“I’m good.” We both stand. She gathers the pizza box and drinks and sticks them in the bare-bones fridge. Shit, I need to buy groceries.
Wanting to make it official, I rip the rules off the pad of paper, reach into the junk drawer in the kitchen and take a piece of Duct Tape from the roll I keep handy. I put the paper against the wall in the kitchen where we can both easily see it and tape it down.
I bring Emma close to my body by wrapping my arm around her and say, “It’s official. We’re roomies.” It feels like I’m having an out-of-body experience with my arm around Emma. I don’t do this, this touchy-feely bullshit, and yet, here I am, being a considerate motherfucker with Emma.
“I guess so.”
“Don’t forget to pay your rent. I’m not opposed to evicting.” I give her a wink before taking off upstairs. “Have a good night, Emma. I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me too.” I hear her whispered response. My chest swells with pride. For the first time since I’ve lived in this house, I don’t feel so fucking lonely. Maybe having Emma stay with me was a good idea after all.
Tucker and Emma’s House Rules for Living Together
Once a week, Emma has to put down the books and do something fun, let the wind flap in her tits. Enjoyment of chosen activity is a must. *Edited to add all activities involving heights, holding snakes, or porcelain dolls aren’t considered enjoyment for Emma. Do not try to include them.
One night a week, Emma and Tucker talk about sex, all the sex, penises and vaginas, vaginas and penises. The good, the bad, and the dirty. Condoms are encouraged to be used as hand puppets for educational purposes.
One night a week, Emma and Tucker cook dinner together, something healthy that doesn’t involve pizza, tacos, or beer. One veggie is required in the meal, but it can’t be iceberg lettuce; it’s just water, nor a potato.
If the butter is removed from the kitchen, the butter is not allowed back in the kitchen. Respect the butter, respect your roomies, and keep genitals away from butter tub, even if said genitals can’t believe it’s not butter.
Music Mondays. DJ Hot Cock, aka Tucker, and DJ Jazzy Nurse Tits, aka Emma, take turns picking a song for the week. DJ Hot Cock will ultimately school DJ Jazzy Nurse Tits in what’s good music. *Edited to add, DJ Jazzy Nurse Tits is not happy with her DJ name. **Edited to add, DJ Hot Cock is very pleased with his DJ name.
Chapter Seven
EMMA
Bacon.
Yes, I lift my head some more, my nostril leading the way. That is bacon.
The position of my bed allows me to easily pull back the curtain covering one of my floor-to-ceiling windows and take a look outside. Still dark. What time is it?
I roll my dream-filled body to the side, recollecting the night I spent eating lemon-cherry filled cookies with Greg Kinnear—he’s hot in his own right—and press the home button on my phone to light up the screen.
Six fifteen. In the morning. I groan and flop my head back on my pillow. Why is it so early? I start to drift back to sleep when my traitorous nose sends SOS signals to my stomach about the bacon-filled air floating under my door. Being the little bitch my stomach is, she betrays me in the nastiest way and grumbles loudly, churning in on herself, begging for a slice of bacon.
“Ugh, stupid freaking bacon smell.” I roll to a sitting position on my bed and wipe my eyes, trying to convince them that this early morning hour is okay, that they will make it through the wee hours we usually don’t see. No college student should be awake at six fifteen.
Taking a second to stretch, I arch my back and let a few bones crack before I step into my slippers and make my way to my door. Yesterday I was able to organize my room just right and set everything up for the new week, which I was happy about because trying to study surrounded by a pile of boxes isn’t ideal. It’s not like there’s a comfortable common space in the living room where I could study. So my hard work yesterday was key.
Since the house was built in the 1920s, the mornings during the winter apparently are chilly, that’s why I’m leaving my room in a pink and green matching pajama set. Well, who am I kidding? I wear matching pajama sets all the time. I find them to be whimsically fun.
When I open my door, the sound of eggs on a fry pan and brewing coffee hit me head-on, as well as the sweet, smoky smell of bacon, of course. I push my hair out of my face and head to the kitchen where lights are blazing, burning my retinas.
