Jock Romeo Read online

  “Not per se?”

  “But…” He licks his fingers again, seemingly done eating junk food in favor of listening to me. “There is more to this story—I can feel it.”

  I squirm in my spot uncomfortably then unenthusiastically admit, “Yeah, there is more.”

  He waits.

  And waits. Then, “For bloody sake, do I have to pry the details out of you?”

  YES BECAUSE I DON’T WANT TO SAY THEM OUT LOUD!

  “I thought the pair of you were getting on brilliantly. Did something happen?” he asks again in an urging way, but he also sticks his hand back into the bag, setting off a frenzy of bag sounds.

  It’s very distracting.

  “Did. Something. Happen?” The way Jack is eyeing me up, there is no need to deny it. He knows. I don’t think he would have heard Lilly and me through the walls—we weren’t loud—but if she’s been coming around and asking about me…it only makes sense that he would suspect something is off between the two of us.

  Jack is a smart dude.

  Not as smart as I am, but intelligent.

  Emotional intelligence.

  He possesses much more than I have apparently.

  “I wouldn’t say something happened as much as I would say it happened…too soon.”

  He stares blankly, chip in hand. “What’s that mean?”

  Let’s see, how do I put this?

  Jack chomps.

  Why is he eating chips at a time like this? It’s making me anxious.

  “Does this have anything to do with shagging?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thought so.” His nod is authoritative, just like he is.

  “Couldn’t get it up?”

  “What? NO! I mean, yes I could get it up.”

  “Oh.” Why does he look disappointed? “Couldn’t get her wet?”

  Oh she was wet enough alright…

  “That wasn’t the problem.”

  He thinks, and I can see his mind working, putting the few clues I’ve given him together, clicking the pieces into place.

  “Don’t tell me you…” His voice trails off as if he can’t possibly finish. “That you…you know.” He flicks his gaze and his hand toward the dick lying limply between my legs.

  I don’t know.

  He could be referring to any number of things. “Eh?”

  “Are you going to make me say it?”

  “Probably—I’m not sure what you’re alluding to.” Although he’s been spot-on until this point, so why wouldn’t he guess that I couldn’t satisfy Lilly?

  “You blew your load too soon?”

  I feel my face turn crimson red, the urge to stand up and bolt from the room strong.

  “Blink twice if I’m right,” my roommate says with a grimace. “Are you still breathing, old chap?”

  I force myself to nod. “Barely.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed—happens to the best of us.”

  I raise my head. “Does it?”

  “Well, no—not usually. But it does happen, I’m sure of it.”

  I groan, resting my face in the palm of my hands. “Fuck.”

  “Hey, no worries, mate—you’re in good hands. I give stellar advice, know a thing or two about the ladies.” He pauses. “Not because I’ve been with a slew of them, but because my ex-girlfriend was such a twat and hated sex so much I made it my mission to pleasure her.”

  “We are not having this conversation.” I haven’t been living here all that long—it’s way too soon to be having the humiliation talk about sex and ejaculation.

  I don’t even talk to the friends I’ve known since kindergarten about this shit, though maybe if I did, this conversation wouldn’t suck so bad. Maybe it would be easier.

  The only sex talk I’ve ever had was my dad coming into my room when I was thirteen and saying, “Your mother wanted me to come in here and have the sex talk with you.” He ran a hand through his hair, glancing around my room at all the debate, math, and science trophies. “I don’t think we have anything to worry about yet.”

  We were both horrified by that little speech, although it was a brief one.

  Jack, on the other hand? Seems to be taking this in stride, seeming to relish this new information. In the span of time I’ve known him, there is one thing I’ve gleaned: he takes matters head on and likes to talk things out.

  Not very British of him, I must say.

  “The wheels are in motion, my friend, but the answer is simple: you need to wank off before you have a date. It’ll make you last longer.”

  He sounds confident.

  “Wank off?”

  “You know—beat the bishop.”

  That’s a term I haven’t heard.

  He goes on. “Fire off some knuckle children. Jerk the gherkin.”

  “Stop. I know what you mean.”

  “Tug of war with the cyclops?” Jack smirks. “That’s my favorite one.”

  I haven’t stopped blushing since he started talking. Don’t get me wrong, he isn’t being crude—he sounds like a normal twenty-something-year-old dude going on about sex. And masturbating.

  I’m the odd one here, blushing beet red and wanting to avoid the subject entirely.

  “So what did she say afterward?” Jack gets back to the subject, wanting more information.

  “I don’t know—I washed up and didn’t talk to her afterward.”

  “You didn’t talk to her afterward?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I wasn’t sure what to say.”

  He drags a hand down his face. “Bloody hell. That’s not good.”

  Hindsight is always twenty-twenty.

  “Did she finish?”

  “Um. I don’t think so.”

  “Mate—how do you not know if you made her come?”

  I shrug, humiliated. “I was…only thinking about myself, I guess.”

  “You guess?” His snort makes me feel a million times worse. “Blimey, no wonder she tenses up when we say your name.”

  “Do you think she hates me?” Even as I say it, I know it’s not true—Lilly wouldn’t be trying to get ahold of me to talk if she hated me. Or perhaps she does and just wants to chew my ass out, give me a piece of her mind.

