8
GABE
It took a while for me to orient myself. I was in a bedroom. An extremely tidy bedroom. Most of my clothes were on the floor, and a girl was lying beside me. I was pressed to the edge of the mattress as she slept in a starfish-like position, arms and legs flung haphazardly. My brain moved slowly, slogging through the leftover haze of alcohol and weed until things finally clicked.
The bar. The taxi. The rooftop. Syn.
The images of her in my head were vague. I couldn’t remember anything distinctive about her appearance at all. I wasn’t sure if it was due to the amount of alcohol I’d consumed or if she was simply that forgettable. I glanced over, curious to see what I noticed in the cold light of relative sobriety. Her hair was neither blonde nor brown; it was something in between. There was probably a word for it. She likely knew it. It changed from brown at the roots to not-quite-blonde at the tips. It was dead straight, with not a wave or kink in sight. Her skin was dotted with an array of freckles and moles. Even though she was wearing a shirt, the neckline plunged low, exposing the tops of her breasts. She was right about them. They were fantastic. Mascara was smeared under her eyes from when she’d rubbed them during the night, and her mouth was hanging open as she snored.
There was really nothing special or unique about her. I could easily pass her on the street, and she wouldn’t catch my eye. She was almost, dare I say it, plain-looking.
So why was I lying here, desperately wondering what her mouth tasted like?
Was I really so shallow that I was attracted to her merely because she didn’t seem interested in me?
Honestly, I thought we’d fuck. I’d assumed our banter was just foreplay, leading up to the real action, that the way she went on about how I didn’t impress her was just a facade. But she’d laughed when I tried to kiss her on the roof and turned away in the bed, sleeping as though she really meant it when she said she wanted to just be friends.
What I knew of Syn Cabot so far was that she was rude and sarcastic and leaned slightly toward violent tendencies, judging by the number of times she’d shoved or playfully whacked me. But at the same time, there was something that lay just beneath the surface. A gentleness. A tenderness. Like her blunt way of treating people was a charade to hide her true emotions. Like she’d been hurt and didn’t want anyone to know.
I knew that feeling.
I was familiar with that mask.
Or maybe I was still drunk.
A groggy voice filled the air. “You’re still here.”
I turned my head. She was still lying on her back, arms and legs spread wide and her eyes closed. I wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement. “Was I supposed to leave?”
She groaned and rolled over, taking most of the covers with her. “Why are you awake so early?”
“I’m used to early shifts at the gym.”
She merely pulled the covers over her head and let out another muffled groan.
I wasn’t sure what to do. Should I get up and leave? Was that what she wanted? Should I roll over and try to go back to sleep?
It was something I’d never had to ponder after a one-night stand before. Usually, I was up and out of there quickly, muttering excuses and promises I never intended to fulfill. But this wasn’t a one-night stand. Nothing happened. I didn’t know the standard procedure.
Suddenly, Syn rolled onto her back again and shoved the blankets down her body. “Fine, I’m awake now. Happy?”
She dragged herself out of bed as though it were physically painful and bent down to rummage through the clothing on the floor. I looked away, not wanting to get trapped in the image of her lace-covered ass swaying before me. We were friends. Just friends. She’d made it clear she didn’t want anything more than that.
Sitting up, I grabbed my jeans and my crumpled t-shirt and shrugged them on. My shirt stunk of stale beer. Syn threaded her arms through a clean oversized shirt and shimmied it down her body. She walked past me and sniffed.
“Here,” she said, opening a drawer and tossing me a t-shirt. “This should smell better.”
It was black with a hot-pink snake printed on the front. It was skintight. I sighed and chased after Syn as she stalked toward the door.
“So who actually calls you Syn?” I asked.
She flashed me a smile. “You do.”
Four sets of eyes fixed on us as soon as the door opened.
“What?” Syn snapped as she flopped onto the sofa and tucked her feet beneath her. I sat beside her, unsure what else to do.
