“Says the man who has a revolving door in his bedroom.” She rolls her eyes. “And you’re trying to sell masturbation to me over the touch of a man?”
“Yes.” I act confidently. “But it’s different for a male. The whole sex thing. It doesn’t matter how many women we sleep with.”
“No, it’s not, Drew. Women equally have that urge. That need to get down and dirty as much as a man. It’s just not as widely accepted for women to feel that way without being called a tramp.”
“You don’t need a guy to validate yourself.” I sound like a fucking hypocrite, given I was trying to push her onto Rob that day at the beach. But that was different. And it was before I thought I was going to lose her. Things have changed. Jesus fucking Christ, listen to yourself! What is all this ‘feelings’ bullshit going on in my head?
She pulls her hair out of the bun, the waves cascading down her back. It smells like shampoo, and I want to reach out and run my fingers through it before my head does a reality check.
You can’t just touch her hair. That’s an intimate gesture. One that roomies shouldn’t do.
“So how about I fix us something to eat, and we watch a movie?” she says with more enthusiasm, dropping the subject completely.
“No pizza.”
“I can make grilled cheese sandwiches and soup. Sick people food.”
“You haven’t made that in ages.” I smile.
“Well, I must like you or something.”
She wanders off to the kitchen, and the sounds of the pots clanging bounce off the walls. I quickly grab my cell, ready to turn it off, not wanting to be interrupted tonight. With the television turned on, some news program plays until Zoey returns with a plate and bowl on a tray. She places it on my lap, then heads back to the kitchen, returning with a glass of water.
“My God, this smells so good, Zoey.”
“Thanks, roomie. What are you going to do one day when I’m married with kids? I’ll have to build a makeshift room in my garage for you to live in like a third wheel. Like in Full House. You can be Uncle Jesse… the hot one.”
I stop mid-bite. “That’s not going to happen.”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean…” I clear my throat. “You’ll never settle down. You’re not exactly a kid-person.”
In a sudden and unexpected move, she slams the bowl onto the coffee table creating a bang. Wild eyes stare directly at me, breathlessly waiting for some sort of apology. My comment, merely innocent, was not intended to cause Zoey to lash out.
“I am so a kid-person,” she answers in defense, crossing her arms under her heaving breasts. Stop fucking staring at them.
“You have the memory of a goldfish,” I scoff in a deadpan voice. “Remember when you dragged me to your cousin’s birthday, and her kids made you go on that bouncy castle thing, and one kid threw up? You were the first to run out leaving all the kids crying.”
“Wow! Sooo, I don’t react well to vomit.”
“And the next birthday after that, when the same cousin made you take care of the baby for like ten minutes, and you forgot leaving it in the stroller in the front yard?”
“So what! It couldn’t go anywhere. It was wearing a seatbelt.” She brushes off like it was no big deal. “Just because I don’t ramble on like other women or have had a few incidents, doesn’t mean I don’t want kids. I just haven’t found the right person who gets my ovaries all riled up. You know, that one guy who makes my ovaries yell, ‘Yippee!’”
“Okay…” I say, unsure of where to go from here. “Medically speaking, ovaries do no such thing.”
“It’s a metaphor. Of course, they don’t do that,” she responds heatedly. “Honestly, you are such a guy. You have no clue sometimes when it comes to women.”
Zoey’s been really crabby lately. I can’t go one conversation with her that doesn’t end up in a fight. Okay, so maybe I shouldn’t have said she would never settle down. I just don’t want her to yet. There, I’ve said it. I have admitted that her being with another guy right now feels like a stab in my fucking heart.
She grabs the bowl again but remains disgruntled, exhaling at regular intervals, purposely letting out grunts to show me she’s annoyed. I know this conversation is far from over, but I’m a man. I don’t want to pull all that emotional bullshit out of her, so I change the subject to something more lighthearted.
“So, the wedding. It’s black-tie formal?” I sway the conversation.
“Yeah,” she answers, disinterested.
And that’s the end of our night.