“Hell,” I mutter, covering my face from the fluorescent lighting of the kitchen.
“Morning,” Tucker’s deep voice rattles off the cabinets. It’s his morning voice, deeper, throatier—if that makes sense—and I hate to admit it, because he’s just my friend, but sexier.
Once my pupils adjust to the light, I take Tucker in. He’s standing in front of the stove, rubber spatula in hand, wearing a white long-sleeved Henley, the top two buttons undone, a pair of worn jeans with a few paint stains on them, and tan work boots. Sweet Jesus, he makes construction look good. Strap a tool belt around his hips and stick him in front of a camera for the benefit of all womankind.
“Morning,” I say in reply, using the counter to help hold up my tired body. “You’re up early. What time do you have to go into work?”
“Around seven thirty. I like to get an early start before the boys come in.” He looks me up and down, a small smile at the corner of his lips. “You look good.” He motions around his head with his hand. “I really like what you did with your hair.”
I turn toward the window in the kitchen and check out my reflection. Sure enough, my long brown hair looks like a lion’s mane poofed out and framing my face with an abundance of volume. Beautiful.
There is no use in taming it, so I leave my hair as is and turn back toward Tucker. “Not many people can get this kind of height while sleeping.” I pretend to fluff my hair.
“Impressive.” He chuckles and then points to the coffee maker with the spatula. “Coffee is done, mugs are above in the cabinet. Grab me a cup, will ya? Eggs will be done shortly, bacon is warming in the oven.”
I do as directed, thinking it’s kind of cute how he’s including me in on his little morning breakfast. “I didn’t even know you had eggs. I was expecting to hit up Dunkin’ Donuts or Tim Horton’s this morning.”
He turns off the stove and reaches for two plates from the dish rack. “I went to Walmart this morning. Picked up a few things.”
“This morning?” I pour two cups of coffee and turn toward him. “What time did you wake up?”
“Four thirty,” he answers casually. “Got a quick run in, did some weights, took a shower, and then went to Walmart.” He fills our plates with bacon and eggs and then nods toward the dining room, plates and silverware in hand. “I have a surprise.”
I follow him to the dining room where he flips on the light and reveals a table and chairs.
“You got a table.” I chuckle, loving that it’s a fold-out card table with matching chairs. Anything is better than the floor.
“And placemats,” he adds, as he lifts two plastic placemats from one of the chairs. “The options were bleak so I went with dinosaurs for me and Trolls for you. Given the look of your morning hair, Trolls was the right choice.” Clever bastard. He sets them on the table and then puts our plates on top of them.
God, it’s too freaking cute. Chuckling, I take a seat and hand him his coffee. “Look at you getting all domestic. I never thought you would be a placemat kind of man, so I stand corrected.”
He rests a napkin on his legs, which are spread drastically, almost the length of the table and leans over to fork some eggs into his mouth. “Didn’t want our food to damage the plastic of this high-class table.” I love his humor; it reminds me of all the good times we had, before the end of his relationship with Sadie.
“Smart man, you want this table to last.”
“Of course, you don’t see fine furniture like this in houses anymore. Everything has to be so sturdy. What ever happened to rickety furniture an
d living through a meal with the threat of your food possibly kissing the floor at any point in time?”
“The horror,” I joke.
He looks up at me. Some of his hair is still wet from his shower. Pointing his fork at me he says, “Are you ready to be schooled?”
“Schooled on what?” I take a bite of bacon and my stomach jumps in excitement for finally rewarding it for waking up early. All right, I will admit it, getting out of bed was a smart idea.
“It’s Monday, babe. DJ Hot Cock has his song picked and ready to show you what real music is.”
“When was my music taste ever questioned? I like good music.”
“We’ll see.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. I watch as he flips through it until he lands on the song he wants to introduce me to. He presses play and sets his phone on the table. The light pickings of a guitar fill the small dining room. I don’t recognize the song, but I like the sound of it so far.
