Jack, Troy, Marion, стр. 10
Marion’s idea of dealing with her broken leg, and the loss of a dream, is to watch sad movies and sleep most of the day. When awake, she’s more snapping turtle than ballerina. I laughed it off for the first few, but then it started goading me. I flat out asked her the other night what her problem was.
“I don’t want to be living with a stranger!”
“You don’t have a choice!”
“That’s fucked up!”
“I’m here to help you!”
“You’re not my friend!”
“You could change that!”
She flipped around on the couch and turned the volume up on her tragic love story.
Jack is who she wants.
But she’s on the road to even more heartbreak with that choice. Everyone knows what David would have to say about his buddy dating his daughter. He’d lose his shit, and they’d never speak again, no doubt. The possibility simply doesn’t exist.
I’m relieved in one thing: Jack endowed this roommate situation with the caveat that if she and I don’t have chemistry, then cool. I’m here to simply watch over her, ease the transition she’s going through. Get her groceries. That’s not too hard.
Especially since he had the cleaning crew scour the entire apartment. We’re living in relative comfort except for the screaming matches.
And the undeniably frustrating fact that I’m attracted to her, despite my better judgment. I blame the first impression. You really can’t escape those. We kind of hit it off that first day, or so I thought. The bickering felt like foreplay.
What an idiot I am.
Lying in my bed alone, I searched the internet and found footage of her dancing onstage. Couldn’t stop watching. Had to replay the videos again and again. She was like a feather who knew how to control the wind rather than the other way around. I’m in complete agreement with the reason for her sadness. It would be a tragedy if she never performed again.
So I get why she cries.
But I still hate it.
No man likes to see a woman cry. The sobs are from her heart and she lets loose at random, unpredictable moments.
They kill me.
A friend of hers came by our apartment two days ago—Logan Clark. I thought he’d hurt her feelings by the way she was wailing. I came running, and she bit my fucking head off. 1 We didn’t talk to each other for the rest of the day. I spent extra time at the gym working off steam. Had to take another shower and dry my fucking hair all over again. I hate that.
Marion is not an easy woman to be around, that’s for fucking sure.
Throwing my big feet onto the carpet, I run lazy fingers through my mop and rise up, naked, to hit the head.
The ballerina doesn’t wake up early. Clothes aren’t yet necessary. She won’t be awake until mid-afternoon, probably.
How long is that going to last? Sleeping the whole day is a waste of a life.
She’s grieving.
I get it.
And I need to stop thinking about her so much, get my mind in the game.
What’s on the agenda today? First, gym. Next, Trader Joes for groceries. Then come back home and research launching this thing. I’m learning algorithms surrounding marketing, something I’ve never tackled before. But hey, none of us fell out of the womb knowing how to talk.
As with anything, we study, learn, fail, learn some more, and eventually master what was once unknown. This applies to every little damn thing we do.
My motto?
If they can do it, so can I.
I just have to focus my energy with interest, desire, passion.
Not a reach.
I’ve never wanted anything more than bringing my idea to fruition. I really think it could help people. Wouldn’t mind making a living off of doing that.
I’m whistling an impromptu melody as I flush the toilet, set down the seat for my female roomie, wash my hands and finger comb my hair. This is how I dry them and style this disaster.
Opening the door, I run smack into Marion.
She cries out, “Oh my God,” covering her eyes, peeking through her fingers down at my cock.
I’m a show-er not a grower. What you see is just about what you get, and it’s impressive.
I could cover up.
Leaning on the open doorframe, I decide I’d rather not, especially since she’s in cotton pajama pants with a dancing, pink pigs pattern under a white tank top. No bra. And her nips just winked at me.
I stretch my arm to hold the other side, relaxed, casual, and free as a man can be. “Morning.”
She is fixated on my cock, her pouty lips parted. That’s all he needs to wake up.
“He says morning, too,” I smirk.
“Do you always…sleep naked?”
“You don’t?”
She blinks up, and it turns out my smile is contagious. Her lips curve despite the flashing eyes. She’s trying desperately to remain cold and aloof as she demands, “Are you going to just stand there, or were you about to get dressed?” Flustered, she stammers with a grin, “Don’t you have somewhere you’ve gotta be, is what I’m asking!”
“Gym. Groceries. Back here. But here is nice right now. Who needs the gym? I’ve got some calorie burning ideas dancing in my mind just like those little piggies on your pj’s.”
She laughs as her eyes dart toward the ceiling before she covers them. “Wow, okay. Who needs coffee when you have a naked viking suggesting morning sex?”
I dryly reply, “Right? But you don’t drink coffee.”
Laughter bubbles out of her, a soft contrast to the caustic attitude she normally leads with. Marion’s got a bad case of the giggles, and it’s getting worse.
I’m grinning now, too, as she covers her mouth with the top of her wrist, looking at me before her fingers swipe the air between us to point out my immodest physique. “Seriously, Troy! Stop it. I have to use the bathroom, and this is…Please move. You’re rock hard