Filthy English

And you never get used to them being gone.

Dax hadn’t. I hadn’t.

We just dealt with it in different ways; I wanted security, while he wanted a guarded heart.

With a sigh, I set the frame back down and stepped over a mound of video games and movies to peek inside his closet. It was wide open, and I saw that his clothes were neatly organized, his extensive collection of jeans hanging on the bottom while the shirts were hung by color.

Looks like I wasn’t the only one who had an issue with OCD.

A door from somewhere in the house opened and shut.

I froze. Eeeek. Tip-toeing around the spots of clutter, I dashed into the hallway and did a quickstep into the kitchen.

Dax had his back to me at the refrigerator as he held the door open and peered inside.

A few seconds ticked by and he remained motionless, his legs slightly apart as he stood there.

Should I say something?

He exhaled as his free hand rubbed his forehead.

Five more seconds went by. Then ten. At twenty, he said “Fuck this,” slammed the door shut, and strode out the back door without even noticing I was there.

The next morning, I woke to the sound of a sparrow outside my window, singing a loud stuttering song.

This birdie sounded annoyed. I knew exactly how it felt.

I crawled out of bed and plodded over to the window. Peeking through the blinds, I saw Dax’s black Range Rover was gone from the small driveway to the right of the house. He’d driven a Beamer for the past few years, but had traded it in last semester. Parked on the street by the curb was my older model Toyota Highlander.

My phone buzzed. Glancing down, I saw a pic of Malcolm eating a pickle spear along with a bowl of Captain Crunch.

I giggled. Every other Saturday was our day—and sometimes Sundays, depending on how much my mom needed to get done. With her working now, she spent her weekends doing housework, laundry, or just running to the grocery.

Ready for you to pick me up, he texted.

Be there in an hour, I replied.

Where are we going?

Where do you want to go?

I want to hang at your house. I like Dax. He’s cool.

He’s something, I said.

Yeah? What?

I laughed out loud. God, I loved him, especially when he didn’t get my jokes.

I showered quickly, threw on a pair of shorts, a Whitman tee, and flip-flops. My hair was too short for a high ponytail, so I spent time blowing it dry and then straightening it so it swung around my neck.

I popped in the kitchen to scrounge for a breakfast bar I’d stashed in the cabinet the night before, but came to a halt. To my surprise, on the table rested an envelope, a bag with the top folded down, and a drink carrier with two large Starbucks cups with lids.

I gingerly picked up the envelope, flipped it over, and saw my name had been scrawled in lopsided handwriting. My hands tore it open.

Remi,

I’m bloody sorry for last night. You’re right. I’m a douche. Please forgive me. What I said was wrong, and you didn’t deserve any of it. I swear it will never happen again. I don’t have a coffee pot yet, and I didn’t know what you liked, so I picked up a regular coffee and a latte. They may be cold by the time you see this. There’s cream and sugar in the bag along with some breakfast.

Dax

P.S. A key to the front and back door is under the mat out front.

FYI: I’ll be home late tonight.

I plopped down in the nearest chair, staring at the paper, my fingers running over his signature. Like him, it was expressive with a big swoop on the end of the x.

I considered writing him a reply on the back, but in the end I didn’t.

I didn’t know what I’d say.

Opening the bag, I saw three chocolate donuts and a giant sugar cookie. My mouth watered, and I realized I’d never eaten dinner. After warming up the latte in the microwave, I stuffed a donut in my mouth, grabbed my keys, and headed out to see my mom and Malcolm.

I’d worry about Dax later.

THE MORNING AFTER Remi moved in, I got up around seven to meet Declan at the gym. He was training hard for an upcoming MMA exhibition in Charlotte, and he’d picked me as his training partner. More like punching bag, I smirked as I cranked my Range Rover and left the house. I stopped at Starbucks, grabbed some items, and ran them back to the house for Remi. Then I sat down and wrote her a note.

Last night after Remi had gone upstairs and gone to bed and Axel and the girls had left, I’d found myself standing outside Remi’s door. Dying to talk to her and I had no freaking explanation for it. With my hand on her door, I’d stood there for an agonizing ten minutes, debating on whether or not to knock.

My hands had touched her doorknob, my fingers itching to turn the handle and walk inside. I needed to apologize, to beg her to forgive me for my stupid comments in the bathroom.

But . . .

I had no right to even consider going into her private room when she was asleep. In fact, I was being a stalker by even standing outside her door because she was nothing to me. Not even a friend anymore.

Just a bloody roommate.

She was the only girl I’d ever talked to about Mum, the only girl I’d ever fake-married, the only girl I’d ever made love to . . .

I walked away, tearing myself away from the door that stood between us.

Hartford stood between us too.

The best thing to do was to move on—be the usual goodtime Dax and forget about us in London.

I gritted my teeth and forced thoughts of her away.

Thank God I was going to the gym because I needed to punch something.