Just as I’m settling in to the sweet pickings of a guitar, the distinct voice of Zac Brown chimes in. I’ve known Tucker for loving EMO growing up, so his choice in a country song is very surprising to me, but when I look up at him, pure hometown country boy sitting across from me, it makes perfect sense.
And then the lyrics hit me. My Old Man. Zac sings about his father, hoping he’s proud of the man he’s become. I’m transported back to a dreary day in Whitney Point, where we grew up, when Sadie called me one Saturday morning. I was getting ready for the day. We were in middle school. Tucker’s dad was killed by a head-on collision. He’d only recently reconnected with his dad, and had plans to move in with him to get away from his neglectful mom. Those next few days—and weeks—were a whirlwind of sorrow. Attending his funeral, my first ever funeral, seeing the look of devastation on Tucker’s face, wondering what he might be feeling, trying to channel his hurt, it was so much to take on as a teenager.
Glancing up, I take in Tucker’s expression. He’s lost in the music, in the words, just like me. When the song ends, I lean over and place my hand on his; our eyes meet and there is an unspoken understanding between us. I don’t have to say anything about his dad, about the tragedy he experienced so many years ago. We all felt his loss. It’s all said between this silent exchange.
Clearing his throat, he asks, “What did you think?”
I take a moment to answer. “I think your taste in music has drastically changed. You actually impressed me with your selection.”
“Yeah?” A slow smile spreads across his face. “Told you, DJ Hot Cock knows what he’s doing.” He looks down at his watch and cringes. “I have to get going. Think you can handle the dishes? I cook, you clean?” Good God, he eats fast. Shovels it right in there, doesn’t he?
It’s obvious he’s trying to lighten the mood with his jokes, and I’ll let him get away with it because there isn’t enough time to get into why he chose that song, why he wanted to share it with me. “If I knew I was going to have to clean, I would have gotten up earlier to make you breakfast.”
“Ha, yeah right. You barely dragged your carcass out of bed this morning. Nice try though, babe.”
He stands from his folding chair which is entirely too small for his commanding body and pockets his phone. “Off to classes today?”
“Yup, all day, then clinicals, then studying. That’s my life.”
“All right, have a good day.”
“You, too. Thanks for breakfast.”
He walks out to the kitchen to the side door that is attached to the driveway. In the distance, I hear him say, “You’re welcome,” but it’s drowned out by the shutting of the side door.
I look around the dining room and assess the space. The emptiness. It’s . . . consuming. It really is a cute house, but the man needs to decorate terribly. I pick up our plates and mugs and do the dishes quickly before I head to the bathroom. I spend most of my time in my bedroom because honestly, it still feels weird staying in Tucker’s house. Maybe it’s the bare palette on the walls or the echo of each step that reverberates when you walk around the house, or the sterile feeling I get when I step outside of my bedroom. It might be a while before it feels like home.
Maybe with my short time here, I can help Tucker transform this shell of a house into a loving home for him. That is . . . if he will let me.
***
“Hand me another slice.”
I quickly take count of the slices in the pizza box. “You realize you’ve eaten over half this pizza, right? We were supposed to split it fifty-fifty.”
A charming smile, those light blue eyes, and scruffy hair. It’s hard to stay mad at this man, or even pretend to be. Instead of waiting for me, Logan picks up his own piece of pizza and takes a large bite. While chewing, he replies, “You weren’t going to eat it anyway, so why bitch about it?”
“Uh, leftovers.”
He pauses for a brief second and then nods. “Oh right, I didn’t think about leftovers.” He holds out the pizza he just took a bite of and asks, “Want me to wrap it up in some foil for you tomorrow?”
“No.” I giggle. “Finish it. But next time we get pizza, I’m taking one of your slices.”
“Fair enough, but can we make it a small slice? This guy likes to fucking eat.” Which is true and crazy at the same time because I’ve seen Logan with his shirt off and his muscles don’t make it look like he loves to eat, more like workout.
