Chapter Seven #2
BISCUITS. THE MOUTHWATERING smell catapulted Roxy up the stairs toward the apartment.
She swore she could actually feel herself gain three pounds from the aroma alone.
If Honey had anything to say about it, she’d never get hired in this town.
Not because she couldn’t afford the extra weight but because she’d spend all her time in food comas, butter and icing smeared on her face.
What audition? Pass the sticky buns, fool.
Unfortunately, turning down free food was sacrilege in her personal religion.
Free food was to be cherished and treated with respect.
Every morsel savored. She’d eaten too many meals involving ramen noodles and stale Wonder Bread to forgo the opportunity to try out her roommate’s latest creation.
She’d been caught a little off guard by Honey’s willingness to share, as if it were a foregone conclusion.
With her Southern accent and constant presence in the kitchen, she reminded Roxy of those women in old-timey cartoons who left apple pies cooling on the windowsill. A nurturer.
She shook off those bizarre thoughts. At least this time she’d come prepared with a bottle of tequila to contribute.
Honey and Abby seemed determined to create some kind of evening meal ritual.
Apparently Roxy had gotten shacked up with a couple of functional human beings.
That shit should have been in the ad, really.
The first two nights, she’d taken a plate and slunk off to her room, feeling like a moocher.
She’d listened to them discuss their day through her cracked bedroom door, wanting to know more about them against her will.
Honey came home and cooked between classes at Columbia.
Abby, true to her word, didn’t have any friends, so she’d taken to the friendly, guileless Honey like, well, a fly to honey.
But where did Roxy fit in? Her conversational comfort zone started and ended with a snappy greeting and an exit strategy. Not a play-by-play of her day.
Oddly, she found herself feeling kind of left out as her roommates bonded a little more each day.
Which made no sense, since her exile was self-imposed.
Still, the sticky feeling remained. Why couldn’t they just avoid each other like typical New York City roommates and communicate via a dry-erase board in the kitchen?
Tonight, she intended to keep alive her streak of dining and dashing, but at least she’d come bearing a gift this time to alleviate her increasing guilt.
Booze for biscuits. A fair trade if she’d ever heard one.
Hopefully it would distract her roommates long enough to make off with her dinner to the safety of her room.
Maybe she didn’t have a bosom buddy, but at least she had her view.
Last night, she’d found herself staring out over Ninth Avenue, taking comfort in the wave of cabs that came with each cycle of green lights, people dipping out of their apartment buildings long enough to grab something from the corner bodega.
Okay, so she’d pretended to be fascinated by the creature habits of her new Chelsea neighbors, but her mind had actually been on the Lower East Side with a certain physically blessed lawyer.
She’d debated with herself, one half determined to stay away from him until Saturday, one half dying to jump on the train, travel downtown, and knock on his door.
Images had tangoed behind her eyelids as she’d tried to sleep.
Images of what Louis would do if he found her on his doorstep at midnight, obviously there for one shameless reason.
Would they even make it to the bedroom, or would she end flat on her back in the entryway? Or maybe she’d be on top...
The first time you ride me, I’m going to grip your ass just like this.
Roxy’s neck flushed hot. Tomorrow night felt ten years away. With a deep breath, she took out her key and opened the door. “Honey, I’m home!”
Honey squeaked.
Biscuits went flying everywhere.
It happened in slow motion, like something out of a bad dream.
A terrible event was occurring, but Roxy’s feet wouldn’t move.
Standing in the doorway with her mouth dropped open, she was totally useless.
Not that she could prevent the tragedy, but if she’d been quicker to the punch, she might have caught at least a couple of them midair, like tiny Frisbees of goodness.
One by one, the little handfuls of doughy perfection hit the hardwood floor, the subtle poff sounds they made a taunting proof of their fluffiness.
Honey stood in the kitchen, baking pan in hand, looking like she was in denial. Abby walked out from her bedroom and stared at the mess for a moment before shrugging and walking purposefully toward the broom closet. Did she actually intend to sweep those suckers up?
“Oh no, you don’t.” Roxy let the door slam behind her. “Ten second rule.”
She lunged for the floor. At the same time, Honey tossed the pan onto the counter with a clatter and joined her on hands and knees.
When Roxy picked up the first biscuit, she realized she hadn’t thought this genius plan all the way through.
Fresh from the oven, biscuits were hot as hell.
Still, no way was she letting them go to waste.
Not going to happen. Tossing the first flaky casualty between her hands like a hot potato, she huffed and puffed her way to the counter, dropped it, and went back for more.
After a few trips, she noticed that Abby had joined them, too, transporting biscuits from floor to counter as if they were wounded soldiers on a battlefield.
Their concentrated, semi-pained expressions were what finally did it.
The situation was just too absurd. Roxy plopped down Indian-style on her butt and started to laugh.
“What are you doing?” Honey demanded. “You’re the one who called ten second rule.”
Roxy laughed harder. “I know, it’s just ... no biscuit left behind ... give me biscuits or give me death ... ?”
