Page 8

Kota

“T his show is probably fake,” Lane said, seated on the other side of the couch from me.

My forehead creased as I shot him a look. “No, it’s not.”

“Oh, come on, Kota,” he said with a friendly smile, “you can’t possibly believe any of this shit is real. It’s The Bachelor.”

“Whatever,” I rolled my eyes. “Your opinion is wrong.”

It was strange to think we’d already been living here for almost a month. One month down, eleven to go.

Lane and I had surprisingly been getting along pretty well. He always made sure to clean up after himself and to occasionally clean up after Crew when necessary. He didn’t annoy the piss out of me, and he also didn’t eat my food, which was pretty much all I could ask for.

We’d been spending a decent amount of time together over the past two weeks for a few different reasons. For starters, he was my freaking roommate so hanging out was convenient. But more so, Bridget had been hanging out with a guy named Mitch that she met at a party a few weeks ago at the hockey house, so she hadn’t been around as much.

I hadn’t officially met Mitch yet, but Bridget seemed happy every time she talked about him, so if that meant I’d be seeing her a bit less, I was fine with it.

“Put something else on,” Lane complained.

“No.”

“Fine,” he sighed after putting up the weakest fight ever.

I laughed. “See, that’s the thing. I know you secretly like it.”

“Nah.”

When I shot him a look of doubt, he crumbled in the slightest.

“It’s entertaining. I’ll give you that,” he admitted.

I shrugged nonchalantly. “Good enough for me.” A few more minutes of girls screaming at each other on the TV passed before I turned to Lane again. “And just as a reminder, what are we not gonna do?”

Blowing out a long exhale, he responded, “We’re not gonna tell Bridget we watched The Bachelor without her.”

I smiled, content. “Good.”

But the content faded when Crew walked into the apartment.

The second we made eye contact, his face matched mine, showing nothing but disgust.

“Hey, Lane,” he nodded once.

“Hey,” Lane replied as Crew strolled down the hall and into his room.

Of course, he was acting like I didn’t exist. I was pretty sure we’d said a total of ten words to each other since last week when I walked in on him and whatever the hell that girl’s name was.

My eyes narrowed at nothing in particular. “I hate him.”

Lane nodded with a tight jaw. “I know.”

“He sucks.”

“Not always, but yeah, sometimes.”

“Always,” I corrected him.

He shifted around on the couch, seemingly drawing in a sharp breath as he quickly changed the subject. “So, where’s Bridget at?”

“Out with Mitch.”

“Again?”

I eyed him curiously. “Yes...”

Lane gave a slow nod, keeping his eyes glued to the TV.

“Why?”

He avoided eye contact with me as he spoke, giving a light shrug. “Just curious.”

“Okay...”

I would’ve pushed him further on the subject if Crew hadn’t walked back into the living room. As he took a seat on our new, small couch adjacent to the one we were sitting on, I cringed, standing.

I didn’t hesitate to walk out of the room without saying anything. I just hated breathing the same air as him. He was such an idiot that I was convinced I got dumber every time I was near him.

Since Bridget was out with Mitch, I decided to shoot Bobby a text.

Me: You busy?

Bobby: Never too busy for u

Me: Good answer. Come pick me up?

Bobby: Sure

Thank God.

I waited outside in the parking lot because the farther away from Crew, the better.

I’d already told Bobby about our unfortunate new living arrangement, but that didn’t stop me from taking the entire car ride to Starbucks to rant to him about Crew.

Truthfully, there wasn’t really anything to rant about when it came to Lane.

But after unwillingly holding onto every detail of each occurrence where Crew bothered the piss out of me, it all came soaring out like a rocket taking off.

He was the only one that left his dirty dishes in the sink instead of just putting them straight in the dishwasher and he left other random shit everywhere too.

Lane had to wake him up every morning for practice because he was nowhere near responsible enough to wake up his damn self at the age of twenty-two.

He was a complete fucking airhead.

He’d already had an array of girls in and out of the apartment like a drive-thru window.

He was rude, inconsiderate, disrespectful, and egotistical.

The list went on and on. By the time the flames radiating off me had simmered, we’d already found our way back to the apartment.