Page 10 of Dear Roomie (Classic City Romance #1)

Morgan

T he first week of classes was an absolute shock to my system.

I’ve always done well in school, but I don’t think undergrad could have prepared anyone for the realities of the first year of law school.

The intense workload has overwhelmed any capacity I had to focus on my situation with James.

We haven’t crossed paths since that night at Cutter’s.

I haven’t been intentionally avoiding her; I just make sure to leave while she is on her morning run and then study at the library until well into the night.

My absence hasn’t stopped James from letting me know how terrible she thinks I am. She leaves daily Post-it Notes in the bathroom that nitpick my every move. Unsurprisingly, another one is waiting for me on the mirror as I drag myself out of bed and head for the shower.

Great. Let’s see how I displeased the she-devil this time.

I shake my head as I pull it off the mirror and add it to the ever-growing pile in my room.

She was the one who wanted us to stay out of each other’s hair, and this feels like the opposite of that.

I don’t think I’m a bad roommate; no one has ever complained before.

After a week straight, you’d think she’d run out of things to criticize.

At this rate, I’ll have a full notepad’s worth by the end of the year.

That night, I stumbled back from Cutter’s drunker than I intended with an inescapable urge to fish that crumpled scrap of paper from the bin.

I don’t know why, but I saved it, tucking it away behind the cardboard box that doubles as my bedside table.

When I found another note the next morning, it went there too.

I finish getting ready and head to class, and by the time my professor starts quizzing us on the prior day’s reading, all thoughts of my roommate and her notes are pushed to the back of my mind.

They don’t make their way back to the forefront until Karis ambushes me as soon as I approach our normal table in the library.

“So what was it this time?” Trying to guess how I messed up this time has become a bit of a game between her and Nathan. “Did you breathe too loud? Did you put the mugs away with the handles facing the wrong direction?”

“No, he did that three days ago. I don’t think she will repeat it again so soon,” Nathan adds.

“He put the mugs in the dishwasher wrong last time, not away.”

“It’s the same thing.” Nathan waves a hand at her dismissively.

“Is not,” she snaps, the look on her face daring him to challenge her again. Her eyes light up with a manic gleam. I’ve only known her a few weeks, but I know that look, and I can say with absolute certainty that she will make him pay for it on the mats later if he does.

Learning that my small group of friends all train in MMA and jiu-jitsu together was an unexpected but welcome surprise.

I’ve done various types of martial arts since I was a kid.

My parents put me in whatever classes were cheap at the local rec center, and it sort of stuck.

I started wrestling in middle school, which eventually led to me receiving an athletics scholarship for my bachelor’s degree.

Nathan has been relentless in trying to get me to join them at their gym.

As much as I would love to, my classes and the cost make it impossible.

“I didn’t close the shower curtain good enough,” I cut in for Nathan’s sake.

“Damn, didn’t have that one on my bingo card.” Karis relaxes back into her seat. “I think she’s running out of ideas. At least you didn’t leave the remote on the wrong side of the coffee table this time.”

“I’d rather she just leave me be,” I grumble.

“But then what would we talk about? Before you, Nathan would just lament about his flavor of the week.” Her nose crinkles in disgust.

“How are things going with Chelsea?” I take the opportunity to shift the focus away from me and the she-devil.

“Things are great.” Nathan slouches into his seat with a dopey smile, and his sandy hair flops in his eyes.

“Here he goes,” Karis mumbles under her breath and pins me with a half-hearted glare.

“I know it’s only been a week, but she is something special,” he answers, not acknowledging her interruption .

“That’s what he always says.” Karis rolls her eyes and goes back to studying.

“I mean it this time. She might be the one.”

“That girl is so far out of your league, it should be criminal.”

“I know,” he says with a love-sick sigh, letting her dig slide off him like butter. “I’m inviting her out with us this weekend. Want to hit Cutter’s again?”

Karis doesn’t even look up as she snarks, “I’m in. Can’t wait to see this one blow up in your face.”

“Sorry, but I’m out. I’ve got too much to catch up on this weekend.” And I don’t want to risk running into James again. “Rain check?”

“Are you still up to meet at Ramsey later for a few rolls?”

“Yes, we are still on for Ramsey.”

Nathan decided that if I wouldn’t go to Double Teep, he would at least meet me at the university’s gym a few times a week for reps.

“We could meet up with Gage if you would come to Double Teep with me. Coach David would be willing to work with you if cost is the only concern.”

We’ve had this argument at least four times over the past week.

“I promise I’ll talk to Coach next semester. I just need to find my footing with school first.”

Nathan hums like he doesn’t believe me but doesn’t push me any further. I pull out my laptop and settle in for another evening of staying as far away from James Clarke as possible.

***

Like every night, the small bulb under the microwave is the lone source of light in the otherwise dark apartment when I return.

It’s the only welcome I ever get. Even the hellhound has stopped reacting when I slip in through the door each night.

I’m not sure if James leaves it on out of habit or if she is doing it for me.