  “Don’t be daft—of course she doesn’t hate you. She’d stop coming over altogether if she didn’t want to run into you.” He resumes popping chips in his mouth as if it’s the last meal he’s ever going to have.

  “Good point.”

  “You have to start trusting your own instincts, Rome—especially when it comes to women. Don’t operate on assumptions. Don’t assume she hates you—grow a pair of balls and get back to it.”

  The thing is, I’m not sure I can.

  No matter how I feel about Lilly—how much I care—I don’t think I have the guts to look her in the eye and tell her I fucked up. She put the moves on me; she wouldn’t have done that if she didn’t give a shit, especially considering she has taken a sabbatical from dating.

  “I thought you and Lilly were mates. Eliza and I didn’t realize the two of you were shagging.” Crunch, crunch.

  “We are friends, and we’re not…shagging.”

  “Then what do you call the fact that you boned?”

  “I just meant it’s more than that. I think.”

  “So you love her?”

  That’s a good question. Do I?

  “I’ve never been in love before, so how the hell would I know if this was it?”

  “I think you just know.” At last he’s finished stuffing his gullet with junk food, rolling up the bag and tossing it onto the coffee table. “Honestly, I had to google it when I thought I might be in love with Eliza.”

  “You googled it?”

  “Yeah. I google everything.”

  Interesting. “What did it say?”

  Jack produces his cell phone, the bright screen lighting up his face as he begins tapping on the screen. “Alright, found the article.” He clears his throat bef
ore reading aloud. “You’re happy and a bit nervous.”

  Sounds like me.

  “The person is on your mind literally all the time.”

  What kind of scientific article uses the word literally?

  He goes on. “For example, you don’t just think about calling or texting them throughout the day. You might wander into a clothing store to buy something for yourself and wind up buying something for your sweetheart, too.”

  Wander into a clothing store…?

  “Wait. What article is this?”

  He glances up from his phone. “It’s from Teen Life magazine.”

  “Goddammit, Jack, find a more reputable list. That’s a magazine for kids.”

  “Is not!”

  “Find a different list.”

  Jack grumbles but complies, thumbing through his phone after another search. “You always make time for them. You love the way they smell. You look at them while they sleep.”

  Look at them while they sleep? What the fuck?

  He keeps reading, nodding along in agreement. “Oh, this is good. Yes.”

  “What does it say?”

  “It says ‘You’re all like, ex who?’”

  “That’s what it says? ‘You’re all like, ex who?’” I can’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

  He nods. “Yeah, I’m reading it verbatim.”

  Lord.

  “You’re actually entertained by their cute AF childhood pictures.” He glances up. “I mean, who wouldn’t be entertained by their girlfriend’s cute baby pictures. That one is stupid.” He scrolls. “You regularly catch yourself doing a deep dive on their social media.”

  Who wrote this list, a fifteen-year-old?

  I rise, wanting to go to my room, shut the door, and think. “You can stop reading, I’ve heard enough.”

  Jack tosses his phone on the couch next to him. “So what are you going to do?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. Avoid her forever?”

  He smiles, but it’s rueful. “Not possible, mate. You best figure your shit out before the opportunity passes you by.”

  Very wise words.

  I only wish I knew how to take the advice.

  12

  LILLY

  My mother didn’t bother calling to tell me she and my dad aren’t going to be around for Thanksgiving this year.

  She texted.

  Mom: Wanted to let you know Dad and I are going with the Parkers to Michigan this year. Linda rented a cottage and we’re going to ski if there is snow.

  Me: Who is “we?”

  Mom: The grown-ups.

  I don’t point out the fact that I am, in fact, a grown-up, too.

  It would be pointless—lost on my mother.

  Me: Okay…

  Me: What am I supposed to do?

  Mom: Whatever you want! Don’t you kids always do that Friendsgiving thing?

  Me: When have I ever not come home for the holidays?

  Mom: Don’t be sarcastic—I’m just letting you know. You’re an adult now, it’s time to start your own traditions.

  Wow.

  I feel my face burning, from rage, disappointment, and humiliation. Briefly wonder how my dad feels about this sudden development of a trip without me during the holiday, or if she even discussed it with him. Pointless to ask; she steamrolls over everyone and wouldn’t take his opinion into consideration even if he did have one.

  My nose tingles, a telltale sign that I’m about to cry.

  Me: Okay.

  I toss my phone to the bed and throw myself beside it, staring up at the ceiling, blinking back tears.

  It’s been a shitty few days—a shitty week, really, and this news makes it all the worse.

  First Roman and I aren’t talking and now I’ll be alone for Thanksgiving?

  Great.

  Not like it’s my favorite holiday—I don’t particularly care for turkey. But that’s hardly the point, is it? The point is, my parents are going on a vacation with their friends and don’t give a crap that I’ll be alone.

  On top of that, I had sex with Roman and he’s still ignoring me, which makes me feel furious and abandoned.

  Roman is my friend. Why did I have to go and ruin it by sleeping with him? Things were going great up to that point—if I hadn’t called him to come to that party, I wouldn’t have gone home with him, and if I hadn’t gone home with him, I would have been in my own bed, where I belong.

