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Rule number two, Mason. Rule number two.
Goddamn. Rule number two will be the death of me.
13
KARLI
Imade a decision when I woke up this morning. No more Grumpy Karli.
I’ve been moping around, having a pity party and acting like the victim for over a week now. But it’s time to be real with myself.
Yes, my circumstances aren’t ideal. In fact, the life I’m living is far from the life I’ve always dreamed of living. But being a grumpy asshole all day, every day is a choice. And it’s getting old. Frankly I’m tired of being mad at the world. And I’m over it.
A thick wall of tree trunks frames the weedy pathway through the forest. The canopy of branches overhead sways slightly in the breeze. I jog up the dirt track, taking a swig from my water bottle and deliberately ignoring my queasy, hungover stomach. I’ve got my earbuds in, listening to some award-winning life coach speak about the magic of self-care.
Loud-ass memories of last night keep coming back in violent waves of embarrassment and shame, drowning out the podcast pouring through my earbuds.
“You should be, like…like…a phone sex operator. Or a vibrator salesman.”
Ugh. This is why I don’t drink.
Drunk Karli is a fool. A drunk, flirtatious fool who makes a foolish fool of herself.
And now, the day after, I’m mortified by all the dumb things I said. But I’m also thinking about the things Mason said to me.
“It’s those rough edges of yours that make you perfect, Karli.”
“I don’t need a bribe to see how amazing you are.”
He knew exactly what I needed to hear. And he delivered the words with the perfect mix of humor, charm and sincerity. And just thinking about his nice, big arms wrapped around me makes my stomach whirl in an entirely different way.
I didn’t want to like him but he wore me down. And to be completely honest, being a full-time Angry Bird is getting exhausting. Especially in the face of his perpetual good vibes.
Mason has really been holding a mirror up to my face. From the way he called out my anti-social behavior at the ice cream shop to the way he held my pieces together last night when I felt like I was falling apart. The guy has been nothing but nice to me, despite my constant sour milk attitude. He makes me want to turn over a new leaf and be a better version of me.
So, as of today, I’m embarking on my ‘feminine journey’. Or whatever it is this podcaster just called it. If that entails taking regular bubble baths and making sure to shave my legs every few days, I can totally do that.
Just to be clear—this attitude makeover is not at all the result of some kind of out of control crush I’m fostering. No, no, no. I’m just trying to better myself. That’s a good thing. I’m definitely not doing this because I have a crush on my roommate.
My jog slows to a brisk walk in the middle of the dirt path and I wipe the back of my hand across my sweaty forehead. For a brief moment, I close my eyes and I’m transported back to that night. I can feel the strength of Mason’s powerful body as he rocked inside me, the musky scent of his warm skin fills my head, I can hear the low, desperate sounds he made in my ear.
Okay. Fine. I have a crush on him.
But who can blame me? The man is smart and considerate and kind and hot as hell. And try as I might, I still can’t forget that, not too long ago, he gave me several out-of-body orgasms on that dirty motel room bed.
I have no intention of acting on this crush, though. Of course not. That would be disastrous. For meandfor him. For a long list of reasons.
But inappropriate sexual attraction aside, I’m now committed to being a better roommate. And who knows? Mason and I might even become friends somewhere down the line.
I smile to myself and nod.Yeah, friends…It’s decided. We’re going to be friends.
I continue my stroll until I exit the forest and find myself in the backyard, walking around toward the front of the house. I spy Mason’s car parked in the front yard and instantly, my heart begins to thump.
He’s home from work.
I wipe my sweaty hands down the front of my yoga pants, deciding that I’m not ready to go inside and face him just yet. A bit of gentle yoga in the grass might be what I need to calm down my overactive brain.
I creep into the garage to find my yoga mat. Looping around the front of my car, I see it sticking out of an open cardboard box wedged on the top shelf of the storage unit. It’s just out of reach so I stand on my tiptoes, grab hold of one corner of the box and wiggle the tattered cardboard toward me. The box tips over the edge and the next thing I know…
