Chapter 35
LOREN
Internet Paul
Does tomorrow at eight work for you?
When I walk into the living room, Elliott glances up from the bowl of chili he’s shoveling into his mouth.
“Where are you off to?” he asks around the spoon.
“I have a date.” As soon as I get this damn earring through my ear, I’ll be leaving.
Men have it so easy. Take Elliott, for example. Should I wear this black T-shirt or that one? So annoying.
“What’s his name?”
“You don’t know him.” I’ve been chatting with a few guys online but didn’t really feel like meeting up with any of them. Enter: Paul, twenty-six, from Murfreesboro.
“How can you be so sure? I know lots of people.”
Elliott seems like the kind of guy to claim he knows someone just to mess with me. I mean, he did go through with this big, elaborate plan to humiliate his cousin.
A grin stretches across his too-handsome face, and his spoon clinks against the edge of the bowl when he sets it on the counter. “It’s Meg, isn’t it? There’s no need to be embarrassed, Loren. I think it’s great that you and your friend hang out so much.”
Says the man whose only friend seems to be his cousin.
“For your information, Meg is busy tonight. Her friend Karlo invited her to the movies.”
“Friend. Okay.”
“Friend. Okay,” I mimic. “What does that mean?”
He scoops another spoonful of chili. “It means, guys and girls can’t be friends.”
“That’s not true.” I’ve had a bunch of guy friends through the years. Like Matthew and David all through elementary and middle school. And my friend Chris from the church we attended for a while.
Empty bowl in hand, Elliott stands to load his dish into the dishwasher. “Any straight guy who is willing to put effort into a ‘platonic’ relationship with a woman, secretly—or not so secretly—would absolutely jump her bones if given half a chance.”
He can’t be serious. Men and women can totally be friends. I mean, look at us. Elliott and I have known each other for months, and he has yet to try to “jump my bones.” Who even says that, anyway? What is he, fifteen?
“We’re friends though, aren’t we?”
He turns and saunters down the hallway to his room, but not before I catch his smile tightening. “Yeah, Loren. We are.”
He literally just said…
Wait.
He lifts a hand in a casual wave as he slinks into his room. “Have fun on your date tonight.”
“Come back here. Elliot!”
Does he listen? Of course not.
I consider going after him and making him explain exactly what he meant by that cryptic little comment, but then I’ll be late for my actual date and that wouldn’t be fair to Paul.
Besides, like Meg has pointed out a thousand times, I shouldn’t have to decipher cryptic man-messages. If Elliott wanted to be more than roommates, he would’ve made a move.
So I escape the apartment and head off to meet what could be the love of my life.
The date is a disaster with a capital “D.” Not only is Paul twenty minutes late, he also doesn’t even text to give me a heads-up.
Tardiness notwithstanding, his eyes are so lifeless.
He smiles with his mouth, but not his whole face.
Which I admit is a stupid reason to discount someone, but here I am, judging everything about this guy who could very well be super sweet and just have a tiny issue with punctuality and smiling.
Not only am I judging him, but also I’m comparing him to my freaking roommate—a man who I have absolutely no business thinking about in any capacity other than that he lets me live in his spare room.
Why did Elliott have to make that damn comment about men and women being friends right before I left? Why couldn’t he have said it tomorrow?
Or never?
Never would’ve been good.
It makes me wonder if maybe, just maybe, he thinks about me as often as I think about him. And not in the platonic, he-lives-down-the-hall sort of way.
No, what I feel for Elliott is decidedly not platonic.
It’s like I’m so desperate for love and affection that I think I see it in places that it cannot possibly exist. Like a mirage. A sexy, black-T-shirt-wearing mirage.
Which, unfortunately, means I need to move out as soon as I find a better place to live. It really sucks because I like living with Elliott. I was wary about the whole roommate thing, but it’s been nice having someone to hang out with in the evenings after work. Someone to talk to over breakfast.
And not just anyone.
Elliott Grant.
Loren Piper strikes again, romanticizing a relationship that has no right to be romanticized.
Now I’m offering to pay half of this dinner bill and brushing this guy off just so I can get home and yell at Elliott for ruining my night. He’ll probably be on the couch sipping a beer, watching reruns of Frasier or Friends.
After the yelling is over, I should probably try to play nice since I don’t want to live in a place filled with tension, so I’ll grab a beer and sink down beside him. But I’m also kind of tired so I can totally see myself falling asleep.
The last time I did that, I woke up half in love with the guy.
It meant nothing, I know that now.
Tell that to my romance-loving heart. I mean, wouldn’t this be the cutest story to tell our future children? How he swooped in and saved me from certain doom, how we did the whole “let’s pretend to be friends” thing, stealing glances and partaking in sexy Scrabble before falling madly in love?
What is wrong with me?
Someone needs to give me a stern talking-to.
This relationship isn’t going to end with a happily-ever-after. We’re not even in a relationship.
An hour later, I pull back into a parking spot next to Elliott’s truck and take my time climbing the stairs to our apartment. No need to rush. I’m going to simply go in, say hi, and then head to bed. Leave him wondering about my night. Be all mysterious and shit.
Guys like Elliott probably love mysterious women.
My keys jangle when I unlock the door. The only light comes from beneath the microwave, illuminating two half-empty glasses of wine on the counter.
Weird.
Elliott doesn’t usually drink wine.
The TV is off, and the couch is empty. Also strange. Maybe he had to go into work or something. I slip out of my coat, hanging it on the back of the dining room chair before texting him.
When he doesn’t answer right away, I’m not disappointed. Not really. If he’s working, he’s probably busy. It is Friday night, after all. There are drinks to be served and all that jazz.
I head into the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth, but the door at the end of the hallway catches my eye.
Not the door specifically, but the doorknob.
There’s an actual sock hanging off it.
I’ve seen plenty of raunchy movies; I know exactly what that sock is supposed to mean.
I’m only shocked it’s something people do in real life.
I can’t believe I cut my date short because of this guy only to get home and have him bedding down with someone else.
I don’t want someone who makes me second guess everything. Who makes me spend all night over-analyzing innocuous conversations.
I want a guy who says what he means straight out. No games.
I deserve that.
Not wanting to accidentally run into Elliott’s mystery guest, I head straight into my room. My mouth is going to taste like hot trash in the morning if I don’t brush my teeth, but right now, I don’t care.