“You are such a grouch,” America said with a frown.
Shepley stood. “No, baby. I’m just not feeling all that great.” He grabbed a copy of Car and Driver from the end table, and headed for the toilet.
With a sympathetic expression America watched Shepley leave, and then turned to me, her face metamorphosing into disgust. “Guess I’ll be using your bathroom for the next few hours.”
“Unless you want to lose your sense of smell for the rest of your life.”
“I might want to after that,” she said, shivering.
America took her movie off pause, and we watched the rest of it. I didn’t really know what was going on. A woman was talking something about old cows and how her roommate was a man-whore. By the end of the movie, Shepley had rejoined us, and the main character had figured out she had feelings for her roommate, she wasn’t an old cow after all, and the man-whore, now reformed, was angry about some stupid misunderstanding. She just had to chase him down the street, kiss him, and it was all good. Not the worst movie I’d ever seen, but it was still a chick flick . . . and still lame.
In the middle of the day, the apartment was well lit, and the TV was on, albeit on mute. Everything seemed normal, but also empty. The stolen signs were still on the walls, hung next to our favorite beer posters with half-naked hot chicks sprawled in various positions. America had cleaned up the apartment, and Shepley was lying on the couch, flipping through channels. It was a normal Saturday. But something was off. Something was missing.
Abby.
Even with her in the next room, passed out, the apartment felt different without her voice, her playful jabs, or even the sound of her picking at her nails. I’d grown accustomed to it all in our short time together.
Just as the credits of the second movie began to roll, I heard the bedroom door open, and Abby’s feet dragging along the floor. The bathroom door opened and closed. She was going to start getting ready for her date with Parker.
Instantly, my temper began to boil.
“Trav,” Shepley warned.
Shepley’s words from earlier in the day replayed in my head. Parker was playing the game, and I had to play it better. My adrenaline died down, and I relaxed against the couch cushion. It was time to put my game face on.
The whining sound of the bathroom pipes signaled Abby’s intent to take a shower. America stood, and then nearly danced into my bathroom. I could hear their voices banter back and forth but couldn’t quite make out what they were saying.
I walked softly into the hall, and held my ear close to the door.
“I’m not thrilled about you listening to my girl urinate,” Shepley said in a loud whisper.
I held my middle finger up to my lips, and then turned my attention back to their voices.
“I explained it to him,” Abby said.
The toilet flushed, and the faucet turned on, and then suddenly Abby cried out. Without thinking, I grabbed the doorknob and shoved it open.
“Pidge?”
America laughed. “I just flushed the toilet, Trav, calm down.”
“Oh. You all right, Pigeon?”
“I’m great. Get out.” I shut the door again and sighed. That was stupid. After a few tense seconds, I realized neither of the girls knew I was just on the other side of the door, so I touched my ear to the wood again.
“Is it too much to ask for locks on the doors?” Abby asked. “Mare?”
“It’s really too bad you two couldn’t get on the same page. You’re the only girl that could have . . .” She sighed. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter, now.”
The water turned of. “You’re as bad as he is,” Abby said, her voice thick with frustration. “It’s a sickness . . . no one here makes sense. You’re pissed at him, remember?”
“I know,” America replied.
That was my cue to get back to the living room, but my heart was beating a million miles an hour. For whatever reason, if America thought it was okay, I felt like I had the green light, that I wasn’t a total dick for trying to be in Abby’s life.
As soon as I sat on the couch, America came out of the bathroom.
“What?” she asked, sensing something was amiss.
“Nothing, baby. Come sit,” Shepley said, patting the empty space next to him.
America happily complied, sprawling out next to him, her torso leaning against his chest.
The hairdryer turned on in the bathroom, and I looked at the clock. The only thing worse than having to be okay with Abby leaving on a date with Parker, was Parker having to wait on Abby in my apartment. Keeping my cool for a few minutes while she got her purse and left was one thing. Looking at his ugly mug while he sat on my couch, knowing he was planning how to get into her pants at the end of the night, was another.
A small bit of my anxiety was relieved when Abby walked out of the bathroom. She wore a red dress, and her lips matched perfectly. Her hair in curls, she reminded me of one of those 1950s pinup girls. But, better. Way . . . way better.