“We’ll just have to see.” I lean back and assess the mess of my bedroom. Pizza box, soda cans, paper plates, studying materials, Logan sitting on my bed. Yup, it’s a typical night for me. “Why do we always end up making a mess at my place?”
“Because, if we went to my apartment, you wouldn’t have even tasted one pepperoni before the entire pizza was swiped by my roommates.”
“Don’t they have manners?”
“Not really. Matt, I think, is the only one who has some semblance of decency for others but that’s because he’s been dating someone recently who doesn’t put up with untamed college men.”
“Matt has a girlfriend? Since when?”
“Few months. He just told us, so before you get all hot on me about not telling you, just know, I only recently found out.” Logan knows me too well. I’ve been dying to see his roommates find someone special but so far it’s been a lost cause.
“That’s right. You better keep me updated on the gossip in your apartment. It’s the only real gossip I get other than what’s floating around my circle of friends, but when they’re back at school, it’s quiet. Summer, on the other hand, that’s a different story.”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll keep you in the circle. I know your goal for everyone is to find love, start a family, and live happily ever after.”
“Isn’t that the goal for everyone?” I ask, shocked that it wouldn’t be.
My friends know me. I’m a girl who believes in a family, in surrounding yourself with love. Ever since I can remember, I’ve dreamt of starting a family one day; being a working mom, having a supportive husband, a partner in life, one to share the good and bad with. I’m still looking for that man, and maybe once I get my feet wet in my career, I can start focusing on finding my forever. For now, I’m content with my friends, studying, looking toward graduation, and finding a job.
“Not everyone wants a family. There are people out there who are content being by themselves.” Logan looks down at his books and plays with the pencil in his hand.
I shove his shoulder playfully. “Don’t act like you’re one of those people.”
A smirk on his face, with his head still down, his eyes look up at me. “My time is up for a family. I let the good one get away.” The way he’s gazing at me leads me to believe is talking about our tiny fling. Heat fills my cheeks from the mention of our brief fooling around.
“Don’t be awkward.” I laugh, tossing a pillow at him.
His laughter fills the room as well, easing the tension that was starting to take over. Friends, that’s all Logan is to me,
and that’s all he’ll ever be.
There is a light knock at the door that is almost covered up by our laughter. Calling out over Logan, I answer, “Come in.”
The door cracks open just enough for Tucker to show his face. He seems concerned until he looks around and spots Logan. For a brief moment, his brows pinch together in what seems like anger until his face turns into a mask devoid of emotion. Finding me in the sea of books, pizza, and soda cans, he quickly smiles and says, “Uh, just wanted to let you know I’m home. Wasn’t sure if you had dinner, but seems like you did. I’ll let you guys get back to what you’re doing.”
He goes to shut the door when I stop him. “Hey, wait, you don’t have to go right away. We’re taking a break. Come in for a second.”
Looking uneasy, his hand gripping the doorframe tightly, he swings the door open to show off his now filthy work outfit. The once white Henley that clung to his muscles is now decorated in dust and mud. His jeans seem to have the same collection of muck on them, and the boots he wore this morning are nowhere to be seen and neither are his socks. There he is, standing in dirty, form-fitting clothes, bare feet, and that is doing things to my insides I haven’t experienced in a long time.
They’re just bare feet, Emma, get ahold of yourself.
But . . .
There is something to be said about a man in jeans, wearing nothing on his feet. Why is it so hot? Why does it make me want to take my bra off and throw it at him, only to attempt my very own helicopter with my breasts? Titty-copter on the loose!
Clearing my throat, trying to rid the image of me flapping my tits around in Tucker’s face, I say, “You remember Logan, right?”
Tucker nods at Logan and says, “Yeah, what’s up, man?”
“Not much.” Like the nice guy Logan is, he holds the pizza box up and asks, “Would you like a slice?”
That’s my pizza he’s offering, but I’ll let it slide since it’s Tucker.
“I’m good. I, uh, I have a peanut butter sandwich calling my name.”
Well, that’s sad. I should have thought ahead and asked Tucker if he wanted to join us for dinner. Now I feel like an asshole.