  A blow to a guy’s pride when he’s not good in bed can scar him for life, or so I’ve heard.

  Fine.

  I know exactly why he’s avoiding me, but that doesn’t make it easier.

  I want to wallow in self-pity, allowing myself to feel empty and lonely for a few minutes, accepting the things I cannot change:

  My mother and her inability to be maternal.

  The shift in my relationship with Roman.

  The house is quiet.

  I’m not sure where Kaylee has gone, but I’m certain she’s no longer home.

  Rolling to the side, I groan. Beat from the workout we had this morning, my muscles are sore and could use a stretch.

  A good walk will do the trick.

  Yes.

  I should get up and move around rather than lie here motionless.

  Rising, I remove my sweatpants and swap them for blue leggings and a navy hoodie before lacing up my sneakers. I grab my earbuds, throw my hair into a ponytail, and get my rear moving.

  It’s not dark out, but it will be soon. I lock the door behind me, eyes scanning the street.

  The leaves on the trees have changed colors and begun falling, a sign that the cold weather of winter is approaching. I kick at a few, loving the sound of them crunching beneath my feet, keep kicking them along on my way down the sidewalk.

  Somehow I find myself standing in front of Roman’s house—er, Eliza’s house—the lights inside glowing; people are home, probably doing something cute and cozy, like watching movies and eating whatever treats Eliza has put out.

  I stuff my hands inside the pockets of my hoodie, debating my course as I continue standing in front like a gawker.

  A gust of wind blows, leaves swirling around me.

  It’s cold so I can’t stand out here forever, especially once it gets dark, but I can’t exactly go knocking.

  I am here to see Eliza.

  Screw Roman—if he’s too big of a pussy to talk to me, that’s on him. It is not my fault. He was in that bed, too.

  Words I’ve been repeating to myself on a loop since the last time I was here and he avoided me, leaving out the side door within minutes of my arrival and not returning home all night. I haven’t had a single chance to say a word to him, and he hasn’t been responding to my texts.

  That is not a mature person.

  I am better off without that drama in my life.

  When will I learn my lesson?

  First Kyle, now Roman? No thank you.

  Eliza is my friend—I have every right to walk up to the door and hang out with her without feeling guilty or weird or like I’m imposing on Roman’s space.

  He can go to his damn bedroom if he doesn’t like it.

  Decision made, I stomp to the door, pressing on the doorbell with more confidence than I feel.

  Rub my hands together to warm them as I wait, a shadow appearing in the foyer, porch light flicking on.

  “’Allo!” Jack opens the door wide. “Come inside before you catch a chill.”

  Catch a chill.

  I step over the threshold. “I love it when you speak British.”

  “I am British, love.”

  Laughing, I remove my earbuds and wind them up, storing them in my pocket. “Is Eliza home?”

  “Yup, kitchen.”

  “Awesome.” I ruffle my ponytail, shaking out the cold as I enter the bright kitchen at the back of the house, my friend in the throes of loading up a tray of treats. “Hey hey.”

  I slide onto one of the stools at the counter with a smile.

 
“Oh hey!” My former roommate sets down some cheese and wipes her hands so she can squeeze me into a hug. “This is a fun surprise—are you here for the football game? I’m throwing together a charcuterie board.”

  “Sure, I’ll stay for the game!” I say it with more enthusiasm than I’m feeling, my gut in turmoil as my eyes stay homed in on the arched doorway leading to the stairs.

  What if Roman walks through it? What will I say? How will I act?

  I spy his car through the kitchen window, parked near the detached garage where Jack has an at-home gym his brother actually built during his time here.

  I shift my gaze, heart racing.

  Pluck a carrot off Eliza’s tray.

  She scowls. “No snacking until the game begins.”

  “When does the game begin?”

  “’Bout half an hour?”

  “Ugh!” That long? I’m kind of starving now that I see food, and staying for the game sounds like a blast.

  Jack goes in and out of the kitchen, busying himself with taking out the trash as Eliza makes food, carrying small bowls of chips and Goldfish crackers into the living room.

  They certainly know how to entertain, and I’m here for it.

  And then…

  Roman enters the room, just as I knew he would. When he sees me, he halts in his tracks like a romantic comedy cliché. Deer in headlights if I ever did see one.

  His eyes flash to Jack to Eliza to me, back to Eliza then back to me.

  He clears his throat, palming the cell phone in his hand. “Hey.”

  “Hi.” I lift an arm and give him a feeble little wave. “What’s up?”

  “Not much.” He barely moves.

  “Roman, get in here and sit. I’m making snacks,” Eliza commands, moving around the room efficiently, continuing to load her wooden board with tasty vittles. “Sit.”

  She has to tell him twice before he hesitantly pulls out the stool at the end of the counter, two stools now separating us.

  Two stools of separation, ha!

  His phone rings, and when I look down, I see that it’s his mother.

  He hesitates again.

  “That your mom?” Eliza asks. “Answer it so we can say hello!”

  Lord she’s bossy tonight; I wonder what’s gotten into her.