“Flatmates,” she greeted as I settled in next to her. “This is Gabe. Gabe, these are the flatmates.”
“We have names,” the girl who wasn’t Tara said. “I’m Brittney. This is my boyfriend, Brady.” She jerked her thumb at the guy beside her. “And this is Cody and Tara.”
I nodded and grinned slightly. “Hey, again.” I felt oddly uncomfortable. It wasn’t a feeling I was used to, but for some reason, I wanted these people to like me.
“Nice shirt.” Tara folded her arms across her chest and blinked a couple of times before breaking into a teasing smile. “It’s mine. I think you should take it off.”
The flatmates unanimously started chanting, “Take it off. Take it off.” But Syn just rolled her eyes. “You’ll get it back, Tara. Everyone chill.”
The room fell silent, and Brady pointed to a poster on the wall. “The roster is there. You all know what to do.”
“You might want to leave now,” Syn said to me.
“Or you could stay,” Tara added.
“Why, what’s happening?” I asked, unsure what this roster was they were referring to.
Tara explained. Sunday morning was the only time they were all home at the same time. It was also the only time they cleaned the house. Ever. Nothing got done in between. Through the doorway into the kitchen, I could see dishes piled high in the sink. Dust covered most of the surfaces, and little bits and pieces of goodness-knows-what lay spread over the carpet. It was like Syn’s room was on a different planet from the rest of the house.
“So, who’s got the playlist ready to go?” Brady or Cody said. I’d forgotten which one he was already.
“Now’s your time to make a getaway,” Syn said, nodding toward the door. She really wanted me to go, and for some reason, it just made me want to stay.
“I’m good.” I grinned at her, and she rolled her eyes.
“Found it!” Tara shouted, startling everyone. “Sorry,” she added sheepishly. “I’ve got the playlist.”
“You have a set playlist for cleaning?”
“You bet your fucking ass we do,” Tara replied. Soon the entire house was filled with music— ‘Cry to Me’ by Solomon Burke , to be exact.
Syn got to her feet and held out her hand. “If you’re insisting on staying, you can help with the dishes.” She let go of my hand and held up a tea towel. “Wash or dry?”
“You don’t have a dishwasher?”
“Does it look like this place would have a dishwasher?” Syn pulled me to my feet, and I followed her into the kitchen.
She was right. The kitchen was old and dated. The stovetop had those coiled elements that sat above the surface of the range. The countertops were a putrid green color, and the cupboards were covered in a wood-like veneer.
I snatched the tea towel. “Dry.”
“Suit yourself.” The song changed to ‘ Come Together’ by the Beatles . Syn moved her body in time to the beat, almost giving the cupboard a lap dance as she filled the sink. She shook her hands through the water to encourage the bubbles and then got to work washing the grime off the plates as she swayed and sang.
“So you do this every week?”
She nodded, still moving in a way that I couldn’t help but stare at.
“I’m surprised by your choice of music.”
“Why?”
“None of you would have even been born when this came out.”
“Neither would you,” she shot back.
“I hate all the modern crap that gets put out these days.”
She froze and whirled her head back to look at me. “You clearly haven’t been listening to the right stuff. Besides, music doesn’t have an age. It can’t go out of fashion. Music is music. If it’s good, it’s good.” She lifted her hands out of the water and flicked her fingers, spraying me with little bubbles of foam.
I don’t know how many songs were on that playlist, but after what seemed like hours of cleaning, none of the songs repeated. Time sort of passed in a blur. Syn was like some alien creature who was either talking or laughing or singing or dancing. She was confusing. There was a conflict between who she said she was and how she acted.
We did the dishes and then washed all the inside windows. The other flatmates walked in and out, completing their various chores. Occasionally, someone would join in an energetic duet with Syn as they passed through whichever room we were in. Once everything was done, we all met in the kitchen, cramped into the small space.
“Who’s on breakfast?” Syn asked, leaning against the cupboards, her shirt clinging to her body where it had gotten wet.
