7
" Calvin clears his throat. “Do you have anything to drink?”
Booze. Right. This is the perfect situation for some booze. I jump up, and he laughs, awkwardly. “I should have thought to get champagne or something.”
“You bought the dinner,” I remind him. “Obviously the champagne was on my list and I dropped the ball.”
Pulling a bottle of vodka from the freezer, I set it on the counter and then realize I have nothing to mix it with. And I finished the last beer the other night.
“I have vodka.”
He smiles valiantly. “Straight-up vodka it is.”
“It’s Stoli.”
“Straight-up mediocre vodka it is,” he amends with a cheeky wink.
His phone buzzes, and it sets off a weird, giddy reaction in my chest. We both have full lives beyond this apartment, which remain complete mysteries to each other. One difference between us is that Calvin likely doesn’t care about my life outside of this. Yet I care intensely about his. Having him here feels like finding the key to unlock a mysterious chest that’s been sitting in the corner of my bedroom for a year.
Buzz. Buzz.
Looking up, I meet his eyes. They’re wide, almost as if he’s not sure whether to answer.
“You can get it,” I assure him. “It’s okay.”
His face darkens with a flush. “I . . . don’t think I should.”
“It’s your phone! Of course it’s okay to answer it.”
“It’s not . . .”
Buzz. Buzz.
Unless, maybe, it’s some Mafia drug lord and if he answers his ruse is up and I’ll kick him out. Or—gasp—maybe it’s a girlfriend calling?
Why had this not occurred to me?
Buzz. Buzz.
“Oh my God. Do you have a girlfriend?”
He looks horrified. “What? Of course not.”
Buzz. Buzz.
Holy shit, how long until his voicemail puts us out of our misery?
“. . . Boyfriend?”
“I don’t—” he starts, smiling through a wince. “It’s not.”
“ ‘Not’?”
“My phone isn’t ringing.”
I stare at him, bewildered.
His blush deepens. “It’s not a phone.”
When he says this, I know he’s right. It doesn’t have the right rhythm to be a phone.
I lift the vodka to my lips and chug straight from the bottle. The buzzing has the exact rhythm of my vibrator . . . the one I tucked beneath that cushion on the couch days ago.
I’m going to need to be pretty drunk to deal with this. "
― Christina Lauren , Roomies
16
" But I knew I wanted to be with him, and he wanted to be with me, too, and also knew what he wanted to do with his life. So, we compromised. He took the job in Des Moines, and it was my responsibility to get a job that would make enough money for what we needed, and that I enjoyed enough. I didn’t have to love it, but it didn’t matter whether I did, either, because I had him. I kept trying new things, too, and eventually discovered pottery. It’s fun, of course, but the most important part is that I didn’t feel like my job had to be my everything.”
This is what I have to keep reminding myself. Sometimes a job can just be a job. We aren’t all going to win the rat race. “I know. "
― Christina Lauren , Roomies
17
" Hungry?” he asks.
“The wager?” I remind him.
“I’m getting there—it’s related to my question.” He lifts his chin to the meat locker. “They have good steaks here.”
And just like that, I’m interested in whatever he’s suggesting. “They do. What’re you thinking?”
“They have a porterhouse for two, three, or four.”
I haven’t eaten in nearly twenty-four hours, and the idea of a big juicy steak has me salivating. “Yeah?”
“So, I say we split the one for three, and whoever eats more wins.”
“I’m going to guess their porterhouse for three could feed us both for a week.”
“I’m betting you’re right.” His adorable grin should be accompanied by the sound of a silvery ding. “And your dinner is on me.”
For not the first time, it occurs to me to ask him how he makes ends meet, but I can’t—not here, and maybe not when we’re alone, either. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I think I can handle treating my wife to dinner on our wedding night.”
Our wedding night. My heart thuds heavily. “That’s a lot of meat. No pun intended.”
He grins enthusiastically. “I’d sure like to see how you handle it.”
“You’re betting Holland can’t finish a steak?” Lulu chimes in from behind me. “Oh, you sweet summer child.”
***
As we get up, I groan, clutching my stomach. “Is this what pregnancy feels like? Not interested.”
“I could carry you,” Calvin offers sweetly, helping me with my coat.
Lulu pushes between us, giddy from wine as she throws her arms around our shoulders. “You’re supposed to carry the bride across the threshold to be romantic, not because she’s broken from eating her weight in beef.”
I stifle a belch. “The way to impress a man is to show him how much meat you can handle, don’t you know this, Lu?”
Calvin laughs. “It was a close battle.”
“Not that close,” Mark says, beside him.
We went so far as to have the waiter split the cooked steak into two equal portions, much to the amused fascination of our tablemates. I ate roughly three-quarters of mine. Calvin was two ounces short.
“Calvin Bakker has a pretty solid ring to it,” I say.
He laugh-groans. “What did I get myself into?”
“A marriage to a farm girl,” I say. “It’s best you learn on day one that I take my eating very seriously. "
― Christina Lauren , Roomies
20
" Calvin sits up, jerking his guitar to stand on one thigh. “Mr. Okai.” He swallows. “I didn’t realize you were standing there.”
“My niece tells me your name is Calvin.”
Calvin looks between the two of us, working this out. Robert, with his smooth dark skin and meticulously short hair. Me: pale and freckled with a chaotic, weedy bun on top of my head.
Robert reaches out a hand, and Calvin immediately takes it, standing. “Yes. Calvin McLoughlin.”
This makes my uncle laugh, and the boom of it eases the line of Calvin’s shoulders. “That’s a pretty Irish name for someone with such a good tan.”
“My mam is Greek,” he explains, and then looks back and forth between me and Robert again, as if asking a question of his own.
Robert tilts his head to me, releasing Calvin’s hand and saying in turn, “I married her uncle.”
Calvin smiles, quietly saying, “Ah. "
― Christina Lauren , Roomies
