Sloppy. Dirty.
Wally Feinstein tried hitting me up to rent out the second bedroom, but I’ve been to Wally’s current flat and it’s a sty.
As in: pigsty.
Yeah, no—hard pass.
If I had a roommate, it would be someone neat and tidy who’d pick up after themselves, who might even be willing to, I don’t know—feed me now and again.
“Why are you so silent all of a sudden?” Georgie asks, staring at me anew.
I blink back at her. “Nothing.”
She laughs. “I didn’t ask what’s wrong, I asked why you were so silent.”
Her laugh is pleasant, just like I find her.
Perhaps…
No.
She’s not living here, you bloody sod. Put it out of your mind.
But she’s shacked up in the blasted dorms—she’d jump at the chance to get out.
Oh, you’re a martyr now, eh? Since when?
I clamp my lips shut.
“You’re a strange one, Ashley Jones.”
Just Jones.
She clearly knows nothing about British blue bloods if she’s going to go about stripping me of surnames.
I watch intently as Georgie fusses about the kitchen, pulling utensils from drawers and napkins from the holders, adding milk and butter and bags of orange powder to dinner.
That cannot be good for us.
She dumps in the wieners and mixes it all together, one gooey pot of technicolor pasta and fake meat.
Mum would be fit to be tied and wouldn’t be caught dead preparing this. Or having Cook prepare it, I should say.
Mum’s not much of a chef—doubt she even knows how to boil water—but I can proudly say I mastered that art in the dorms at Stowe, the prep school where I spent the latter half of my life.
A bowl is set before me, steaming and…
Suspect.
“Here’s a fork and a spoon—not sure which you’ll prefer. I like a fork myself.” She’s babbling. “Bon appétit!”
Georgie stares.
Clearly she’s waiting for me to take the first bite.
Reluctantly, I load up my fork.
“Get a hot dog in there,” she advises.
I stab one with the tines. “Bossy.”
Georgie shrugs. So?
Cringing—because surely this is about to kill me—I put the fork to my lips and put the morsels in my mouth, closing to chew.
It hits my tongue.
Hmm.
Cheese.
Salty hot dog.
Noodles.
I stab myself another bite, needing a second go for a proper assessment.
Inhale.
Chew.
Huh—not terrible.
Georgie is waiting for me to say something. Anything.
Hasn’t yet taken a bite from her own helping.
“Well?”
It’s as if she’s a Michelin-starred chef waiting for a critic to weigh in on her talents.
I slowly nod. “Not bad.”
Her brows rise hopefully. “Really? You don’t hate it?”
“Trust me, I’d tell you if I hated it.”
“True.” Happily she begins digging into her own mac n cheese.
“You said you ate this a lot?”
“As a kid, yeah.”
“Huh.” This would have been perfect dorm food at Stowe when I was a lad. Easy. Few ingredients.
Pot. Water.
Butter.
Milk.
So simple.
I accidentally make a pleased “Mmm” sound, which really gets Georgie excited.
“Yay!” she practically squeals. “I’m so happy you like it.”
“Easy there, tiger,” I tell her with a mouthful, which is uncouth, even for me. “I said I like it—I didn’t say I want to marry it.”
It’s been a while since I’ve needed to use the manners drilled into me by Mum and the deportment classes at school.
Wretched etiquette—the last bloody thing a teenage boy wants to learn about and sit through, not that we sat through the lessons quietly.
Many a demerit was earned in those boring courses.
Georgie takes a drink of chocolate milk and I do the same, raising the glass to my lips.
I’ve not had this either.
I chug.
It’s still cold and tastes delicious. “Mm.”
Chug the entire glass down, licking my lips.
Georgie beams. “I was afraid I was going to poison you. I’m so glad you like it—even the hot dogs.”
“The wieners?”
“Stop.” She laughs good-naturedly. I wonder if she’s ever in a bad mood; she always seems jovial. Upbeat.
Except that first night we met—that night she definitely looked as if she was going to piss herself.
Scarfing down the remainder of what’s in the bowl—plus the remainder of what’s in the pot—I rise to clear my spot, taking everything to rinse in the sink.
“You don’t have to do that,” Georgie says, worry in her voice.
But she’s not a maid and didn’t come here to clean up my mess.
“You cook, I clean.”
She smiles, biting down on her lower lip.
That night, long after she’s gone, I lie in bed thinking about the roommate thing—then thinking about her.
Georgie.
Roommate.
Roommate, Georgie.
If she were to move in, nothing could happen. She would be off limits.
So what? You’re moving and so is she—she doesn’t want a relationship. Not one with you.
Does she? I wouldn’t have a clue.
When we were done with dinner, we sat out on the patio next to the small bonfire pit I made with blocks from the Home Depot, laughing about our parents and friends and teammates.
Mostly our teammates.
Hers sound like twats.
Being with a girl is so completely different than hanging out with lads.