PAINT THE TOWN?
All that jazz?
What fresh hell is this?
It takes me a second, but when I come to, I realize it’s six in the morning and my new roommate is singing show tunes in the shower that separates our rooms.
“For the love of God, woman.” I roll over, groaning and sandwiching a pillow around my head, but it does very little to block the sound.
The girl’s got some pipes. I’ll give her that. I bet she’s one of those Hollywood-manufactured “triple threats,” the ones whose parents shelled out tens of thousands of dollars over the course of their adolescence to ensure they could sing, dance, and act at a level that would land them enough audition exposure that someday, maybe someday … they might be the next Ariana Grande.
Groaning, I reach for my phone on the nightstand and pop some earbuds into my ears. Within ten seconds, Steely Dan is playing in my ear and it’s like that stupid Broadway show isn’t even happening in my bathroom.
I play to Hey Nineteen first.
Then Deacon Blues.
Bad Sneakers and Show Biz Kids.
Yanking an earbud out once the fifth song begins to start, I listen to the situation going on outside my door and determine the singing and the shower have yet to stop.
Tossing the covers off, I crawl out of bed with some unapologetically massive morning wood and trudge to the bathroom, where I find a yellow Post-It stuck to the frame. Scribbled in purple ink is:
RESERVED FOR MELROSE 6:00 AM - 7:00 AM M-F
She better hope to God this is a joke.
I crumple the note and pound on the door.
“Who is it?” she calls in a sing-song voice that could rival a Disney princess any day of the week.
“You about done? I’ve got a job site to get to.” Resting my hand on my hip, I exhale. I’m supposed to arrive by eight, and leaving a minute later than my usual time can sometimes be the difference between arriving on time and sitting in an extra twenty minutes of traffic.
I never had this problem with Nick.
Nick would roll in around three AM most mornings, sleep all day, and do his showering sometime between lunch and dinner—at least I assume. The house always smelled like soap when I’d get home from work in the evening.
“I need to let this conditioner sit on my hair at least another twelve minutes,” she yells.
Pressing my forehead against the door, I breathe in the scent of the flowery body wash and shampoo that trails beneath the door.
But a second later the lock pops and the door swings open, revealing a gaping-mouthed Melrose standing in front of the mirror, hair wrapped in a turban and body covered in a thick robe that leaves everything to the imagination.
“You can’t just bust in here,” she says, hands clenching her fluffy lapels. “Seriously. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Been meaning to fix that lock,” I tell her once I realize what happened. It was an accident. I swear. “Why the hell is the shower still running and you’re standing here in a robe?”
“The steam is good for my pores.”
She must think I’m a bona fide idiot. It’ll bring me great pleasure to set her straight.
“Do you always wear a towel on your head when you condition it?” I ask again, glancing at her sideways.
“Always.” She fights a smile.
A second later, the steam begins to lift and the small room cools, but the shower still runs.
“You used all the hot water,” I say, hands on my hips as I release a hard breath.
“I did? Oh, my gosh. I’m so sorry.” She turns to the shower, twists the knob, and squeezes her body between myself and the doorway.
Her back is to me as she heads back to her room, but I’m sure she’s wearing a Texas-sized grin.
Balling my hand into a fist, I press it against my forehead and take a deep breath before striding across the hall and knocking on her door. I need to nip this in the bud immediately.
“Yes?” she answers a second later, still wearing her giant bathrobe.
“I know what you were trying to do,” I say. “Don’t do it again.”
Her straight white teeth rake across her full bottom lip as her mouth curls. “Don’t mess with me and I won’t mess with you. It’s that simple.”
I narrow my gaze. “Is this because I walked out of the shower naked yesterday? I forgot my towel. What was I supposed to do, wrap the goddamned bath mat around me?”
So what if she saw my ass for half a second? Half the cable shows these days show a hell of a lot more than that. I covered up the important bits—at least as best I could.
“You really expect me to believe you when you literally walked out of the bathroom naked and winked at me?” Melrose asks. The wink was meant to be lighthearted, to reduce the awkwardness of the situation and assure her I wasn’t a goddamned sex offender. Had I known the stupid wink would’ve made or broken the situation, I never would’ve done it. “Anyway, don’t you have to go to work or something? Should probably get in there. I bet you’ve got enough water now for a lukewarm three-minute shower if you hurry.”
With that, she shuts the door and I linger, infuriated—but mostly impressed.
I don’t want to speak too soon given the fact that she hasn’t lived here a full twenty-four hours yet … but I think I just met my match.