
"Don't look like that, I'll clean them up after we've eaten," Pax chuckles and sets a plate on the table in front of me. When he realizes my eyes keep wandering to the dirty pile he reaches for my chair and pulls it closer to himself until the sink is not in my direct line of sight anymore. "There, now you don’t have to look at them. Dig in."
I shake my head at him, but once again I find myself doing what he says and start to eat. Once the taste hits my tongue I look at him with wide eyes. "Shit, Pax, that's good!"
"I know, right?" he says proudly and claps himself on the shoulder, receiving another head shake from me at that.
"If you're cooking stuff like this, feel free to clank about," I say before thinking. Once I realize, I grimace. "Well, maybe an hour or two later in the day."
"Don't worry, I'll do my best to be quieter," he assures me. "You won’t even notice I’m here. Sorry again."
"It' s fine. I've gotten food so my anger is gone. Can't guarantee that for the future, though."
We eat together in comfortable silence, and it really is. My eyes wander to the clock, and I tilt my head, confused. “Hey, isn’t this the time when you usually leave?”
He looks at me like a deer in headlights, suddenly nervous. “Not today,” he says quickly.
“Oh, okay,” I answer with a shrug and get back to eating.
“That’s it? You’re not going to ask where I’m usually going?”
“Why would I? I’m not your mom,” I say with a full mouth and my eyebrows crunched together confused. I chew and continue after I swallow. “I mean, if you’d like to tell me, I’m all ears, but why would I pry?”
“Huh,” he hums quietly and sets down his fork. “You’re right.”
“Of course I am,” I tease him and pierce a piece of bacon with my fork. “Are you that used to telling everyone where you are all the time?”
“Apparently,” he answers, cocking his head, deep in thought. I continue eating while he stares holes into the air.
“It’s therapy," he suddenly says into the silence, and I freeze, the fork halfway to my mouth. I set it down and stare at him, waiting to see if he'll elaborate. "I've continued going even after they discharged me from the facility."
"That's good, Pax," I reach out and pat his arm. "I mean, it seems like it's helping you."
"It does," he admits. "The beginning was hard, but now I think it's grounding me." He turns his gaze to me. "But I'd rather sit in therapy and deal with a bit of uncomfortableness than return to being the kind of man I was up until last year."
"Well, I can' t say a lot about that, considering the last time we spoke was like, eight years ago," I point out and take a second to think about how I can phrase the next part of the sentence in a way that's not hurtful. "But I like being around you more now than back then."
And I do. It must have taken a lot of work to go from arrogant ass to who he is now. He's not perfect; nobody is. But now, he's someone I like spending time with, just like at the beginning of our friendship. Toward the end of our friendship, he was unrecognizable, not at all like the guy I fell in love with. But now, he resembles that teenage boy who had my heart.
" I like being around myself more now," Paxton adds, picking up his fork again and continuing to eat.
And slowly, a realization sets in, I’m in trouble.