Why would she leave it on for me ?

It’s definitely a habit, or for the dog, but I appreciate it anyway. It’s nice not to come back to darkness every day.

I head toward my room and pause to see if there’s any light spilling from beneath James’s door.

Thankfully, the gap is dark. My whole body relaxes, knowing there’s no risk of an encounter with the she-devil tonight.

I step into the bathroom and glance at the mirror, half expecting to see another note, but it’s empty.

The tension I’ve been carrying lessens even more.

Those two-note days always wind me up, making sleep more elusive.

I take my time showering and going through my nightly routine.

Without the looming threat of James interrupting, I’m able to get in a rare moment of peace.

Afterward, though, I pay extra attention to make sure the shower curtain is pulled tight, my toothbrush is put away, the toilet lid is closed, and there is no trace that I was ever here at all.

I find her demands excessive, but maybe tomorrow, she won’t find fault with my mere existence.

Maybe tonight, I can actually do something right in her eyes.

My body is exhausted as the endorphins that remained from my earlier workout flee, and I’m left blissfully sluggish. I chase that bliss, crawl into bed, and slip into what I pray is a night of dreamless sleep.

***

I wake with a gasp, my heart racing and my body drenched in sweat. My hands fumble in the dark, searching for my phone. The display shows what I already knew: it’s way too late—or too early, depending on how you look at it. It’s 4 a.m., and I know I’m not getting back to sleep anytime soon.

I never do.

I’ve been plagued by nightmares for over half my life.

They are always the same: red and blue lights shining in from behind the curtains on the front windows of our house, a forceful knock on the door, my mother’s almost inhuman scream as she falls to the floor as grief overtakes her, and watching the coffin lower into a bottomless pit, feeling like my own soul was going with it.

They were worse when I was younger, happening almost every night.

Time and therapy helped, but they always come back in unfamiliar environments or when I’m stressed, which means I haven’t gotten a full night’s rest in over a week.

Resigned, I pull myself off the mattress on the floor and head out to the living room. Watching TV has always been my go-to way to cope. James doesn’t know it, but I took her up on her offer to use the living room TV that first night and every night since.

After a few seconds of deliberation, I put on one of my favorite comfort watches, The Adventures of Sir Lancelot . I’ve seen it dozens of times through at this point, but the campy 1950s take on King Arthur and his knights never ceases to amaze me.

Yes, it’s cheesy.

Yes, the acting leaves a lot to be desired.

No, it isn’t even in color.

It doesn’t matter. I love it anyway. Other iterations of the legend do a good job, and I love those too, but none quite capture the magic of chivalry and heroism the same.

The hellhound wakes with a growl as the opening sound of trumpets plays softly through the speakers. This has also become a part of my nightly routine. I realized pretty early that the growls were just for show, but he still hasn’t warmed up to me.

I can change that .

The thought hits me like a lightning bolt. James might be a lost cause, but I can make this dog like me. Then at least someone in this house would be happy to see me.

With my quest in mind, I head to the kitchen to look for a suitable bribe.

I’m not above buying this dog’s affection.

I search through the cabinets, careful not to mess up the she-devil’s meticulous organization.

Even though I’m sure nothing is out of place, I guarantee I’ll get a note about leaving things where I found them in the morning. Finding my faults is her superpower.

My fingers itch to ruin it and leave something out where it doesn’t belong. Why am I even trying to please her when it’s never going to be enough? But I resist the urge; kicking the hornet’s nest seems like a bad idea when I have to live with the consequences.

I’m about to give up my search when I find it, the holy grail, a jar of dog treats.

I grab my loot and go sit cross-legged on the floor near where the hellhound rests.

He watches me with wary eyes but doesn’t growl again.

I’m calling that progress. His head perks up as I take the lid off the jar and hold one out to him with a flat hand.

I stay still, letting him make the first move.

I never had any pets growing up, but I know better than to try to force this, especially with an animal this on edge.

That’s how you end up with a bitten hand.

I suppose James isn’t so different.

She is a scared animal lashing out with anger when she feels threatened. If I’m going to try to salvage this year, I’m going to need to be as nonthreatening as possible and let James lead.

Grover approaches cautiously and sniffs at my hand before devouring the treat in one wet bite. I extend my hand toward him, watching for any signs of aggression, and scratch the coarse fur behind his ear. His tail thumps against the floor, and he licks my face, leaving a trail of saliva.

I think he’s sufficiently charmed.

To be safe, I give him a few more treats while dragging my hands through his fur.

I don’t want to give him too many or make him sick, so I take the jar back to the cabinet where I found it.

This time, though, I have a hellhound shadow.

My shadow persists even after I get comfortable on the couch again, and he jumps up on the seat next to me, curling up to lay his head on my thigh.

That went way easier than I thought. Maybe James will be just as easy.

I choke on a snort of laughter. Like that will ever happen .

I keep petting Grover as I focus back on the screen. My chest feels a little lighter knowing I have one ally in this apartment.