Roomie Wars Box Set

My head is on the verge of exploding. The clock is ticking, counting down to the grand finale, the explosion that sends me cuckoo and shaving my head like Britney Spears.

Jess and his need to fix things between us is an afterthought. Drew and our almost, but not quite, sexual encounter is placed on the ‘I’ll deal with that later’ list.

I just want to grieve the loss of something I never knew how much I wanted until this very moment, when the world feels like it’s spinning, and I’m completely standing still.

I stepped out of Dr. Taylor’s office feeling lightheaded and woozy collapsing into Drew’s arms. Confiding in Drew about what happened between us was extremely difficult but necessary. And the hardest part about this is that I knew I was hurting him. Communication isn’t our strongest trait at this point, and much like an ostrich, Drew has buried his head in the sand, ignoring the obvious problem at hand.

Since my admission of our encounter, things have been awkward between us. You’d be a fool not to see it. Drew tries his best to be supportive but also uses every opportunity to pick up extra shifts at the hospital with the excuse that they’re down in numbers. He struggles to make eye contact with me at the best of times, and maybe I am reading way too much into this, but even his mannerisms and body language aren’t the same.

If I get too close, he flinches.

It’s almost like I make his skin crawl.

And that cut me like a knife.

Despite everything going on, my feelings grow stronger every day. It should have worked in reverse. He isn’t Drew, my roomie. He is Drew, the guy I have a crush on. Yes, call me juvenile, but love is such a powerful word and one that I’m not ready to use.

At least, I don’t think so.

It’s what happens when you’ve used the term so loosely in the past.

In our teens, we threw around the word ‘love’ like it was a bag of potato chips. It didn’t much matter who it was, you called out ‘love you’ to every Tom, Dick, and Harry.

In our twenties, our maturity weighed in. You only used the word ‘love’ after a mind-blowing orgasm. Sex and love came in some sort of package. The better the sex, the more you apparently loved the guy.

And since I’m a week away from being thirty, the theory behind the word ‘love’ has become clearer. It means so much more than sex.

With life being one giant mess, the optimal thing to do would be to call in sick to work and stay in bed with a block of chocolate and The Cure on repeat.

Instead, I wake up at six every morning and hit the gym. I go grocery shopping and rid the fridge and pantry of any junk. I even find myself dressing more nicely each day, and I hate to admit that part of me is doing this so Drew will notice. His type of woman is the gym-hitting, healthy-eating, nice-looking type of girl.

I am appalled at myself for even factoring him into my wardrobe decisions. It’s high school all over again minus the braces and pom-poms.

Work is my haven. Mia is still on her honeymoon, due to return in a couple of days. We have so many new contracts with a ton of work to complete which would have been easy to get through if Mr. Becker was around to answer our questions.

On Tuesday afternoon, he turns up out of the blue and is quick to corner me at my desk.

“So, Zoey, any thoughts on the offer?”

“I’ve had a busy week. Been unwell. Sorry, I just haven’t had a moment…” I trail off.

“I understand, Zoey, but this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.” He laughs, shaking his head in amusement. “What is there to think about? You’re not tied down here.”

I could tell him about a number of things. How this is my comfort zone. How my family lives only an hour away, and as much as they drive me crazy, I can’t imagine being across the world from them. I’m worried that the food tastes different. That I won’t fit in. That the Brits will judge me by my accent, call me an arrogant yank, maybe even a wanker if I rub them the wrong way.

And how the thought of leaving Drew seems incomprehensible.

But they are all excuses.

And the more I think about it, the more it makes me seem stupid and unappreciative of his offer. I’m a grown woman for Pete’s sake. An independent, grown woman who should be able to get on a plane—by herself—and live in a foreign city for the sake of my career. I don’t need my mommy to hold my hand, and I shouldn’t be staying in a place for a man who can’t stand to be near me right now.

“I’ll have an answer by the end of the week, Mr. Becker.”

He leaves me alone for the rest of the day, emailing me links to a few apartments in London that his brother sent him. Curious, I open the links and browse through the pictures attached. It’s completely different, yet exciting. Small, I have to admit, but quaint. The thought of London is growing on me, but can it grow enough so I can leave everything behind?

I welcome the short distraction, until Wednesday morning, when the results come in.

I ask Mr. Becker for the morning off, telling him I need to meet with my realtor about renting my place out should I accept the offer to move to London. He’s quick to say yes, even suggesting I take the whole day off. I hate lying, but telling your boss you’re going to find out if you have an STD or not seems extremely disturbing.