Brady, or at least I think it was Brady, poked his head into the lounge and looked at the roster. “Tara.”
Tara let out a long sigh and opened one of the kitchen cupboards. She proceeded to place boxes of cereal on the table. There must have been at least ten different kinds. Then she reached into the fridge and pulled out a bottle of milk, twisted off the cap, and took a sniff before declaring, “Have at it.”
As soon as the words left her mouth, chaos erupted. Hands reached for boxes. Some were torn from the arms of others. Milk was spilled. It seemed as though all their hard work from cleaning the place was destroyed within seconds.
“So,” Brady—I’m certain it was Brady—said as soon as the mayhem had calmed, “When did you two start dating?” His eyes flicked between Syn and me.
“We’re not dating,” she said decisively. A little too decisively, if you asked me. She handed me a bowl filled with cereal and milk. It was a mixture of all the different kinds.
Brady lifted his brow as he directed his gaze toward me. “So just a one-night stand then?”
I just grinned and raised a spoonful of cereal to my mouth. Best to let Syn answer these questions.
“Nope,” was all she said, opening her mouth to show Brady a mouthful of half-chewed cereal.
“So how the fuck do you two know each other then?”
“We’re friends. People can just be friends, you know, Brady.” Syn rolled her eyes, a movement she did often.
Brady laughed. “Not with you, they can’t.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Syn’s voice rose in pitch.
“I don’t have friends,” everyone mocked, mimicking Syn’s voice and the way she flicked her hair over her shoulder.
Syn frowned and placed her empty bowl on the table. “Maybe I’m changing.”
“Yeah,” Brady snorted. “And maybe the sun won’t rise tomorrow.”
“We met at the gym,” I decided to chime in.
Apparently, the thought of Syn at the gym was simply too ludicrous, and everyone roared with laughter.
“You’re all assholes, the whole damn lot of you,” Syn spat at them, but she still had an amused glint in her eyes as she stormed off to her room. I stood in front of her flatmates as they chewed on their cereal, staring at me like I was the newest attraction at the zoo.
“Follow her.” Tara flicked her hand, dismissing me.
Syn was flopped down on the bed, her hair spread across the mattress. “You’ll get used to them,” she said before closing her eyes as if she was about to go to sleep.
I stood awkwardly, knowing I should leave but oddly not wanting to. I picked up my phone, glanced at the time, and noticed a couple of missed calls from my brother Jake.
“Fuck,” I muttered.
“What?” Syn asked without opening her eyes.
“I was supposed to be at Jake’s an hour ago.”
She opened one eye. “Your brother?”
“Nawh, you remembered.” I stuck out my tongue. “Stalker.” I sat beside her on the bed. “I promised him I’d help with setting up the nursery furniture.” Syn watched as I listened to the voice messages. “He’s pissed.” I ran my hands through my hair, recalling the way Jake had said I’d forget and how I’d insisted I wouldn’t. I wasn’t like that anymore. I’d changed. Matured. I’d be there to help. “Fuck,” I muttered again.
Syn pulled herself off the bed. “Come on, I’ll drive you.”
“You have a car?”
“Nope, but Brittney does.” She roughly tugged a brush through her hair as she walked. It was oddly mesmerizing. She stopped in the doorway and looked back at me. “You want a ride or not?”
“Fine.”
“Fine?” She lifted her brows.
“Sorry,” I flashed her a grin. “I meant thanks.”
She rolled her eyes. “Sure you did.” Walking into the kitchen, Syn grabbed a set of keys sitting on top of the fridge. “I’m borrowing your car, Britt!” she called out.
Brittney came running into the kitchen. “Syn, you can’t just—” But Syn had already walked out the door.
Brittney stood with her hands planted on her hips and let out a frustrated growl. “She always does this.” She shoved past me. “I don’t know what you see in her. She’s nothing but fucking trouble!”
I blinked in surprise a few times, listening as Brittney went to complain to Brady, then followed Syn out the door.