To which my dad (aka Roger) replied, “She’s almost twenty-three years old Margot. I would think at this point we wouldn’t need to be supporting her.”
My mom just shot him a dirty look, adding “At least give her a hug good-bye.”
I’ll be honest: Roger always needs a reminder. He’s not much for public displays of affection. I’m his daughter for crying out loud, and he blushes every time he is forced to hug me. Not that I blame him. My grandparents weren’t really affectionate either, and obviously the trait has been passed down to my dad.
Poor guy.
I’m the opposite and my favorite thing to do is grab him, lock him in a bear hug and squish him until he shoves me off.
It can get awkward sometimes, but a little awkward never hurt anybody.
You can quote me on that.
As I get closer to my apartment door, I breath a loud sigh of relief because hallelujah! I can hear the voice of my roommate inside. Although… it kind of sounds like she’s arguing with someone. But hey, at least she’s inside because I’ll probably need a hand with my stuff.
Instead of knocking I bang the door with my hip, heaving with all my might the heavy tote like a wrecking ball so it slams into the door with a thunk.
I give a meek little “Help” and wait.
And wait.
Inside I hear a bang, like someone’s smashed into an end table or desk – then I hear an “oomph” followed immediately by a groan.
Weird. And totally out-of-the-ordinary.
Slightly panicked, I begin banging on the door again with my hip, drop my bag and fumble frantically for my keys.
* * *
**Matthew**
* * *
What the shit is that banging?
I look at my little sister Molly, and she shrugs, trudging towards the door. I put my arm out to stop her. “Don’t you dare get that - it’s obviously some lunatic.”
Molly rolls her eyes at me (the little brat) like she is always doing - and when I say always… I mean she’s constantly rolling her eyes. I’m surprised they haven’t gotten wedged permanently in to the back of her head.
“It’s either a lunatic or it’s my roommate, so get out of my way you Neanderthal. This is my apartment.”
Using all her strength (and trust me, she might appear scrawny but she’s way stronger than she looks), Molly manages to shove me out of her way, even as I attempt unsuccessfully to block her path. In my attempts to stall her, my leg connects with the blue Rubbermaid bin she and her roomie have disguised as a coffee table, and the shit piled on top of it falls to the carpet.
Correction: the dirty carpet.
“Don’t you dare open that door without finding out who it is first,” I warn, sounding like our dad, while bending to scoop up a handful of Cosmo magazines from the floor. Kate Upton stares back at me from an August issue, and I stop re-organizing for a brief moment to admire her ample chest.
Damn she’s good lookin’.
Distracted momentarily – and without hesitating - I start thumbing through the magazine. Shit, if the rest of these pictures are anything like Kate Upton’s Sports Illustrated cover, I just might consider rolling this baby up and stuffing it into my back pocket.
“The door has no peephole, moron. Hey, stop touching my stuff! God you are so annoying,” Molly huffs in outrage, boldly slapping the magazine out of my hand. “I still don’t know why you’re even here.”
I shrug, not giving a shit about her bad manners. She truly sounds disgusted with me. “Why the hell are you in a building that has no peepholes? That’s not safe. The least your landlord can do given these shoddy doors, which are basically made out of plywood, is put in some damn peepholes.”
“Oh my gawd, you are such an idiot. Please say peepholes one more freaking time.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa - one insult at a time please. Can you stop being such a bitch? For two seconds?” I ask, bending over a second time to rescue Kate Upton. Her boobs have gotten wrinkled on the page from being dropped twice, and I pause to smooth her out.
It’s the least I can do.
Then, before I can stop her, and with a self-defense move I taught her, Molly swiftly elbows me in the gut with a jab so quick I don’t even see it coming.
Grunting, I teeter a bit and hold my stomach before I can stand upright. “That was a cheap shot,” I croak out as the banging on the door gets louder – it sounds like someone’s trying to break through the damn door with battering ram.
“What the fuck?” I march towards the door, palming Molly in the forehead to halt her and steeling myself against a possible assault. “Back down Molly. Christ. Do you really think Weston would want you charging the door when some mental person is on the other side banging it in? Step aside dammit.”