THE WRONG KIND OF TROUBLE

CHAPTER 6

After class, I made my way to the student council office. Mondays, Thursdays, and Fridays meant mandatory check-ins, whether there was something urgent to do or not. It was part of the job, though some days, it felt pointless.

Liz, my best friend, had already gone home as soon as the final bell rang. She didn’t even bother waiting for me. Not that I minded—I wasn’t in any rush. Today was my first day at Tom’s house, and let’s just say excitement wasn’t exactly bubbling inside me. I highly doubted Tom was looking forward to it either. But neither of us had a choice.

As I settled into my usual seat in the office, Brian, another trustee, dropped by with a cup of coffee from Grind Me, the little shop across from the school.

“Thought you could use this,” he said, handing it to me with a grin.

“Thanks,” I replied, though I wasn’t entirely sure if coffee was safe for pregnant women. Did it matter? Probably. Did I care? Not really. Coffee was coffee, and I needed the caffeine.

The office was unusually quiet today. Margie, the student council president, was curled up in a corner, flipping through a Harry Potter novel like the world outside didn’t exist. Henz, a trustee like me, was glued to his Spider-Man PS4 game. The other representatives, Robert and a couple of first-year students, were huddled over their phones, probably checking out i********: models—or worse.

I sipped my coffee, hoping it might settle the weird ache in my stomach. Was this normal pregnancy stuff? I really hoped so. Complications were the last thing I wanted to deal with.

“Samantha, almost forgot,” Margie called out, pulling me from my thoughts. She stood up and handed me two thick folders. “Can you bring these to Principal Wilmer’s office? They’re proposals for the school field trips and other events that need approval.”

“Field trips?” I echoed, my eyes lighting up.

“Yep. Don’t get too excited,” she teased.

But I was already excited. Field trips are the highlight of any school year, and I’d bet my life Principal Wilmer would approve these. Grabbing the folders, I dashed out of the office without a second thought. The hallways were mostly empty, save for a few stragglers. I was so caught up in my thoughts that I didn’t notice anyone on my path until it was too late. I slammed into them, sending us both sprawling onto the floor.

I groaned as I scrambled to pick up the scattered papers. “Watch where you’re going—”

“Seriously?” a familiar voice cut me off.

I froze, looking up to see Tom Miller glaring at me. Of course. Out of everyone in the world, it had to be him.

“How are you so stupid and still be alive?” he muttered, pushing himself up without offering to help me.

“Thanks a lot, Tom,” I snapped, brushing myself off as I stood.

He smirked, leaning casually against the wall as I gathered the rest of the papers. Not once did he make a move to help. Typical.

“You should be nicer to me,” I said, standing up and fixing the folders. “I’ve got a little Tommie inside me, after all.”

His expression darkened, but I couldn’t tell if it was from embarrassment or annoyance. Probably both.

“Whatever,” he mumbled. "Why are you in such a hurry anyway? Where ya goin'?"

“Why do you even care where I’m going?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

“I don’t,” he said, shrugging.

“Right,” I muttered, brushing past him. But before I could get far, he stepped in front of me again.

“Do you need something, or are you just here to be a pain?” I asked, exasperated.

He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. For a moment, he looked… unsure of himself.

“What do you want for dinner?” he finally asked.

I blinked, caught off guard. Tom Henderson, the king of apathy, was asking me about dinner?

“Shawarma,” I said after a pause, watching his face twist in confusion.

“Sh-sha-what?”

“Shawarma,” I repeated, brushing past him again. “It’s not that complicated.”

I managed to make it to Principal Wilmer’s office just as he was locking up. Thankfully, he took the folders, promising to review them first thing in the morning. With that out of the way, I made my way to Tom’s apartment. I tried to stay optimistic, but the moment I stepped inside, all hope went out the window.

The place was a disaster.

Clothes were scattered everywhere, the sink was overflowing with dirty dishes, and the floor was littered with junk food wrappers. A pair of boxers hung on the television like some kind of twisted decoration. I stood in the doorway, taking it all in, and groaned. This was going to be a nightmare.

A loud snore echoed from the living room. Following the sound, I found Tom sprawled on the floor, one foot propped up on the couch. I stared at him for a moment, debating whether to let him sleep or wake him up. In the end, my irritation won. Climbing over the back of the couch, I stood next to him, raised my foot, and stomped down on his stomach. He bolted upright with a loud groan, clutching his stomach. I couldn’t help but laugh.

“What the hell, Sam?” he growled, glaring at me.

“You deserved it,” I said, smirking.

Before I could react, he shoved me onto the couch and grabbed my shoulders. His grip was tight, and his eyes were blazing with anger.

“Tom, let go! You’re hurting me!” I said, wincing.

He released me immediately, but his frustration was still evident.

“Relax, it was just a joke,” I muttered, rubbing my shoulders.

“Shut up and eat your damn shawarma,” he said, pointing to the kitchen table.

I glanced over and saw a takeout bag sitting on the table. It was a small gesture, but it caught me off guard. Maybe there was hope for him after all.

Or maybe not.

I walked into the kitchen and nearly gagged. The mess here was even worse than the living room. Empty soda cans, sticky countertops, and an unidentifiable smell that made me want to leave immediately.

Tom followed me in, leaning against the doorway with a smug expression.

“Welcome home,” he said, spreading his arms wide like he was presenting a palace instead of a disaster zone.

“This is disgusting,” I said, wrinkling my nose.

“It’s called living,” he shot back.

“No, it’s called being a slob,” I retorted, grabbing a trash bag from under the sink.

Tom watched as I started picking up garbage, his smirk fading slightly.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said after a moment.

“Clearly, someone has to,” I replied, not bothering to look at him.

For a while, there was silence. Then, to my surprise, Tom grabbed another trash bag and started helping.

“You’re not completely hopeless,” I said, glancing at him.

“Don’t get used to it,” he muttered, but there was a hint of a smile on his face.

As we worked together to clean up the kitchen, I couldn’t help but feel like things might not be as bad as I’d feared. Living with Tom was going to be challenging, no doubt about that. But maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be a total disaster.

Then again, knowing Tom...

I probably shouldn’t get my hopes up.