The Roommate Situation (Only in Atlanta #1)

1. Jess

Jess

I forgot about the heat.

Big shot destination marketers will try to convince you they call it “Hotlanta” for its sexy nightlife scene.

But I’m not fooled for a minute. Oh no. I am one hundred percent sure that the cloying, sticky, wet blanket of heat that suffocates worse than a too-tight sports bra is the actual source of my hometown’s nickname (which, by the way, Atlantans tend to loathe).

T-shirt? Sweat-soaked.

Hair? Damp. Plastered to my skull while simultaneously managing to frizz out in every direction.

Mood? Let’s not even go there.

I lift another Twizzler from my lap—conveniently doubling as a plate—and hang it between my lips, cigarette-style.

I’ll be forever indebted to the delicious chemical-and-sugar-based foods that have kept me company along this journey.

Bonus points for the snacks that haven’t melted in the blistering sun.

Somewhere in North Carolina, I even mastered the art of eating Twizzlers with no hands. Like a turtle.

I consider that to be a win. Which says a lot about the current state of my life.

Pleased that I’m able to finally focus on some (albeit questionable) positive thoughts, I crank the volume on my aptly named “Heartbreak” playlist. The one that’s been playing on repeat for the last two days of driving.

It’s mostly songs from Adele’s 25 album. And I’ve listened to it so many times, I now have my own lyrics for every song.

“Helloooo, Johnny,” I sing off-key. “I drove over 800 miles to flee your smelly feet.”

It’s pathetic. 850 miles later and the best insult I can come up with for my lying, cheating ex is that his feet smell?

I mean, they don’t even smell that bad.

Undeterred by the fact that James Corden won’t be inviting me to be on Carpool Karaoke anytime soon, I launch into the chorus, waving my Twizzler in the air. My voice cracks on the high notes.

“Hello from I-85

It’s been a truly awful drive

And I hope you’re sorry for pushing me out that door

But you’re prob- ah -bly busy with that wh—”

I choke on the last word. Though the rhyme works, I’ve never been one for swearing, especially not with words that are derogatory to women.

Usually, I prefer creative cursing alternatives.

Like snickerdoodle . Or… hobknocker. Plus, Sarah doesn’t really deserve to be called any names. Not even hobknocker. She’s nice.

Well, she seems nice.

She has nice hair.

So there’s that.

But, what she really has going for her is that she wasn’t the one with a serious girlfriend when she and Johnny got together.

And, by serious, I’m talking six years.

Yup. Six years of my roaring twenties, wasted on someone who would eventually leave me for a tall, slim, attractive go-getter with a dazzling career in the finance world.

And, in the interest of full disclosure, by “roaring twenties,” I am referring to being broke, unable to sell a single one of my paintings, and not even being able to enjoy wearing skimpy tank tops due to my freakishly outsized chest. (Maybe I mean “boring twenties?” After all, my idea of a good night is more Friends marathon and a cup of cocoa than stilettos and tequila shots.)

Under an array of billboards telling me to “Eat Mor’ Chikin,” I change lanes.

I ignore the terrified glance from the man in the car next to mine as he takes in my Twizzler-wielding, Adele-belting, bedraggled appearance.

It’d be just my luck if someone calls in a report of a crazy person in a silver Honda making their way into the Atlanta city limits on the interstate.

The funny thing is, I’m not even that mad at Johnny.

I’m more... disappointed. In him, yes. But, more so, in myself.

I’m disappointed that I followed him to New York in the first place.

That I settled for a mediocre relationship with a man who did the bare minimum.

Gave up my hopes and dreams in order to help him fulfill his.

And now, after four years of waitressing sixty hours a week to make ends meet—not to mention appearing at countless uber-boring finance events as Johnny’s arm candy—the man has upgraded from a dumpy malt ball to a hot tamale. Which is why I’m rolling back home with my tail between my legs.

Still broke. Still unsuccessful. Still unable to find a store that sells pretty bras in my size.

Ugh, speaking of slinking home, I need to inform my brother that I’ll be crashing with him for the foreseeable future. Because my parents selfishly sold their home and took off on a round-the-world retirement tour.

