Page 73 of The Roommate Game

“They’re not a couple,” I corrected.

She didn’t hear, and it was just as well.

It was bad enough that I couldn’t take my eyes off Rafe. Seriously. I was sure someone would notice my occasional longing stares, but drinking Coke instead of snorting it while shooting kamikazes was a bigger topic.

Brady stuck his face in my glass. “Is there rum in here? I can’t tell.”

“Is this better?” I shook it, and didn’t feel bad at his dramatic gripe about bubbles going up his nose.

I’d become an expert at switching glasses or emptying them. Diversion was my new superpower.

The only person besides Rafe who seemed to be on to me was Ty. He never asked. Maybe he was waiting for me to say something, but the timing still wasn’t right. I had to get through graduation and the parties, and fuck…it wasn’t easy.

The hardest part was having to draw the line at hosting at our place. My parties had been the stuff of legends. Multiple kegs, a ridiculous amount of booze, loud music, and party favors. The more the merrier.

It was how the Langleys entertained. When I was growing up, the Cristal was always flowing and everyone had a drink in hand. Not a Solo cup, but you get the idea. I came by my propensity to bring the fun naturally, and it felt strange to put up barriers.

It was necessary, though. My excuses were so paper thin, they were embarrassing. Depending on who asked, “My landlord won’t let me. He’s already threatened to charge me for undo wear and tear on the house.” Or… “My folks are in town, and it’s not gonna work…sorry.”

Yeah, I lied through my teeth. My landlords loved me. They lived in Florida half the year and as long as I paid rent on time, they didn’t care what I did. And my parents never stayed in town for a whole forty-eight hours. Ever.

The larger population of Smithton students hoping for one last hurrah Langley-style might have been disappointed, but they found other party venues. My closest friends, on the other hand, were suspicious. They shared knowing glances that made me think I’d been the topic of some interesting conversations lately.

But I didn’t sweat it. People could think what they wanted. They always did. Besides, I had enough on my hands dealing with reality.

It came for me in the form of empty moving boxes stacked like Jenga blocks in the living room.

Rafe didn’t explain what they were doing there, and I didn’t ask. They slowly disappeared, and returned to sit in the foyer, taped and labeled, “Bedroom,” “Kitchen,” “Books.”

I ignored them and Rafe ignored me ignoring them, and honestly, it worked just fine. Ignorance really was bliss.

Until the day he put the first box into the trunk of his car.

It was a Tuesday afternoon in early June—a perfect pre-summer day. Most Smithton students had gone home, and the wave of tourists hadn’t arrived yet. It was quiet and pleasantly warm, not a single mosquito in sight.

I’d just checked out a two-bedroom condo in the Bluffs. It was a nice place with lots of natural light, high ceilings, new appliances, and hardwood flooring. It was larger than I needed, but every apartment I’d looked at closer to campus shared thin walls with college students, and that wasn’t where I needed to be. This was better. Rafe would like it, I’d mused on the way home. I wanted to show it to him, get his opinion, and…that was not smart.

Rafe had packed his things.

Rafe was shoving a box into his crappy car.

Rafe was leaving.

I parked my truck at the curb, wordlessly helped him with a heavy box, and asked, “How do you feel about cats?”

Rafe’s glasses slipped on his nose as he wiped his brow. He didn’t wear them often enough in my opinion, and he looked hot as fuck. “I like them. My mom has a tabby named Cecil. He’s pretty cute.”

“Cecil? What kind of a name is that for a cat? Aren’t all cats supposed to be called Fluffy, Whiskers, or Mr. Jones?”

He chuckled. “I don’t think that’s a rule. Mr. Jones?”

“My mom named our cat after a Counting Crows’ song from the nineties. Smartest fucking cat you’ve ever met. Dead now, but…” And just like that, I ran out of words. My Adam’s apple slid precariously in my throat as I finally acknowledged the inevitable. “You’re packed. Does that mean…”

“Tomorrow,” he rasped.

“Ah.”

“I’m picking Celine up bright and early. She wants to visit her family, too. It’s a long drive, and I can use the company.”