My Roommate is a Boy

DINNER, NICKNAMES, AND DISAPPEARING ACTS

RIVER

"I will pass on your offer," I say as if my stomach were in tune with me. I let out a long rumble. I was used to eating thrice a day even though it was never a proper meal, but today after eating cereal, I had spent the rest of the day moving from building to building trying to get all of my classes sorted out at once.

"I don't understand why we are doing this." Elise had complained, but at the end she had been grateful that she could spend the rest of the week indoors and not bother about the admission process again. All she had to worry about was schoolwork, and until schoolwork began, we were free.

"Your mouth is saying something, but your stomach is saying another; who should I believe?" He asked as if I were to answer the question. I just stood there, my bag still slung over my shoulders, as I stared at him.

"I really do not..." I stop at another rumble from my stomach.

"Oh geesh, you must be real hungry," he added, making me even more annoyed than I was. "There is no rule that says we can't share meals." He points to the fridge, and my eyes run over the rules one by one. Rule number five was too similar, and it made me want to say no, but what did I stand to gain from eating a little warm pasta so I would not have to eat some cold leftover pizza?

"Okay, fine," I say, dropping the bag to the floor and sliding onto the counter stool. "Just this once," I murmur even though I am not sure if I trust myself. One lie had turned into a mountain of lies, and one meal from the first night was going to just open up more and more like this one.

"Whatever you say, sweetheart."

"Can you stop calling me that?" I ask, and he shakes his head. He was the embodiment of stubbornness, and he was not afraid to even show it.

"Why would I? It suits you so well that it would be an injustice if I didn't call you that." He turns to me, and I want to comment on how he is breaking rule number one again, but I cut him some slack since he was cooking dinner for me. "Moreover, what is your bias against the name?" His question makes me think.

Why don't I like the name? I don't think the name is the problem; I think the issue is that it is coming from him to me. I sit there with my hands on the counter and my legs dangling, as I do not have an answer.

"Are you going for your faculty party?" He asked, and I am not shocked; the question truly sounds like something he would ask. I stare at him, and he tilts his head, expecting an answer. "Well?"

"Yes, but only because I heard I get to meet the seniors, and I can ask them questions." As soon as he hears my reason, he bursts into laughter, doubling over as he wheezes in the small space.

"Really?" he finally controls himself and throws at me. I sat there confused at his reaction but not wanting to take offence until he explains his reaction. "Oh my goodness! I guess I should no longer call you sweetheart but Professor Case—that suits you way more," he adds into explaining his sudden outburst to me.

"I do not want you to call me that either," I say, and he looks deadpan at me with a smirk on his face.

"You don't get to choose what your nickname will be. I get to choose what I would call you," he says, and I lean forward almost subconsciously.

"Does that mean I can pick a nickname for you?"

"If you want?" His response is sly, and it makes me wonder if he had planned this, if this was where he wanted me to be. I try to think of a nickname he might not like, but all that comes to mind sounds hurtful once they say it out loud, and even though he had been very annoying, he was not being rude in any way, so I did not have an excuse to be rude to him.

"I will pass on that offer," I say, and he throws his hand in the air in surrender before he turns to the stovetop.

"Perfect," he murmurs as he takes off the pot from the stove onto a trivet, and then he begins to fill two plates. He places one in front of me, and I can't deny it; it looks as good as it smells, and I can't wait to find out if it tastes just as good.

I swirl my fork into the plate and twirl until it is covered in the pasta and its juiciness. I lift it gently to my mouth and blow on it for a few seconds before pushing it into my mouth. The juiciness of the meal explodes in my mouth and makes me eager to taste more. I look up at him, and he has a smirk on his face with his eyebrow going up on one side.

"Just sing my praises already," he said in a joking tone, and I drop my face to the plate in front of me. How could I not get addicted to whatever meal he would be cooking when his cooking was this good?

"This is good," I say and focus my attention on the meal. He shrugs as if it does not matter and comes to sit beside me on the stool. I feel the heat of his body radiating towards me, but I ignore it because I have to; that is the only way I can keep sane here.

We sit side by side and fill our mouths with the mouthwatering pasta. I wondered how I was able to keep my cool with him just now. Once we are done, I offer to do the dishes.

"I will clean it up since you cooked," I said, and he knew I would not let it go until I had my way, so he let me settle into the couch in the living room. The television was playing pictures with a muffled sound. I see him put his phone to his ear, and I watch how the cocky atmosphere around him changes to tension. He walks to his room, changes into something different, and without a word to me, he leaves the house. I only know he is truly gone when I hear the sound of his motorcycle speeding away.

“On my way, T, hang tight.”

"What the hell just happened?"