It was a disjointed ramble, but Honey seemed to interpret her military comparison. She dropped the biscuit being passed between her hands and giggled under her breath.
Abby stood and grabbed an oven mitt off the counter, carrying the remains of the baked goods to the counter with casual grace. “I might have spoken too soon the other day when I called you both relatively normal.”
“It took you this long to realize that?” Roxy reached back toward the door and retrieved the bottle of tequila she’d set on the ground to participate in Operation Biscuit Salvage. “Can I interest anyone in a drink?”
Honey jumped to her feet. “I’ll get glasses.”
Abby sat down beside Roxy in a series of awkward movements, as if she’d never sat on the floor once in her life. Maybe she hadn’t. “I guess one drink won’t hurt.”
“Never does.” Roxy took a glass from Honey and poured.
This didn’t feel as uncomfortable as she’d anticipated.
Possibly because she’d taken them out of their comfort zone and stuck them in hers.
Drinking tequila on the floor. “So, what’s up with that guy on the third floor?
Every time I pass his door, he clears his throat.
Superloud, like he wants me to know he’s spying through the peephole. ”
“I thought I was the only one.” Honey took a healthy sip without wincing, going up a notch in Roxy’s book. “Have you ever seen him, Abby?”
“Nope.” She eyed the drink in her hand warily. “I’ve only seen one person since moving in. There’s an older gentleman who wears a captain’s hat and smokes cigars on the first floor. He always tells me my shoe is untied, even when it’s not. Thinks it’s hysterical.”
“We should bring him dirty floor biscuits,” Honey said. “He’d never know. But we would.”
“Oh, you’re bad.”
The blonde smoothed her hair. “It’s been said.”
“So.” Abby found yet another sitting position. “How has everyone’s week been so far?”
Roxy sipped her tequila, assuming they would start their usual chatter and leave her out of it.
When the silence lengthened, however, she realized they were both looking at her expectantly.
It quickly became obvious to her that they’d talked enough to each other lately.
Now they wanted to know about their wayward third roommate who’d spent the first week of their acquaintance hibernating.
Had she unintentionally staged her own friendship intervention?
Crap. The girls might be smiling, but they looked ready to spring and handcuff her to the radiator if she tried to vamoose.
Even in the midst of her nerves at being the center of attention—being herself, not a character she was pretending to be—she felt a sense of gratefulness.
There hadn’t been many times in the past when she’d sensed people had been truly interested in what she had to say. In her .
She had a choice to make. Either she would be honest and tell this corporate debutante and this bubbly scholar what her week had actually entailed.
Or she could lie and make something up. Apart from her vague explanation that she was an actress, they knew nothing about her.
It would be so easy to give them a lie to buy herself more time.
More time to become something worth telling.
If she did that, though, would she be admitting that she was currently . .. nothing?
Fuck that.
She threw back the remaining inch of her tequila. “I met a guy.”
Honey brightened. “Ooh. Tell us.”
“What does he do?” Abby asked.
“He’s a lawyer.” She cleared her throat into the silence.
“I was sent to his door to perform a singing telegram while wearing a giant pink bunny suit. We kissed. We texted. Then I showed up to a bachelor party where he was one of the guests. I was there as a stripper. We kissed some more. We texted some more. I’m seeing him tomorrow night.
” The two girls were silent a moment. Very slowly, Honey reached for the bottle of tequila and refilled her glass.
Something about that gesture eased the pressure in Roxy’s chest, but not completely.
“Also, I got called back to read for the part of Lassie by a couple of hipster film students in scarves.”
Abby frowned. “Dogs don’t talk.”
“I know.”
Silence reigned in the apartment. Just as Roxy got ready to gain her feet and make toward her room, Honey blurted, “I’m going to seduce my English professor.”
Abby’s mouth dropped open. “We’ve been having dinner together for days. You never said anything. I earned this knowledge.”
“It’s not polite dinner conversation.” Honey reached up and grabbed a biscuit off the kitchen counter, biting into it with a grin. “He’s going to be a challenge. I can tell.”
Roxy couldn’t hide her amusement. “That doesn’t appear to be a concern for you.”
“Concern?” She popped a bite into her mouth. “It’s a requirement.”
Abby looked at a loss. Not judgmental, as Roxy had predicted, although both roommates did appear to be looking at Roxy differently.
As one would after having an information bomb dropped on them.
Based on their curious expressions, the questions weren’t over, either.
But they weren’t pressing for now, and Roxy appreciated that.
What had she expected from these girls? For them to throw her out?
Obviously, she hadn’t given them enough credit.
“Come on, Abby.” Roxy tipped her chin at the brunette. “You must have a skeleton hiding in one of the eight closets in this apartment.”
“Nope.”
“Give us something,” Honey begged. “It can’t be as bad as Roxy’s.”
“Thanks, roomie.”
“All right, fine.” Abby choked on a slug of tequila. “I’ve only kissed two guys. One was my stepbrother.”
A beat of shocked silence passed.
“Okay, then.” Roxy nodded. “Pass me a fucking biscuit.”