We don’t speak a lot, but last I heard, they were milking yaks in Nepal.

Long story.

I blow a sweaty lock of hair off my face, turn off Adele, and dial Aiden handsfree. The phone rings and rings until I get an eventual, breathless, “Hello?”

“It’s me,” I reply, and suppress a giggle when I realize what I’ve done.

“What’s up, Jess?” Aiden’s voice, tinged with sleep, warms over the syllable of my name.

“You sound tired.”

“I am.”

“Did I wake you?”

A pause. Then a sigh. “Yeah. But no worries.”

I can picture my older brother running his hands through his dark hair as he sits up in bed, face marked with pillow creases. As a successful professional photographer and branding consultant, Aiden works long, hard hours and keeps an unusual sleep schedule.

“Sooooooo…” I segue. Not very delicately.

Aiden laughs. “Okay, J. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

My brother is always the person I call when I need a pep talk or some tough love.

Goodness knows why. Though I love Aiden to death, we are opposites in almost every area that counts.

He’s tall, I’m short. He’s rich and successful, I’m not.

Women flock around him, and he takes delight in serial dating all of them—whereas my relationship history consists mainly of Kevin Morrison in Grade Eleven (I dug his blue rubber-banded braces in a major way), and, after that, Johnny.

I take a deep breath. “Johnny and I broke up.”

There’s a very pregnant pause and the phone line crackles as Aiden passes his cell from one ear to the other. He has a strange habit of doing this every two minutes while he’s on the phone. Or maybe he’s just afraid of radiation waves melting his brain, or whatever.

I know what Aiden really wants to say right now: that he’s pleased. That we should have broken up a long time ago. That Johnny didn’t deserve me.

Aiden always hated Johnny.

But, Aiden is a good human, and an even better big brother. So, he bites his tongue on any I-told-you-so’s . “I’m sorry… Are you okay?”

“I’m in Atlanta.”

Aiden chokes. Which is to be expected. I haven’t been home in two years.

“What?” He manages to splutter.

“Yeah, I’m about—” I glance at the road sign ahead. “Ten minutes away from your place.”

“A heads up would have been helpful, J.”

“Uhh… can you consider this a heads up for your favorite sister coming to stay with you for a while?”

“Only sister,” Aiden corrects. Unnecessarily. “But J, you see, the thing is—”

“I don’t care if the house isn’t clean. I’ll clean it,” I wheedle. What could I offer to make him say yes? “And... Chinese takeout tonight is on me.”

“No, Jess—”

“Fine, pizza then,” I persevere.

“It’s not that,” Aiden says. “It’s just that I’m in LA right now for work.”

Frick.

Frick, frick, double frick.

The last thing I need is to have to call someone else. Every relationship I have left in Atlanta is linked in some way to Johnny. I have no close friends left here, and the only family member I’m close with is Aiden. Who I need right now.

I dig around in my brain frantically before retrieving a winning idea. “You still got that spare key hiding under that hideous garden gnome?”

Aiden clicks his tongue, thinking. “Well yeah, but—”

“Perfect,” I cut him off swiftly, taking advantage of his slow, sleepy state. “I’ll let myself in. When are you back?”

“In about three weeks. But Jess, there’s something you—”

“I promise I won’t break anything.”

“No, I—”

“Loveyoubyeeee,” I sing, hanging up before Aiden can protest further.

Harsh? Yup.

But, desperate times call for desperate measures. And, what are big brothers for? I need to retreat to Aiden’s place so I can get my feet back on the ground. It’s time to start thinking about myself, for a change. Time to get my career on track and chase my own dreams.

I am a strong, independent woman… who just needs a free place to stay. You know, because of that whole broke and jobless thing.

I put on my blinker, and exit the highway.

I’d been pumped to see my brother, and I feel a little gutted that I won’t see him for a few weeks. But, there is one perk to being alone tonight — I can wallow in a sea of wine and popcorn while watching chick flicks on Aiden’s big-screen TV without anyone judging me or telling me not to.

I am a grown up, after all.