Roommates

Sunday came quickly. She called Carly while she was getting ready. Luckily, she answered the phone. Elise needed some good girl talk before her date with Max.

“I don’t think I’ve ever even had a guy cook for me before. In fact, half the time they don’t even pay when we go out to eat.” Carly said. “But do you know what this means?”

“No. It means he really likes you. Most guys don’t even want the girl to know where they live until at least the tenth date. How many dates have you gone on now?”

“This is your third date, and he’s having you over to his place. He’s investing time and effort into making you something with his own little hands. It’s so sweet.”

“Please. You are so cynical sometimes. He likes you. I can tell. I could tell the night at Winston’s in Ocean Beach.”

“With the project?” She didn’t want to come right out and ask how the project was coming along, but she figured this was a subtle way of getting Carly to tell her.

“Can you buy us a keg?” Megan asked as she entered Elise’s room. “Oh, and do you mind if we have a party here tonight? Survivor is on.”

“Well, really. It’ll just take a sec.” She sensed Carly was about to tell her something, as if she had something on her mind.

On the way to Max’s loft she stopped for flowers and a bottle of Chianti. She didn’t want to arrive empty-handed. She found a flower stand in North Park next to Ray’s Liquor and chose a bunch of firey orange sunflowers. They were large and thriving and bright with color, and she’d never seem anything like them.

When she arrived at his loft she followed his directions and walked up the steps on the side of the shop. The front door was open, but he had a screen protecting the entrance, and she could smell something delicious cooking. She pressed the doorbell and instead of releasing a melodic ding-dong, it released a loud buzz.

He wore a vintage-looking western shirt, jeans, and he was bare-foot. “Hey thanks,” he said taking the flowers. “These are awesome. I’ve never seen sunflowers this color. And I don’t think I’ve ever received flowers from anyone before.”

His home was tiny but not as bad as Elise had imagined. She pictured him in a studio with a lone mattress in middle and a lightbulb dangling from the ceiling. She’d actually imagined them sitting on the edge of his mattress with plates in their laps and wineglasses resting at their feet. However, the place was completely furnished, with an Art Deco twist. Her heels clicked on his hardwood as she followed him into his tiny kitchen. Maggie nudged Elise’s hand with her nose.

“You would think that dog was starved for attention the way she goes around nudging people like that. But trust me, she gets plenty of love all day. Have a seat. We can chat while I cook,” he said as he took the wine from her hands.

“You don’t have a vase. Shoulda known.” She smiled. “Actually, now that I think of it, I don’t even have a vase.”

“Here. We can use this.” He pulled a cardboard milk carton off the top of the counter. “I just emptied it. It was headed to the recycle pile.”

He gave her a pair of scissors, and she cut the top of the carton off. “Very shabby chic,” she said as she set the flowers on the table. “So what are we having?”

“Chicken curry.” He stirred something luscious and creamy looking in a saucepan, and she felt an urge to throw her legs around his waist and make out with him right there over his dish.

“So tell me about your new roommates,” he said as he put the wooden spoon down. He reached for the bottle of Chianti she brought over.

“Well, they’re in college, so I think they’re still in that phase when getting wasted and puking in someone’s car is okay. But they seem nice enough.”

He handed her a glass of wine. “I hope you’re hungry,” he said as he carried two heaping plates of food to the table.

They ate at his tiny table, and by the time they were finished, Elise realized they had gone through two bottles of wine. She could not remember the last time she had felt so happy. Maybe she had forgotten what it was like in the early days with her ex-boyfriend, Tim, but she didn’t think she’d ever felt this way before. It seemed like there weren’t enough hours in the night, and she truly did not want it to end.

They tried to watch a movie but ended up talking throughout most of it. By the end, Elise wasn’t even really sure what the plot had been about. They talked about their families and places they’d traveled, too. Except for Alaska and both Dakotas, Max had been to almost every single state. Touring with this band had led him all over the country.

“That must have been so much fun. I always wanted to go on one huge road trip all over the country. See Graceland and The Alamo. I’ve even kind of wanted to see Mount Rushmore.”

“That is the one place I’ve never seen. Mount Rushmore. Graceland was cool. They won’t let you see any of the bathrooms. And they won’t let you see Elvis’s bedroom.”

“Really?” She imagined Max, looking hotter than ever, following a tour guide through Elvis’s house, looking for some kind of sign of a toilet.

“Rumor has it Elvis died in the bathroom in the master bedroom, and I think he may have died right there on the toilet. That’s why they won’t let you see the bathrooms. It’s actually a really small house.”

“Well, nobody ever says that. They only say he died in the bathroom. I also saw Loretta Lynn’s house. It’s supposed to be really haunted there. Ghosts from the Civil War. You can swim in her creek, too.”

“So, why’d you leave the band? It seems like it would’ve been so much fun, touring the country with all your friends.”

They were on the second bottle, and she hoped her mouth didn’t look like a plum with teeth. Red wine did this to her, and she had several photos where her teeth were stained a deep purple and her lips outlined in wine lip liner.

