Page 36 of Dear Roomie (Classic City Romance #1)
Morgan
“ M erry Christmas, Morgan!”
My mom’s voice crackles with static as it sounds from my aging laptop speakers.
She and my dad are crowded together on the screen, their webcam catching them at an awkward angle that has me looking up their noses.
Her smile is how I always remember it: slightly too large and radiating warmth.
But the creases on her face have grown deeper since the last time we video called, and the crow’s feet by her eyes are even more pronounced.
Thick streaks of gray now color her curly hair, which used to be the same shade of chestnut brown that Laura and I shared.
My dad looks like another man completely; his hair has thinned, his once work-hardened body is more slender than I remember, and the skin of his face hugs his jaw- and cheekbones, making him appear gaunt.
It’s a cruel reminder of how much time has passed and how much time I’ve missed.
I hate seeing them like this. It’s worse to watch the slow progression of their aging in sporadic snapshots than it would be not to see them at all, but my mom always insists that we do a video call for Christmas so she can see my face, and I can’t deny her that.
“Merry Christmas.” The cheer in my voice rings false to my ears, but I doubt my parents pick up on my mood.
My mom is too happy to see me to notice the underlying current of melancholy, or maybe she’s also faking it.
My dad, on the other hand, would have to engage in the conversation to notice that something was off, and that isn’t going to happen anytime soon.
“Did you get your package?” my mom asks.
“The post office said shipping could be anywhere from three to five days, so I sent it a week ago in case there were any delays. You know I don’t trust those delivery times anymore, not since I tried to mail that blanket I was working on to your aunt Carol, and it got lost for weeks.
Their quality has been going downhill these days—”
“Yes, Mom, I got your package,” I interrupt. She could ramble on forever if I let her, and I’m sure my dad has already heard this story three times too many.
“Well, why didn’t you say so? Go get it, I want to see you open it.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes, grab the small box from the spot I had it stashed in, and bring it into the webcam’s view.
She smiles even wider, urging me on, and I carefully cut through the tape with one of the kitchen knives.
Inside is another package wrapped in festive paper.
It sags in my hand as I pull it out, the thin covering starting to tear under its weight.
I push the box to the floor and sit the wrapped package in my lap, preventing it from tearing further.
With careful fingers, I find the pieces of tape holding it together and break them apart, revealing a navy sweater .
“Thank you,” I tell my parents, holding it up so they can see it from their screen. “I love it.”
“You’re welcome, honey. I just wish you could be opening it here instead.” She doesn’t mean for them to hurt, but the words are like a stab in my chest. I’d give anything to grant her that wish.
“I know. Me too. I think I might be able to visit next year, though. If I get a job over the summer, I should be able to afford the ticket.”
“That would be wonderful.” She beams, clasping her hands in front of her chest. “We miss you.”
“I miss you too.” Probably more than they realize.
“What are your plans for today? Making cookies? Christmas movie marathon?”
“I’ve actually got plans with a friend who is still in town. We are going to do some volunteer work at a local homeless shelter.”
Evelyn and I have been going to the Labre Mission every day since winter break started.
I thought things might be weird after what happened at the beach, but she’s never given any indication that she still has romantic feelings for me.
It’s been fun—as fun as cleaning dishes and doing laundry can be—and I’ve enjoyed getting to know her better; I should have done it earlier.
The work has also been a welcome distraction to keep my mind off James and what life might look like when she gets back in two weeks.
“That sounds like something you would do,” my mom says with a soft smile. “I’m glad you have friends there to keep you company.”
I let out a small hum of acknowledgment and cut the conversation short before she can press for more details. “I should probably get going. We are scheduled to be there in less than an hour.”
“Oh, okay.” Guilt stabs me in the stomach as her face falls in disappointment. “Well, we love you. Call us again soon.”
My dad grunts, which I guess is his way of saying he agrees .
“I love you too,” I say and hang up the call, letting my head fall back against the couch as the facade of Christmas crumbles.
A heavy silence falls over the empty apartment, a stark reminder of how empty this place feels without James here to fill it.
