Page 2 of Taste Test

As nice as it was to admire the belly-button guy’s treasure trail and abs, I forced myself to focus on more pressing concerns like the fresh dent in our coffee table and what looked suspiciously like a red wine stain on the arm of our good chair.

I was mentally calculating repair costs when Jared reappeared, looking frustrated.

“Door’s locked,” he said.

“So knock.”

“I did. No answer.”

“Maybe they can’t hear you over the music.”

“Maybe.” He swayed on his feet. “Do we have a spare key?”

I nodded and motioned for him to follow me.

“Whose brilliant idea was it to put a fucking key lock on a bathroom door anyway?” Jared said, following me as I headed back towards the kitchen.

“Because I got sick of you stumbling in to take a piss while I was showering,” I said, not bothering to look at him. “Some of us like privacy.”

“If anyone should be worried about getting perved on in there, it’s me, mate. You’re the one with wandering eyes.”

“Yeah, that’s right, Jared. I’m just so desperate for a glimpse of your hairy arse while I’m shampooing.”

“Can’t blame you,” he said. “Not everyone gets to live with this level of physical perfection.”

“Believe me, I’ve seen better.”

“Bullshit.”

“Have I ever lied to you?”

“All the time. Like when you said my hair looked fine after I cut it myself.”

“That wasn’t a lie. It looked fine... for someone who’d been attacked by hedge trimmers.”

He laughed and leaned against the counter. “You love me really.”

Two years of living with Jared had been long enough to know there was no danger of that ever happening.

Sure, he looked like he’d stepped off the cover of Men’s Health, but that didn’t make up for the fact he left dirty dishes everywhere, thought “no homo” was peak comedy, and had the emotional intelligence of a house brick.

I kept digging through the junk drawer, pushing past old batteries, tangled phone chargers, and about six different takeaway menus. “Where the hell did I put those bloody keys?”

“Maybe try the other drawer?” Jared suggested. “The one where you keep all your secret gay stuff.”

“I don’t have secret gay stuff, you moron.”

“Sure you don’t. What about that pink—”

“That’s a receipt from when I bought you painkillers when you were sick, and it’s salmon, not pink.” I found the spare keys beneath a stack of old mail. “Got them.”

“Brilliant. My bladder’s about to explode.” He held out his hand with exaggerated urgency.

I dropped the key into his palm. “Just try not to piss on the floor this time, superstar.”

“No promises.”

He took the keys and headed back down the hall, weaving slightly. I watched him go, then turned my attention back to party management. Someone had spilled something sticky on our kitchen counter, and there were bottle caps scattered across the floor like confetti.

As I wiped down surfaces, I caught a few partygoers giving me looks, the kind of sideways glances that said they’d clocked me as the responsible flatmate playing cleanup duty while everyone else got pissed.

One girl stepped around me like she was scared if she got too close I’d lecture her about using a coaster.

Accurate.

I was still scrubbing away sticky residue when the music died. The silence was jarring after hours of thumping bass. Conversations stumbled, people glanced around wondering who’d fucked with the stereo.

That’s when Jared appeared in the middle of the lounge, like some half-drunk prophet surveying his unruly flock. He stood on the arm of the couch for maximum effect, hair rumpled, cheeks flushed.

“Oi!” he roared. “Party’s over! You lot, out! All of you. Yeah, even you, dickhead, put my bloody boots down!”

I could tell most of the guests thought he was just joking. But I could read the signs. There was a vicious edge to his voice, a tightness around his eyes that hadn’t been there five minutes ago. Even his rugby mates went dead quiet when he turned that glare on them.

“Did I fucking stutter? Out. Now!”

I ditched the tea towel, watching from the kitchen as people grabbed their shit and fucked off. This wasn’t just bourbon talking. Jared’s hands were shaking as he hurled the bathroom key onto the coffee table. For the first time all night, he wasn’t smiling.

Our eyes met for half a second. I caught it all; rage, hurt, the manic energy of someone hanging on by their fingernails.

As the party thinned out, I spotted Jared’s best mate, Connor, hovering in the hallway near the bathroom door, trying to shrink his big frame into the shadows.

Not easy when you’re 6 ft 4 and built like a brick shithouse.

His ginger hair caught the hallway light, his pale face blotchy with guilt, and those oversized hands kept wringing the hem of his too-tight shirt.

Jess, who’d been MIA most of the evening, pushed past him out of the bathroom, tears streaking her face and lipstick smeared sideways.

I didn’t need to be a detective to piece together what had happened.

Connor caught my eye and made his way over. “Casey, I—”

“Don’t,” I said quietly. “Just go.”

He nodded and went and stood by the front door.

Jess tried to approach Jared, her mascara-streaked face resembling a raccoon. She reached out tentatively, fingers barely grazing his arm.

“Jared, please, just let me explain—”

“Don’t fucking touch me.” He jerked away from her like she’d burned him, his voice raw with hurt and fury. “Just... don’t.”

“But it’s not what you think—”

“It’s exactly what I think.” He turned his back on her completely, shoulders rigid. “Get out of my house.”

Jess stood there for another moment but when it became clear he wouldn’t even look at her, she gave up and followed Connor outside.

It took another five minutes to clear everyone out. I dealt with the complaints and the confused questions while Jared disappeared into his room, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the walls.

When the last person finally left, I stood in our wrecked lounge and tried to process what had just happened.

Propelled by obligation rather than choice, I made my way down the hallway and knocked softly on Jared’s door. “Mate? You alright?”

God, I can’t tell you how fucking much I hate saying the word “mate.” So not me. But I could tell my flatmate was hurting, so I broke out the bro-speak like some sort of emotional support dog.

When no response came, I tried again. “Are you okay, mate?”

“Just fuck off, Casey.” His voice was muffled. “Leave me alone.”

So I did. I went back to the lounge and started cleaning up the mess, knowing that tomorrow would be every shade of awkward as fuck. But little did I realise, not for the reasons I assumed.