“It was fun. But I think I really lost myself. The partying, everything. Half my tattoos were done in drunken stupors.”

He shook his head. “What really ruined it was just my own stupid selfishness. I just took her for granted while I was away, which was a lot. But let’s not talk about any of this. It’s in the past.”

She felt her stomach turning with nausea. She didn’t want to imagine him engaged. But the other part of her wanted to know more. Was he still in love with this woman? Had he gotten over it?

“Not really. I think breaking up with her made me realize a lot. I was gone for eight weeks right before we broke up. I was going on two hours of sleep every night, partying in different towns. She and I were fighting a lot, and when I came back, she told me she had been seeing a guy she worked with. Gave me the ring back, and it was over. I don’t blame her, though. I was a real asshole. She deserved more. And she got it. She married someone else a year later. And I’m happy for her.”

“Of course. We’re friends. I’m glad she’s happy. But enough about this. I’m sure you don’t want to hear about it.” He smiled. “Please don’t tell me about your exes. I think I’d be jealous.”

Maybe it was the wine that made her bold, but she leaned in closer to him, and he took her face into her hands. Their kiss was slow and soft, and his lips had a distinct taste of something she couldn’t define. She felt herself wanting to be closer to him, to feel his warm skin on hers. She wanted to wake up next to him in the morning, but this was only their third date. A very faint part of her conscience reminded her what had happened last time she rushed into something like this.

Shortly after Tim she went out on a few dates with another student from the criminal psychology program, Aaron Terry. On the third date she and Aaron had ended up back at her apartment. Buzzed and completely aroused, she couldn’t help herself. The sex had lasted a whopping two minutes, and he waited two weeks before calling again. When he did finally call, he seemed more interested in meeting up for a late-night booty call than going to dinner.

But Max is different, she told herself as her hand brushed over the hard bulge in his pants. She and Max had a connection. She could talk to him all night about landmarks in the United States, and it would be terrifically interesting. He had cooked for her, and he had opened up to her about his past. His mouth traced its way down her neck, and she found herself pulling her V-neck shirt aside. He moved the edge of her bra away and gently latched his lips over a nipple. She suddenly wanted every inch of him on her body. She wanted to be filled with him.

Aaron Terry. Aaron Terry, her conscience shouted. Max must’ve sensed some hesitation in her, because he took his mouth away from her breast and sat up.

They stayed on the couch, drinking wine and laughing at his stories about the wild days in the band. “Show me your tattoos,” she said, lifting his sleeve. The naked lady on his arm was not the same type of naked lady say, Axl Rose would have. She wasn’t Penthouse but had the same classic style of Ann Margret or Marilyn Monroe; big, soft curls weighed down her hair, and long lashes that looked like dark, dainty fans rested over her eyes. “Is the woman someone famous from the forties or fifties?” she asked.

The model peered with catlike eyes over her left shoulder while unlatching the straps of her bra with long, feminine fingers. The curves of her left breast and nipple were exposed suggestively, and her waist seemed to join her butt like the tip of a heart. She had long and curvy legs and wore sexy, timeless heels similar to ones that Elise had imagined herself in if she ever had money.

She’d always secretly wanted to wear a pair of heels like these. Her fantasy had included a white-fur-trimmed silk robe and matching heeled slippers. She’d strut to a chaise longue near a sprawling swimming pool. Of course, only her maid would know that she was prancing around like Ava Gardner. Naturally, she’d never show up at her parents’ country club dressed this way, but in the privacy of her mansion she could dress like this, sipping martinis and smoking skinny cigarettes. In the fantasy, she smoked.

He lifted the back of his shirt, and her eyes were immediately drawn to his lower back. Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam covered the area above his tush. Not the entire painting from the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, but only the most well-known aspect of it—the two hands, the index fingers of God and man delicately touching for the first time.

When she noticed the lightning bolt with the initials TCB printed next to it on his left shoulder blade, her heart instantly sank. What if those were the initials of his ex-fiancée? She wanted to ask but also kind of didn’t want to know the answer. How could she be in a relationship with someone who had another woman’s initials permanently written on his body? And what kind of girl asked for a lightning bolt to accompany her initials? Even a cheesy rose would’ve been classier.

“TCB is Elvis’s trademark. It stands for Takin’ Care of Business. He always had the lightning symbol with TCB on everything.”

He showed her all kinds of pictures from his rocker days. He reminded her a little of a young Jim Morrisson back then with his shaggy hair and suede pants. They looked at all his photos on his bed, where they ended up making out again. She wished she could hit a Fast Forward button to a few more dates from now when she felt more secure about their situation, but she couldn’t.

“You’re sleeping here tonight,” he said. “Not that anything will happen. I just think you should stay with me.”

They ended up falling asleep entwined in one another’s arms. It had been ages since she’d spooned, or felt someone’s breath on the nape of her neck. It was the most deep and satisfying sleep she’d had in some time.