The air is stale, and the overhead lights emit a dingy sort of glow, nothing like the warm radiance I normally feel when I’m here with her.
She’s the heart of this place—the very thing that breathes life into our home.
And now she’s gone, sucking all that life away with her.
She didn’t even tell me goodbye before she left, opting to let me know she was gone with a Post-it on the mirror that said she would miss me and see me in January.
For the first time since she stopped using the notes to nitpick my behavior, seeing the words on the paper caused dread to pool in my gut, which has only hardened into a festering mass of doubt and anxiety.
I would have liked to have said goodbye and seen her off before she disappeared for three weeks.
Especially after that kiss.
The kiss that somehow managed to change everything and nothing all at the same time, completely shattering my worldview while also bringing everything clearly into focus.
The kiss we still haven’t talked about. The kiss that’s been playing on a loop in my head, burning me alive on the inside ever since.
I would be spiraling now if she hadn’t left something else for me along with the note: a simple envelope, sealed with the stain of a pink glossy kiss.
The words “Don’t open until Christmas” are written on the front in that looping script I’ve come to cherish.
The envelope has been taunting me for the entire two weeks she’s been gone, begging me to open it and reveal its secrets, but I’ve respected her wishes and waited, impatiently counting down the days until I could rip open the flap and find out what she left inside.
It’s Christmas now, and there’s no time like the present.
With newfound excitement, I head to my room and grab the now-creased envelope from under my pillow.
The barest hint of her sweet vanilla perfume wafts from the paper, so faint I’m not certain I’m not imagining it.
My fingers twitch, itching to open it, but my hand stalls as it catches on a gap under the flap.
What if this is nothing and I’ve hyped it up in my head so much that I’ll be disappointed?
What if this is her way of telling me to forget about what happened between us?
I wouldn’t blame her if she did. The kiss was a mistake, a moment of impulsivity on her end that would be best left in the past, and I would leave it there if she hadn’t insisted that things would be different between us when she gets back.
Those emotion-laden promises made under the cover of darkness destroyed any chance of me seeing it as a single moment.
Ruminating on it isn’t going to make things any clearer, and neither is leaving the letter unopened. I tear through the paper and pull the contents out.
I run a finger over the word love as a knot forms in my throat, and I brace against the tsunami of emotions that rips into me.
God, I miss her .
My chest is hollow without her here. James is my heart, and I need her to come home so I can be whole again.
I tuck the note back into the envelope, placing it in the small box that holds the rest of my collection, and follow her instructions.
A large wrapped box sits on the floor of her closet; festive paper hugs the cardboard underneath with razor-sharp edges, and a bright ribbon encircles it with an oversized bow stuck dead in the center.
It’s wider than it is tall, which makes it awkward in my arms as I carry it to her bed.
Even though she hasn’t been here in weeks, her presence is still palpable.
The air seems to buzz, alive with the remnants of her energy.
I should take the box and leave, but I can’t pull myself from this space if I tried.
Her scent envelops me as I sit on her soft, cushiony bed, and it feels like coming home.
I open the box, and my heart grows fuller. Inside is a beautiful painting in a style I’ve come to recognize as uniquely hers. The painting is of us: me as a knight, Grover as a dire wolf, and James as our queen, who is bestowing the knight with a symbol of her favor.
My fingers run across the textured surface, needing to feel that this is real and that my eyes aren’t deceiving me.
All of my feelings for her—all of the love—bubble to the surface and overwhelm me completely.
If she were here now, everything I said about mistakes and Tanner would be nothing more than meaningless words; I’d make her mine regardless.
I don’t know when she would have had time to paint this—judging by the details and size, this took her time.
Definitely more than I’m worth. Especially since I didn’t get her anything.
I haven’t gotten anyone anything in so long, it didn’t even cross my mind.
She won’t be home for over a week, though, so I still have time to rectify that and find something for her that’s as meaningful as this. No pressure .
A soft knock on the door signals Evelyn’s arrival and shatters my moment of tranquility. I head toward the door to meet her, but my mind is still on the woman hundreds of miles away.