Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 62700 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 314(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62700 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 314(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
In a way, it was a good thing that he was a little gross. It kept me from staring at his abs…or his ass for too long. It was easier to convince myself I didn’t have a crush on him when he didn’t take out the trash or when he left an unwrapped half-eaten burrito in the fridge. Being gross and disorderly was very unsexy, but somehow I’d been able to overlook his lax housekeeping skills for over a week.
Probably because he was easy company. Elliot was a quintessential California beach dude. His brown hair was sun-streaked and always tousled. He rarely wore anything other than flip-flops and board shorts, and he was extremely mellow. Nothing seemed to faze him for long. In other words, we were exact opposites. I could fake “normal” for short stints, but truthfully, I was kind of a mess. On the inside anyway.
I could hang with the “cool” crowd for a few hours at a time, playing volleyball or meeting up for a beer. But my social meter tended to run out faster than other people’s. And I was fussy about weird things. For example, my shoes were lined up in my closet like soldiers, arranged by purpose and color. Flip-flops never touched loafers, and the color red never touched other high-intensity shades like purple or yellow. I know…madness.
There was a name for my brand of crazy, and I didn’t think it was “picky.” Yeah, I lied. But I didn’t want to freak Elliot out by going apeshit over a little sand on the floor, so I coped by staying busy.
I spent a couple of days scrubbing my old apartment, hung out with a few college buddies who were still living in the area, and even went to visit my parents. I had to break the “moving” news to them and figured I should do it in person. It hadn’t gone well. My folks were great, but they were uber controlling. My mother especially.
“Why Long Beach, and who is this roommate? You don’t like living with people. You said so yourself,” my mother reminded me, clutching the cross on her necklace.
“The theater is in Long Beach, so it’ll be convenient. No commute necessary. And I like Elliot. He’s cool. He’s very laid-back.”
“Is that another word for ‘messy’? Braden, think of your asthma.”
It took serious strength to curb my eye roll. I hadn’t had an asthma attack in years and she knew it, so I answered her other question. “He’s a little…organizationally challenged, but I’m not home much anyway. And as soon as rehearsals start, I’ll be there even less.”
She’d regarded me intently. Anita Marquette was a pixie-small woman in her midfifties with bobbed raven hair and dark eyes who spoke with a lilting Spanish accent and still had a tendency to mix up American phrases. She’d lived in the States for twenty-eight years and didn’t always understand how to use slang, like “piece of cake” or “a green thumb.” If something seemed easy, she might say it was a “piece of pie.”
She and Dad met when he was in Barcelona on a study-abroad program in college. After a whirlwind romance, they got married and had one kid. Moi. My only-kid status meant I’d had my mother’s complete and undivided attention since birth. No joke.
Nowadays, she split her free time between Catholic charity work and finding healthy recipes to keep Dad’s cholesterol under control…oh yeah, and worrying about me. I was twenty-three years old, and she still fretted about my eating and sleeping habits. And she took it pretty damn hard when I came out as bisexual.
Scratch that…when I tried to come out. Honestly, I wasn’t sure why I’d bothered. I knew it wouldn’t go over well, but I forgot how damn dramatic she could be.
It was a scene. She’d sobbed and pleaded for me to take back my words. And when I told her I couldn’t, she insisted I was confused and asked me never to speak of it again. So, I didn’t. Maybe that seemed like a cop-out, but I figured it wouldn’t kill me to keep the peace. At least until I met someone special…who happened to have a dick.
No doubt I inherited my appreciation for drama and my OCD tendencies from my mother and my desire to avoid confrontation at all costs from my dad. He let us verbally duke it out while he hid behind a book. I didn’t think he cared if I was bi. He just preferred not to be informed until the dust settled.
“Are you living with…” My mom gasped in horror and continued in a strained whisper, “a boyfriend?”
“No. I barely know Elliot. We’re just friends.” I sighed.
“Will we meet Elliot?”
“Sure, but like I said, I won’t be home much. I’m going to be in a play,” I’d reported cheerily. “I’ll find out if I got the part this week. Wish me luck.”