The Roommate's Baby

Somehow that only makes me cry harder.

He drops the spoon and shoves off the couch, hurrying toward me. In seven years of knowing each another, and four years of living together in this very apartment, I don't think I have ever cried in front of him. Not once. I usually lock myself in my bathroom on the rare occasion when I get emotional, which isn't very often, and usually over some stupid work spat or problem.

Nothing like this.

He wraps his arms around me, enveloping me in his tight, familiar embrace. Cannon gives the best hugs. I never tell him that because it would only stoke his ego, but he does. He knows just how tightly to squeeze to let you know he's really there, that he really cares about you. I sink against his chest and breathe in his scent. He smells like the lavender detergent we use and the mint body wash he has in his bathroom, the one I always tease him about because he decorated the whole thing in black—black shower curtains, black towels, everything.

He also smells, underneath all that, like him. Like our apartment, like home. Like my familiar, safe, reassuring best friend.

I wrap my arms around his neck and cry harder.

Cannon rubs my back in slow circles, whispering shh over and over until my sobs finally diminish into hiccups, and then deep breaths, and then finally stop enough that I can lean back and wipe my eyes dry, composing myself. I've left a tear-stained patch on his shirt, and the moment I see it I gasp out an apology, which comes out half words half hiccups.

In response, he simply shakes his head and laughs. "Not a big deal, Rina," he insists, even as he reaches for the hem of his shirt and tugs it off over his head.

Not like I haven't seen him shirtless a million times before. Half the time he lounges around this apartment in his boxers, sometimes even when he has his latest one-night stands over, cooking breakfast in his briefs. But there's something different this time, after I just spent a solid minute in his arms, crying on his shoulder. It makes me look at him with fresh eyes: at his chiseled abs, his strong pecs, and the way his biceps bulge as he tosses his shirt over the back of the couch.

"See? Problem number one solved." He catches my hand and squeezes it lightly, drawing me backward with him toward the living room. "Now, talk to me. What on earth has got you this riled up? I didn't even know you knew how to cry."

I elbow him in the side even as I let him pull me down onto the couch, right beside him, his warm arm grazing my shoulder, his strong fingertips curled through mine. His thumb brushes the back of my hand, gentle and reassuring. It feels good. Better than good. It makes my stomach, already upset from everything I've been through today, tense all over again.

But for completely new reasons.

Cannon? I think to myself. Then I have to shake myself out of that thought. Ridiculous. We've been besties for years. We've lived together for years.

I've seen how he treats women. He hooks up all the time, practically any night we go bar-hopping together, we wind up back here with a new girl tagging along. But he never sees them again. I don't think I've ever seen the same girl in this apartment twice. He is not exactly the serious dating type.

Then again...

Neither am I. I've had all of one long-term boyfriend ever, and that didn't go as planned. Every other relationship I've had has just been a series of casual hookups that go on for a couple weeks or months at most, before we decide to call it quits.

We're similar, Cannon and I. It's why we get along so well, as roomies, as colleagues, as friends.

He wouldn't freak out like that guy in the parking lot, part of my brain comments. He's calm, chill, collected. I've never seen him get ruffled, not once, not ever. Not even when shit explodes at work and he's drowning under stress. He handles everything with his usual casual grin, like the world is one big funny, occasionally frustrating joke that he's in on.

"Hello? Earth to Rina." He nudges me again and I blink, startled back to reality. To our living room, to the couch we've shared for a million and one movie nights since moving in here. To my roommate, who I've walked past every day for the last four years, but who I'm suddenly seeing through whole new eyes.

He's hot, he's smart, he's responsible. And he's uncomplicated, just like me. He doesn't develop feelings for people, same way I don't. He'd be the perfect donor, so to speak.

Maybe I don't need a clinic's help after all.

"Are you going to explain what all that was about?" He waves toward the door in general, then at my face. I wipe my cheeks again, sure that I still look a complete mess. Really attractive. Great way to bring up this topic.

"It's... kind of a long story," I admit, biting my lower lip. Then my eyes snag on something I hadn't noticed before. A bra hooked over the back of the couch. I laugh and lift an eyebrow at him, nodding with my chin. "Another souvenir?"

"Part of the down side of NSA. Girls never come back for their things." He groans and reaches for it. "I'll add it to the donation bin downstairs tomorrow."

"NSA?" I say, frowning.

"No Strings Attached, you know. My MO."

I laugh and roll my eyes. "Didn't know it had an acronym."

"I'm thinking of trademarking it."

"What, in your forthcoming novel, How Not to Get Attached?"

"Hey, pot calling the kettle black, much? You can co-author it with me. Nothing wrong with this lifestyle." He stretches his arms over his head, which draws my attention somewhat confusingly to his abs once more. What's wrong with me? I know what Cannon looks like. I've seen him every day for years. But suddenly the sight of those washboard abs are turning me on in new and confusing ways.

Must be the hormones.

"We like sex," he's saying with a shrug. "We don't do relationships. So no strings attached makes the most sense, to get us what we enjoy without leading anyone on or giving anyone the wrong idea about things potentially getting serious."

I feel myself nodding along, and forcefully drag my gaze from his chest back up to meet his eyes. "Exactly..." I hear myself saying.

A furrow appears between his brow. "Unless you were just crying your heart out on my shoulder over some guy I don't know about. What happened, did someone break your heart? Need me to go rough him up for you?"

I laugh and swat his shoulder. "I cannot imagine you roughing someone up."

"What? I've been in bar brawls before."

"I just mean you're so chill all the time. When have you gotten into fights?"

"When people fuck with my friends," he answers calmly. "I don't let anybody do that. So come on, Rina, spill, why the tears? What's going on?"

I swallow hard and lean my head back on the couch, eyes on the ceiling. I can't quite make myself meet his eyes when I say this. "It's about a baby."

He's quiet for so long that I have to steal a peek at him. His eyebrows have shot up to his hairline nearly. "You're pregnant?"

"No," I say, and that nearly makes the tears start up all over again. I bite my lower lip. "But I want to be."

2

Cannon

"I'm not sure I follow." I frown at my roommate. Rina has always been the calm one, the chill one, the one I can relax with and be myself around. The one friend I trust above all others—or hell, I'd never have lived with her for as long as I have. There aren't many people on the planet I could spend this much time with—working together, co-habitating—and yet, with Rina, I never get sick of having her around or tired of her presence.

Today, though, when she walked into this apartment and broke down crying, I thought my heart would rip out of my chest in panic. The sight of her in tears made me want to simultaneously hug her so tight she'd never feel hurt again and it made me want to punch a hole in whoever hurt her.

I assumed it was some guy. One of the dweebs she hooks up with maybe. I've never seen her get attached before, never seen Rina be into a guy enough to show much emotion beyond occasional annoyance. It's one of the many ways in which we're so similar. But I couldn't think what else would make her cry like that.

And, admittedly, the thought of her actually caring about someone else did unpleasant things to my gut.

It's not that Rina isn't hot. She's drop-dead gorgeous, believe me. Fiery red hair, pale blue eyes a guy could get lost in, curves for days. But she never gave any hint at being interested in me, and anyway, I don't do attachment, and I didn't want to risk fucking up our perfect roommate relationship by hooking up and ruining it all.