Maybe Someday (Maybe, #1)(18)

Why would she risk our friendship for sex?

I’ve never felt this hurt. I pull the blanket over my eyes and begin to sob.

Happy birthday to me.

? ? ?

I have the pillow pulled tightly over my head, but it doesn’t drown out the sound of gravel crunching beneath shoes. Why is someone walking on a driveway so noisily? And why can I even hear it?

Wait. Where am I?

Did yesterday really happen?

I reluctantly open my eyes, and I’m met with sunlight, so I pull the pillow tighter over my face and give myself a minute to adjust. The sound seems to get louder, so I lift the pillow from my face and peer out with one eye open. The first thing I see is a kitchen that isn’t mine.

Oh, yeah. That’s right. I’m on Ridge’s couch, and twenty-two is the worst age ever.

I lift the pillow all the way off my head and groan as I squeeze my eyes shut again.

“Who are you and why are you sleeping on my couch?”

My body jumps, and my eyes flick open at the deep voice that can’t be more than a foot away. Two eyes peer down at me. I pull my head back against the couch to put more space between me and the curious eyes to get a better look at who they’re attached to.

It’s a guy. A guy I’ve never seen before. He’s sitting on the floor directly in front of the couch, and he’s holding a bowl. He dips a spoon into the bowl and shoves it into his mouth, then begins the loud crunching again. I’m guessing that’s not gravel he’s eating.

“Are you the new roommate?” he says with his mouth full.

I shake my head. “No,” I mutter. “I’m a friend of Ridge’s.”

He cocks his head and looks at me suspiciously. “Ridge only has one friend,” the guy says. “Me.” He shoves another spoonful of cereal into his mouth and fails to back out of my personal space.

I push my palms into the couch and sit up so that he’s not right in my face. “Jealous?” I ask.

The guy continues to stare at me. “What’s his last name?”

“Whose last name?”

“Your very good friend, Ridge,” he says cockily.

I roll my eyes and drop my head against the back of the couch. I don’t know who the hell this guy is, but I really don’t care to compete over our levels of friendship with Ridge. “I don’t know Ridge’s last name. I don’t know his middle name. The only thing I know about him is that he’s got a mean right hook. And I’m only sleeping on your couch because my boyfriend of two years decided it would be fun to screw my roommate and I really didn’t want to stick around to watch.”

He nods, then swallows. “It’s Lawson. And he doesn’t have a middle name.”

As if the morning could get any worse, Bridgette appears from the hallway and walks into the kitchen.

The guy on the floor takes another spoonful of cereal and looks at Bridgette, finally breaking his uncomfortable lock on me. “Good morning, Bridgette,” he says with an odd, sarcastic tone to his voice. “Sleep well?”

She looks at him briefly and rolls her eyes. “Screw you, Warren,” she snaps.

He turns his gaze back to mine with a mischievous grin. “That’s Bridgette,” he whispers. “She pretends to hate me during the day, but at night, she loves me.”

I laugh, not really trusting that Bridgette is capable of loving anyone.

“Shit!” she yells, catching herself on the bar before she trips. “Jesus Christ!” She kicks one of my suitcases, still on the floor next to the bar. “Tell your little friend if she’s staying here, she needs to take her shit to her room!”

Warren makes a face as if he’s scared for me, then turns his head toward Bridgette. “What am I, your bitch? Tell her yourself.”

Bridgette points to the suitcase she almost tripped over. “GET . . . YOUR . . . SHIT . . . OUT . . . OF . . . THE . . . KITCHEN!” she says, before marching back to her bedroom.

Warren slowly turns his head back to face me and laughs. “Why does she think you’re deaf?”

I shrug. “I have no idea. She came to that conclusion last night, and I failed to correct her.”

He laughs again, much louder. “Oh, this is classic,” he says. “Do you have any pets?”

I shake my head.

“Are you opposed to porn?”

I don’t know how we just began playing Twenty Questions, but I answer him anyway. “Not opposed to the principle of porn but opposed to being featured in one.”

He nods, contemplating my answer for a beat too long. “Do you have annoying friends?”

I shake my head. “My best friend is a backstabbing whore, and I’m no longer speaking to her.”

“What are your showering habits?”

I laugh. “Once a day, with a skipped day every now and then. No more than fifteen minutes.”

“Do you cook?”

“Only when I’m hungry.”

“Do you clean up after yourself?”

“Probably better than you,” I say, taking in the fact that he’s used his shirt for a napkin no fewer than three times during this conversation.

“Do you listen to disco?”

“I’d rather eat barbed wire.”

“All right, then,” he says. “I guess you can stay.”