Page 55 of The Roommate Problem
Chapter Sixteen
August felt terrible. Physically, he’d never felt more relaxed in his life. Sex with Mo was amazing. Like nothing he’d ever experienced before. It was like their bodies were fine-tuned to each other’s. Every opposite aspect they had outside the bedroom flipped to make them so compatible in bed, they were almost one person.
So yeah, physically, he was great. But emotionally? He felt like an ass. Mo had been joking, being flippant. It’s what Mo did. And he’d gotten serious, killing the mood.
That’s what he did.
Honestly, the intensity of it all kind of freaked him out. He’d never felt so connected to a woman during sex. Or during no sex, for that matter. Something about Mo made him feel…safe. Which was odd, because the woman was anything but. Caution didn’t seem to be in her vocabulary. She saw something and went for it, and damn the consequences.
If it didn’t freak him out so much, he might admire it. But how did a person live like that, so in the moment, never giving a thought to the future, to what tomorrow might bring? August had been conditioned at a very young age to think ahead. Monday through Wednesday at Mom’s, Thursday through Saturday at Dad’s, alternating Sundays with each. He always had to plan ahead. Make sure his homework was with him at all times. Coordinate his school schedule with each parent so he didn’t miss an activity because he was at Mom’s and she forgot he had baseball practice or he was at Dad’s and it was his stepbrother’s birthday so he had to find his own way to study group.
He’d often felt like a stranger in both homes, neither belonging to him, but both trying to claim him.
“How’s that popcorn and ice cream coming?” Mo called from the living room.
August glanced at the microwave. “Got one more minute.”
“Sweet. Oooooh, Tiffany Haddish has a new comedy special!”
“Great.” He didn’t know who that was, but Mo had tried—and enjoyed—his cauliflower pizza, so he supposed he could bend a little and try some comedy act.
When the microwave beeped, he grabbed the bag and the bowl of ice cream he scooped and headed into the living room. He placed both items on the coffee table in front of Mo, hesitating. Did he sit by her on the couch? Take the chair? He knew he’d upset her with his reminder of what they were, but it needed to be said.
For both their sakes.
Mo glanced up at him, shaking her head at his hesitation. She patted the couch next to her.
“Sit down, weirdo. I don’t bite.” She bobbed her eyebrows. “Unless you want me to.”
Grateful she seemed to be letting the earlier moment slide, he sat next to her, draping his arm across the back of the couch. She scooted over, snuggling into his side and grabbing the bowl of ice cream.
“Are we sharing?”
He shook his head. “No, you go ahead.” Too much dairy made him sick, and since he’d already had the mozzarella, he’d stick to the popcorn for dessert.
“Your loss.” She shrugged. Grabbing the remote, she grinned up at him. “Be prepared to laugh your incredibly sexy ass off. This woman is hilarious.”
The woman in his arms was hilarious and sweet and sexy and surprising, and he really needed to get ahold of himself. He was leaving in a few months. This was all temporary. It might feel like nice domestic bliss now, but he knew that didn’t last. Didn’t for his parents and half the other people in the world. Why the hell would he think it would for him?
Mo started up the show, which he surprisingly found entertaining. August liked a joke as much as the next person, but he didn’t voluntarily go for standup. Maybe he’d have to change that.
“So?” Mo asked as she shut off the TV. “Funny right?”
He tilted his head in acknowledgement. “Very.”
“I love standup comedy. My dad did some amateur stuff when us kids were growing up, but he didn’t like the travel, so he mostly stayed in local spots. I always loved going to see his shows.”
“They were appropriate for kids?”
She grinned. “Not always, but my brothers and I would sneak down to the basement and catch him rehearsing the more not-safe-for-work stuff. Then Mom would inevitably catch us and send us up to our rooms, giving Dad grief when we repeated the bad words he used.”
She laughed, as if her parents fighting was a fond childhood memory. Maybe for her family it was. If her parents were still married, perhaps they were like those mythical TV couples who argue to a laugh track and solved all their problems in thirty minutes or less.
“Are they still married?” he asked, not sure why he was poking into this particular vein of conversation. “Your parents.”
Mo grabbed the bag of popcorn, digging into the last of the kernels. “Oh, they’ve never been married.”
“What?” His jaw opened in shock. Mo, the wedding planner with stars in her eyes when it came to love and happily ever after, had parents who weren’t married? It didn’t add up.
