The Girlfriend [discontinued]

I. "Humpty Dumpty is a creep."

I. "Humpty Dumpty is a creep."

If I'm being honest here, I really don't know why I didn't take Great Aunt Olive up on her offer to buy me my own apartment before she died. Me, being the naive 18 year old I was, had stupidly declined, insisting that I wanted to experience living in the student residences. I was so wrong. 

Riley, my roommate, is sprawled out across my bed, playing tonsil hockey with a half-naked guy who I vaguely remember standing behind in the queue at the local Subway a few weeks ago. 

I switch off the music that had been blaring from the speakers and clear my throat. Riley pokes her head out from behind the guy's shoulder and grins. "Hey, Winnie." 

I raise an eyebrow and motion to the door. "Please. Make him leave." 

The guy finally turns and looks at me, eyeing me up in an incredibly creepy manor. "I'm right here, you know," he mutters. 

"And you're giving my bed an STD. Get out," I order. 

He grumbles and scowls and generally makes a dick of himself while he pulls his shirt on and heads toward the door, glaring at me as he passes. 

"Gee, way to leave the guy hanging," Riley smirks once he's gone. She's now sitting on her own bed, looking like she's just stepped out of a photo shoot rather than a make out session on my bed. She doesn't even look bothered by the fact that I interrupted her play time. Then again, it's not like she won't find someone else to get down and dirty with later on. "Things were just getting good." 

I give her a pained look. "What's so hard about walking the extra metre to your own bed? I'm going to have to wash my sheets again," I grumble. 

"Oh come on, it's not that bad! I'll pay for the takeout on Wednesday," she offers. 

"You're paying for my load of washing, too," I say, dumping my bag on my desk. 

"Whatever," she agrees. "So are you coming tonight? Party over at Greenway." 

"Can't. I have an essay for Classics to write." I sink into my desk chair and pull my laptop out of my bag, followed by my notebooks and pencil case. 

Riley gives me her usual 'that's not an excuse' look. "Don't even try with that. I've lived with you for the last seven months. I know you hate writing essays as much as the next person." 

I scowl, because she knows me too well. "Well I'm not exactly rushing out to another party, either. You know how that ended last time."

She laughs in agreement. I'd gotten way too drunk and had ended up with a guy, on the bench, dancing like there was no tomorrow. Then I threw up all over him. It's safe to say that I was the talk of the town the next day, because it turned out the guy was the son of some hotshot lawyer, and I'd ruined his designer jeans. I don't think I've ever been so humiliated in my life. 

"I'm not sure that you could screw up that bad twice in a row," she smirks, twirling a lock of her curly blonde hair around a French-manicured finger. "You can write your goddamn essay tomorrow. Tonight, you are coming with me to that party, you're going to get totally wasted and you're going to hook up with a super cute guy who you're never going to see again, and that is final. Now get your butt in the shower before I force you in there myself." 

I don't bother arguing because in the end, Riley always gets what she wants. It's an admirable yet highly annoying trait of hers. Instead, I follow her instructions and trudge into the tiny bathroom we managed to snag up with our room. While most people in the building use the shared bathrooms on each floor, we got assigned to one of the few rooms with its own bathroom. I could not have been more grateful when I found out.