The Perfect Roommate by Minka Kent Read Online (FREE)
“What?” I ask, though I know what she said. Heard her loud and clear.
“I’m going through my closet,” she says with a sigh as she leans against the door frame. “I’m in a purging mood. Was going to see if you wanted anything before I threw it out.”
“You don’t consign?”
Lauren’s nose wrinkles. “I don’t have time. Besides, I heard they only give you, like, fifty cents per item. Hardly worth the gas it takes to drive over there. I’d rather give these to someone I know. So … what size are you?”
I lift a shoulder. I don’t know what size I am. I’ve always worn whatever fits, and whether it’s baggy or tight is usually secondary to whether or not I can afford it.
“Stand up,” she says, making her way across the room. Her gaze scans the length of me. “I bet we’re the same size.”
No way. There’s no way. She’s lithe and leggy with a defined waist and pointy shoulders. I’m … shapeless. Straight hips. Gangly arms. Knobby knees. Shitty posture. I’m not blessed with the kind of physique that begs to be shown off in tight sweaters and ass-lifting jeans.
“Here. Come with.” Lauren’s hand wraps around my wrist and she pulls me into her room, which is scented like lavender sachets and expensive perfume, and she steers me into her walk-in closet.
To call this expansive would be an understatement. By her standards, I’m sure this closet is considered small—most closets in older houses are—but she’s managed to make the most of the space she’s been given.
Jeans hang from wooden hangers, lined up in a row along the bottom. She must have at least twenty pairs, if not more. Above them are shirts, mostly blouses, with neutral shades like white and cream and grey and black, all color-coordinated. Next to those are the colorful tops. Breton stripes, cashmere sweaters, the works. A shoe rack sits along the bottom of the closet, all of her heels and wedges and pristine sneakers neatly organized. Scarves and jackets and bags fill the rest of the space. How she’s managed to make her closet look like a boutique display is beyond me. All I know is I can’t stop gawking as Lauren is pulling pants and shirts and sweaters, all of it for me.
A minute later we return to my room, her with an overflowing armful of clothes which she promptly deposits on my bed—burying my homework.
“Here,” she says. “Try these.”
She shoves a blouse at me first, her gaze fixated on the next item she’s about to pull from the pile. I take the top from her, not like I have a choice, and wait. Lauren drapes a pair of jeans over her shoulder before turning toward me. Apparently tonight she’s playing the role of my personal stylist.
“Try it on,” she says, waving her hand because I’m taking too long.
She laughs. “Don’t be shy.”
My face heats. This is taking me back to seventh grade gym class and the first time I had to change in front of other girls. I can still remember them standing in front of a mirror, comparing their non-existent boobs and pinching each other’s non-existent belly fat.