Roomie Wars Box Set

“I know that, silly, but are you bringing someone?”

“I’ll probably take Drew since he owes me big time for yesterday morning. You know how much I hate going to these things alone. Weddings make single people look pathetic and needy.”

Mia nods her head in agreement. “All right, I’ll RSVP the two of you.”

I take a sip of my tea, and Mia tugs on my arm almost spilling the hot liquid all over my chest.

“Is that Drew?”

Turning my head to where she’s looking, I see Drew walk into the cafe with some cute brunette. They’re both dressed in scrubs, nothing unusual, and as they stand at the counter ordering a drink, he places his hand on the small of her back. A lump forms in my throat, and I swallow cautiously, not able to grasp why this is bothering me so much. I don’t want him to see me. Obviously, he’s busy finding some new chick to get his hands on like the fucking ass he is.

“What did you say?” Mia asks, raising her eyebrow at me.

Shit! Did I say that out loud?

“Uh, this green tea tastes like ass. I would have rather had a donut shake.”

“I don’t know what ass tastes like, but okay.”

Her comic relief prompts me to relax, and with a small giggle, I shake off how much that gesture bothered me.

It’s Drew.

Manwhore Drew.

“So, aren’t you going to go over and say hi?”

“Nah,” I say casually. “He looks like he’s trying to get his groove on. Don’t want to break his swagger.”

Mia’s shoulders shake as she laughs quietly. Trying not to stare, I force myself to turn away and focus on Mia. In the corner of my eye, I watch Drew and the mystery girl leave the cafe, instantly letting out a breath of air I’d been anxiously holding in.

What the hell was that? You’ve seen Drew with many women. You’ve even been home while he screws them in his bed. Why this sudden jealous streak?

“Okay, let’s head back. This time, we’re running,” Mia tells me.

By the time I reach the apartment, I’m sure I’ll collapse from exhaustion. Mia’s been running every day to achieve that perfect wedding body. I haven’t been running since back in my early twenties. Even then, it was only because I was checking out the marathon runners in their tiny shorts.

Jumping straight into the shower, I linger long enough that my skin begins to prune. The water’s heavenly, and I use that fancy shampoo Drew must have purchased yesterday. It smells like a rainforest and coconuts combined. I could eat it. That would be weird, right? Or not. They invented soda-flavored Lipsmackers, and they’re somewhat edible.

I should get into the business of inventing everyday products you can clean with and eat. Seriously? My brain is over-stimulated. Probably from ‘accidentally’ swallowing some shampoo.

With my shower finished and my brain ready to explode with random thoughts, I head back to my room to change. On a whim, I dress in a navy summer dress with spaghetti straps paired with my white wedges. I can’t even remember the last time I wore them. It was about time I abandoned my weekend sweats. They had sweatpants cancer—holes. The ones that started somewhere near your thigh, and before you know it, your asshole is completely exposed.

After a day spent roaming around the city window shopping, I wander back to the apartment around five, armed with a bag of groceries. I had text messaged my mom to ask for the recipe for her lasagna, and much like everyone else, she called me instantly, worried something’s wrong.

“Honey, you haven’t cooked since you moved in with Drew. What’s wrong?” she panics over the phone.

“Relax, Mom. Nothing. Okay? I just felt like a home-cooked meal,” I lie.

“Why don’t you come up for the weekend? Daddy and I will pay for your fare.”

“I’ve got money, Mom.”

Having no life and staying home meant I had rebuilt the nest egg that I had so carelessly thrown away during my relationship with Jess. It wasn’t enough to buy into real estate, but slowly, it is growing.

“Listen, I have to go. I’ll call you later. Okay, Mom?”

I hang up the phone, annoyed at my mom. Not only does she frustrate me, she makes me feel like a pathetic nobody who everybody feels sorry for. Poor Zoey, can’t cook. Poor Zoey, she’s as fat as a pig. All right, maybe not the last comment, but I know everyone thinks it. They just don’t say it out loud. Or to my face.