Page 13

13

Krista and I are cuddled on the sofa, watching a movie.

She’s been more amorous in the week since I started working. It doesn’t matter that my job is basically being a poorly paid intern. At least I’m earning some money. And there’s some opportunity for the position to turn permanent if I impress them.

It’s perfect weather to be cuddled up on the sofa too. It’s raining hard, and now the room lights up with a bolt of lightning, followed by a crack of thunder. The loud noise prompts Krista to nuzzle closer against me. I’ve got my arm around her, and I squeeze her tighter (level nine). She lifts her face to look at me, and her lips glisten in the light from the television. Even though we’re only halfway through the movie, I lean in to kiss her.

“You smell nice, Blake,” she whispers in my ear.

I smell like my ordinary soap and shampoo, which I had to buy more of after Whitney used it all. She hasn’t used it again as far as I can tell, having purchased her own bottle of Dove bodywash. And I don’t have to smell like apricots and coconuts, two of the least masculine fruits known to man.

“You smell nice too,” I whisper back.

I kiss Krista again, this time more deeply, pushing her down against the cushions of the sofa as her fingers dig into the muscles of my back. My hand snakes under her shirt, and I’ve nearly reached her bra when we hear the locks turning in the front door, and I jump off her.

Damn it, I hate having a tenant living here. I feel like a teenager trying to sneak a feel while my girlfriend’s parents aren’t around, and not in a fun way.

Whitney is in the hallway behind us, stomping the water off her shoes on our welcome mat. I hear her fiddle with her umbrella and let out a sigh. I wish she’d just go up to her room already.

A minute later, Whitney comes into the living room, looking waterlogged, her hair clinging to her scalp. If she were wearing makeup, it would be running down her cheeks. She looks at the two of us sitting awkwardly on the sofa.

“Did I interrupt something?” she says in a teasing voice, although there’s no humor in her eyes.

Ever since I spoke to Whitney at the diner, our relationship has soured considerably. She barely speaks to me, and when she does, her tone is decidedly unfriendly.

“We were just watching a movie,” Krista speaks up, oblivious to the tension between us. “Would you like some popcorn? We made tons.”

“Oh no,” Whitney says sardonically. “I wouldn’t want to use it all up.”

Krista misses the undertone in her voice. “Don’t worry about it! Take whatever you want.”

Whitney doesn’t even answer her. She just turns around and stalks off to the kitchen. A second later, I hear the microwave whirring. She must be heating up her dinner.

I reach out to squeeze Krista’s knee. “I’m going to get more water, okay?”

“Okay. Hurry back.”

I grab my glass off the coffee table, even though it’s half full. I don’t need anything. But I’d like to have a few words with Whitney Cross alone in the kitchen.

When I get there, Whitney is staring at the microwave as a Styrofoam container slowly rotates. She must have brought it home from the diner. She swats at a fruit fly buzzing around her ear, not looking up at me.

“I’ll be out of your way in a minute,” she says. “So you and Krista can continue having sex on the couch.”

“We weren’t—”

“I’m not stupid, Blake.”

I came in here to apologize, but instead, I want to throw something at her. “So what if we were? It’s my house, Whitney. You’re just renting out a room.”

“Yep. You’ve made that abundantly clear.” She flicks her ponytail over her shoulder. “Don’t worry. I don’t want to use your TV, especially without giving you notice.”

Christ, why is she so angry ? “Look, Whitney,” I sigh. “We don’t have to be best friends, but if you’re going to live here, we need to at least get along. If I did something to upset you—”

“ If? ” she snorts. “Are you really that dense?”

“I’m sorry,” I say tightly. “I’m very sorry I upset you. And…maybe we can start fresh.”

The microwave dings. Whitney pulls out the Styrofoam container, which has a burger and fries inside. A reheated cheeseburger and fries don’t seem very appealing, but Whitney doesn’t seem to mind.

“Do you remember,” she says, “when you were all worried about your new job, and I was comforting you, and I told you that I thought you’d do great because you’re smart and charismatic and good-looking and shit?”

“Uh, yeah…”

“Well, none of that is true.” Her gaze sears into me so intensely that I take a step back. “The reason you’ll succeed—the reason you have succeeded—is because you’re a self-absorbed asshole. You like to pretend that you’re a good guy, but deep down, you know you’re a terrible person.”

I gape at her. Is she really this worked up because I asked her not to use my soap? This girl is out of her mind. “Whitney…”

“Enjoy the movie with your girlfriend.” She brushes past me, hard enough to jostle my shoulder. “You better hope she doesn’t wise up and figure out what you’re really like. But for her sake, I hope she does.”

I stand in the kitchen, trying to compose myself as Whitney’s feet stomp up the two sets of stairs and the door to her bedroom slams shut. What the hell was that? Okay, I admit it wasn’t the nicest thing in the world to show up at the diner and give her a hard time, but did I really deserve that tirade?

I’m not an asshole. Sure, I’ve done a few shitty things in my life. You don’t get a competitive marketing VP job by being a nice guy. But there are worse people out there than me.

In any case, I’ve got to keep a close eye on Whitney.