Page 10 of The Muse
“I’m surprised they don’t have you live with them.”
“Why would I live with them?” I shove the clothes back into the bags and kick them under the coffee table so Naomi doesn’t do her annoying throat-clearing thing while scowling at me until I read her mind.
“I mean,” Monroe shrugs, “if they offered you a room, you’d never be late to work, and you’d have an actual bed. Probably your own bathroom. Rent free.”
“It would feel like a prison—someone always scrutinizing me.”
“Like Naomi?”
I frown. “Let me guess. She wants me out even though she doesn’t want to admit she’s living here, and you secretly don’t want her living here. I’m your last defense. The buffer zone. If I move out, she’ll replace your furniture and buy plants which need to be watered. Amazon will deliver packages with her name on them. And you’ll be banned from taking a shit in your own apartment while she’s here. Oh, wait. That’s already happened.”
“That’s not entirely true,” he mumbles after shoving a chip into his mouth.
“Stop lying. You know I’m right. Last week, you ran down the street to take a dump at the gas station because she was soaking in the bathtub, and you’re too damn weak around her to just perch and drop a load on the goddamn throne you pay for every month. The Rawlings have a toilet in their garage. That will be you someday.”
“Says the guy who has never had a girlfriend.”
“I get laid,” I say, lacing my fingers behind my head.
“Yeah, well, I don’t have to wear a condom.” Monroe puts a chip clip on the bag and returns it to the top of the fridge. “And I don’t have to go out every night like a caveman hunting for food. No pickup lines. No wondering if a boyfriend or husband is going to find my dick in his girl and beat the crap out of me while I’m fully exposed.” He eyes me, knowing that’s a low blow. “So,” he continues, “if I have to run down the street every now and then to take a shit, it’s still better than your situation.”
“I’ll have you know, I met someone today. She could be the one.”
He laughs, plopping his skinny ass into the worn brown leather recliner. “I doubt it, but spill.”
“Why do you doubt it?”
“Because you have a terrible habit of oversharing way too early. Did you tell her you grew up in foster care?”
“No.”
“Does she know how many broken bones you’ve had? The number of scars on your chest and back? All that shit?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s amazing. What did you talk about?”
“We didn’t talk about much. She’s a bike tour guide or something like that. And she had her group waiting for her, and I had Mrs. Rawlings with me. But she has my number, and I bet she calls me tonight. Probably a little after eight if I had to take a guess.”
“A little after eight?” He eyes me with a single raised eyebrow.
“It’s just a guess.” I grin.
“Is she hot?”
“Hot is not the right word for her. She’s beautiful in an effortless way. Not all made up. Nothing fake about her. She has this cute little scar above her lip.”
“A scar above her lip?”
I nod.
“Like someone hit her?”
I shrug. “Or like she face-planted on her bike.”
He winces. “Ouch.”
I chuckle. “It’s a scar, not a recent cut. It’s not like it happened today.”
