Page 22 of The Roommate Game
“So…are you gonna let me be your wingman?”
“I don’t need romantic assistance,” I hedged.
“You do. Pinky limbo isn’t sustainable, dude. There’s no guarantee anything will happen, but something might if you give it a chance. And…if you give me a chance to show you that I can be a better roommate, the next few months of living together might not be so bad,” he added with a boyish shrug.
The problem with Gus was that it was hard to stay mad at him when he turned on the charm.
So…I slowly nodded.
“That would be nice,” I admitted.
He beamed. “Good. Hey, don’t look so worried. This is gonna be great.”
I highly doubted it. But this was the first real conversation I’d had with Gus in months that didn’t involve me nagging about food, noise, and general mess. I’d try almost anything to string three months of relative harmony together. Even taking on a wingman.
Oh…
No, this was a bad idea.
CHAPTER 8
GUS
“Step one, ask Eli on a date.”
Rafe’s mouth formed a perfect O. “What? I can’t do that.”
“Of course you can.”
I hiked my workout bag on my shoulder, sliding my thumb around the strap as Rafe and I headed for the rink. I wanted to leave my stuff in my locker, and my roomie was going to take advantage of the free ice time to practice his moves. He’d said something about perfecting a complicated triple spin and the importance of keeping up his speed. Made sense to me.
I’d even convinced him to ride with me to campus so I could extend our powwow-slash-planning session. See, when we’d talked about our schedules over morning coffee and realized that my practice ended at the same time as Rafe’s final class of the day, it had made sense to drive together and maybe grab some groceries on our way home.
Bonus: It gave me an excuse to show up late to Vincento’s to meet with my friends later. By the time I joined them, they’d be a few pitchers in and no one would notice that I was more interested in pizza than beer.Smart thinking, huh?
Nine days in and I was doing okay. I felt better physically, but I’d be lying if I claimed that I didn’t want to get highevery fucking morning or drink every fucking night. I craved it. Seriously craved it.
I envied people who could choose sobriety. I knew guys who could say, “No, thanks. I’m not drinking tonight.” Just like that. I mean…Wow. That was not me. I was here white-knuckling it, hoping like hell this would get easier.
Update: It wasn’t easy at all. I stared at my ugly mug every morning and talked myself out of self-medicating. It was the same speech I gave my teammates in the heat of battle.
“You got this. It’s tough, but you’re tougher.”
What a bunch of crap. I wasn’t tough. I was desperate.
So desperate that I’d contacted my old therapist and set up a few online sessions. She said I needed tools and daily support.
“Go to meetings, Gus. There’s no shame in admitting you need help.”
I wasn’t sure about that. My mother definitely wouldn’t agree. My mom had pretty much had a cow the day I came out as bisexual. She couldn’t say the word without her lips twisting as if she’d smelled a skunk. To her, it was code for “hedonistic party lifestyle.” Adding a possible substance addiction to the list of labels she disapproved of would be icing on the cake and would probably cement my reputation as the family’s lost cause—a perpetual student and a has-been hockey player with no postcollege prospects.
Okay, see? Half of that wasn’t true. My mom could be demanding and relentless, but I knew she loved me. I was being a dick. And this self-hating BS that had become my new private pastime wasn’t a good look.
Needless to say, it was better all around if I spent my free time doing something positive—like helping Rafe. And so far, it was going well.
“No, that is the worst wingman advice I’ve ever heard,” Rafe huffed, pushing the arena door open. “Where is the creativity? Where’s the hook?”
I snorted. “You’re not getting fucking married. You’re going to have dinner at the diner.”