Dirty Curve
This place is literally a square.
When you cross the threshold of the front door, it’s left, into the single-counter kitchen, with just enough room to turn from the sink to the stove or right, where two doors sit. One leads to the bathless bathroom, the other to a tiny room that’s hardly bigger than a standard closet, and if you don’t turn, but step straight, you’re in the living room, also known as my bedroom.
I have a dresser turned TV stand and a couch that pulls into a bed—my one chosen expense.
Thank God for Rent-A-Center.
The place is miniature, and sometimes, after really hot days or when there’s no airflow, it smells a little stale, the old mats beneath the carpet making themselves known. I have to wipe the windows down constantly to help keep out the mold, but it’s warm, safe, and not too far from campus.
Bianca comes to sit beside me on the ‘bed,’ takes my laptop from my hands, and places it on the far side of her.
“I would have voted for you, you know.” I look to her with a nod, and both of us laugh.
Bianca is a horrible singer, something she finds hilarious being that her grandfather is a living legend, and both her parents sang backup for him for years. She doesn’t let it stop her from hopping on the stage at random karaoke nights at Trivies, one of the local pubs within walking distance from campus.
“You and no one else, chica, but enough deflecting. Talk to me. Why were you zoning out? Your little fingers are never not typing away on that thing.”
Bianca is my biggest confidant and the only person who knows some of the troubles I face, keyword being some.
I’ve shared with her what I could never tell anyone else, but where she holds nothing back from me, I have had to keep a couple details to myself. I love and trust her, but when you’re at war with your own decisions, it’s not smart to share your sword.
“I don’t know how I’ll get through this year, let alone another one.” I swallow my sigh. “I’m already exhausted and we’re still in the first part of the semester. It’s only going to get worse.”
With a potential catastrophic nightmare to follow.
I close my eyes, taking a deep breath as Bianca falls beside me.
“You’re so close,” she softly says. “So close, but you definitely need a break. I’m taking us on a month-long vacation in paradise. We’ll leave the minute we finish finals. Bikinis and Bailey all day long!”
I turn to her with a small smile, and she slips her hand into mine. “I’m so holding you to that.”
“Bitch, I’m holding you to that.” She laughs.
Bianca and I are similar in some ways and polar opposites in others.
She’s tall and thin while I’m short and currently a good twenty-something pounds past my norm, which is still heavier than she could ever be. I’m on the quieter side and keep to myself, more so now than ever, where she can have a bit of a wild side sometimes. She’s confident, outgoing, and, inadvertently, the life of the party.
She and I were assigned the same room freshman year, and at first, I didn’t think we would become more than roommates, but I was wrong. We were fast friends and have been ever since.
She’s the most genuine person I know, and the only one who truly stuck around when my life shifted.
“Thank you for helping me out in the evenings. I would be so screwed without you.”
“Seriously, stop thanking me. I told you, being here works out for me just as much as it does for you. I need the downtime away from all the sorority drama. This is about the only place I can smile anymore.”
“Awe, is this your happy place?” I tease, but with a grateful rasp, one she picks up on.
Bianca winks when a soft hum calls for me.
I pull myself up, walk toward that tiny room in the corner, and slowly push the door the rest of the way open.
My gloomy mood disappears instantly, and I step inside with a smile that matches the one staring back at me. “Hi, baby girl.”
CHAPTER 3
Tobias
Today, I’m feeling fan-fucking-tastic. I woke up at a quarter to five, as usual, went for a run and did my morning workout routine. After that, I hit the town grocery store and because of my grand mood, decided to make my mom’s famous homemade chorizo for breakfast. Instead of using the leftovers to meal prep for the next few days like I normally would, I leave it all out for the boys to eat when they finally decide to open their eyes.
I’m not a miserable, downer kind of guy, more a smiley, whistle when you walk fucker most days, but there’s something about coming off a two-game shutout that takes you from a seven to a ten.