Oh…
Wait…
Did you not realize?
My bad. *says in best Cher Clueless voice*
Let me back up a sec.
Remember those eight months I was bitching about earlier in the night?
Yeah…
Well…
Those are going to feel like child’s play—pun most definitely intended—with the months to come if this man doesn’t buy a clue like contestants on Wheel of Fortune buy a vowel and notice I. Want. Him.
Why?
Because not only is the man in question constantly trying to avoid me…
Now…
There’s no escape for him.
Or for me and the sexual frustration he causes to build up inside my body.
Again, why?
Because not only is CK, Mr. Christopher Kent, my clueless crush.
No.
Nope.
Now he’s also my roommate.
#CHAPTER2
* * *
For about the dozenth time tonight, I find my mind wandering.
It doesn’t matter that I’m standing in the middle of a group of people or that I’m literally mid-conversation; the inevitability of that pesky, How is this my life? thought popping in to interrupt is precisely that—inevitable.
The number of times I’ve experienced this existential crisis since accepting my admission to the University of Jersey two years ago is unquantifiable.
Though…
I guess the true What the fuck? change to my life happened a few months later when Kay Dennings all but forced her friendship upon me.
And no…that’s not an exaggeration. I honestly can’t find another way to define it. Kay may lack height, but she sure as hell doesn’t lack what my gramps calls grit.
That said, now I’m not sure how I would survive without her or the others in my life.
“CK…bro. Come back to us. It’s your turn.”
It’s not the fingers snapping an inch from my face that yank me back to the present and have me focusing in on the towering form of the second person to crowbar their way into my life.
No.
It’s those two letters, the C and the K, that do it. Simple initials I could never have anticipated would hold such a significant role in my life.
Yet…
They ended up being the catalyst for…
All of this.
Seriously? This can’t possibly be my real life. A part of me keeps expecting everyone to yell sike and reveal that this is all one big joke, a prank to toy with the geeky nerd.
But…
Two years?
That would be one hell of a long game, even for the most sociopathic.
I shake off those thoughts and concentrate on the three-foot block tower in the center of our circle instead. We’re deep into our fourth game of Drunk Jenga, making both the arrangement of the two-by-three blocks more precarious and my cognitive abilities a tad bit fuzzy.
Tongue pinched between my teeth, I select one of the side pieces as my query and carefully slip it free.
“Social,” I call out, and all around me, cups and beer bottles are lifted in a toast before everyone takes a sip as the game piece directed.
“You were thinking it again, weren’t you?”
My shoulders slump the second after I finish gently placing the block on the now swaying tower. Does it make me an ass that I hate that Grant knows me well enough to know where my mind went? Is it wrong that I was also hoping he would forget?
A knowing chuckle reaches my ears, and there’s a matching amused twinkle in the dark eyes looking down at me when I turn his way. And no, before you start getting defensive on my behalf—though I appreciate the effort—I mean that in the most literal sense. At six foot eight, Grant Grayson, or G to those of us in our makeshift family—and that’s a whole other thing—looks down at ninety-nine percent of the American population.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I feign ignorance, not wanting to dig into the heaviness of my insecurities.
Not here.
Not now.
Not with someone who has become a vital addition to my life.
“Aww, it’s cute when the smarties try to play dumb,” JT Taylor, the first two letters in the alphabet soup of mashed-up family Kay has collected, comments as he hip checks his way forward to take his turn at Jenga.
“Yet, they can never really pull it off, can they?” Grant finishes, leveling me with a Stop trying to pretend I don’t know you eyebrow arch.
I tip my beer at him, conceding, shifting my attention to the Jenga block JT pulls free. I focus on the…creative—I’m talking smiley face, sloppy pubes, and excited jizz spewing from the tip—rendering of a penis drawn on it, hoping Grant will let the other issue go.
It works, and every person possessing a hopefully-less-colorful-and-animated version of the dick lifts their cup and takes a drink as instructed.
Thank god.
It’s bad enough I had to promise my friends I would start putting myself out there. I don’t need to hear another one of their lectures—ones I could probably recite by heart at this point—about how it’s time I finally realize and recognize how awesome I am.
That’s easier said than done.
The game continues with the standard practice of pulling and placing Jenga blocks, one after another—except, this is Drunk Jenga. With each piece pulled and each quantity of alcohol consumed, the volume of our voices grows and the gesticulating of our movements becomes more erratic until, finally, a rogue arm swings into the tower.
There’s a loud clatter as the blocks hit the deck to a chorus of “Ooo, party foul” and tittering giggles.
It doesn’t bother me. I’ve shockingly grown used to the chaos. Plus…it helps me fade into the background where I’m more comfortable.
Again there’s that whisper of How did I get here?, and by here, I mean both theoretically and physically. Except this thought is quickly followed by a much older and even more familiar You don’t belong here.
Sadly, despite all of my friends’ efforts, I can’t argue with it.
Looking around, it is blatantly obvious that one of these things is not like the other, and that thing that’s different? It’s not Kevin bowing with a flourish or Alex telling him to save the sacking for the quarterbacks, not our backyard games. No. The different thing? It’s me. I’m the odd man out…in every sense of the word.
Am I an athlete? Nope.
Was I popular? Only if the category is the favorite choice to be picked on.
To make a long story short, jocks, cheerleaders, and me…we don’t get along.
Yet…
Now I’m living in a houseful of them.
Ahh…now you get why I’m constantly asking myself how this is my life.
“Dude.” A gust of air whiffs across my face as Grant claps his dinner plate–sized hands in front of it. “Oh no, no, no,” he continues as I shove a flop of hair out of my eyes with a glare. “You’re doing it again, and that shit needs to stop.”
“What’s he doing?” Another blond head I’ve grown used to butting into my business leans into the middle of our conversation before I’m meeting the mischievous smirk of Travis, the U of J’s star quarterback and, yes, one of those new roommates I mentioned. “Ooo, is he finally withholding his mysterious video game from you too?”