After months of therapy, Garrett Delko is still struggling to cope with his brother's suicide. The only time he finds peace is on the pitching mound and with a mysterious girl he's been obsessed with since the first week of college. One night, he se...
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Arianne braced herself as she stepped into her dorm room or what she fondly referred to as the cesspool of germs. She ignored the hot, musty air and kicked the door shut. "The cavalry is here," she called out, toting bags of tissues, throat lozenges, and crackers.
Arianne set the bags down and surveyed the room. In the few hours since she left, Morgan had managed to litter the floor with empty water bottles, throw her sweaty sheets into a corner by Arianne's bed, and fill the trash can with used tissues. Arianne regretted not picking up latex gloves and industrial strength cleaner. Maybe she'd make another run to the store tomorrow.
Morgan coughed a reply from under the covers. Arianne winced with sympathy. She'd been holed up in their room for two days, not being able to do anything but sleep and stumble into the bathroom.
"How are you feeling?" She opened a box of crackers and set them on Morgan's pillow.
Morgan's head popped out, her red nose as bright as Rudolph's. It clashed with her sky blue hair, the latest in Morgan's revolving door of hair colors. Last month had been a peachy pink that reminded Arianne of salmon. "I feel like death. You'd think in this day and age we'd be beyond something as simple as the flu."
Arianne hung her leather jacket in the fake wooden closet the college provided, the same fake wood that decorated the desks and dressers. It brought a little color to the white cinder box walls that reached from ceiling to tiled floor. Their rectangular room was cramped, but at least they had space to move. "You should have gotten the flu shot with me."
Morgan bit into a cracker and mumbled, "Hate needles."
"Your tattoos say otherwise unless they miraculously appeared." Morgan had several. Most of them were on her arms and back, but she had one on an ass cheek in the shape of a unicorn.
"If that miracle is alcohol, then yes."
Grinning, Arianne took off her running shoes which were starting to wear holes in the heels and lined them, so they were perfectly symmetrical with her only other pair of shoes—black motorcycle boots, a birthday gift from Morgan. Her parents would be appalled if they saw her now. They were not black leather sort of people and had refused to buy Arianne anything remotely similar which was why she was thrilled to have Morgan as her roommate.
At first, she'd been skeptical especially when she saw Morgan hanging a "Golden Rules to Live By" poster. Arianne wasn't exactly a rules type of person, but then she read the first rule—alcohol doesn't solve problems, but neither does water—and knew they'd get along like peanut butter and jelly.
In many ways, they were opposites. Morgan was blonde, brash, and busty, while Arianne...wasn't. But despite all that, they clicked. Probably because Arianne wasn't shocked or even appalled by anything that came out of Morgan's mouth, and Morgan didn't care about Arianne need to organize everything. Of course, they had their issues like any two people rooming together, but nothing they couldn't overcome with a bottle of vodka and a late night dance party in their PJs.
