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The Perfect Roommate by Minka Kent Read Online (FREE)

Is she … mad at me? Like it’s my fault?

Lauren pouts, eyes sympathetic, then she glares at Eli.

I’m so confused.

A second ago, Lauren was pointing out Eli’s purported interest in me … apparently knowing how her best friend felt about him. Now she’s wordlessly communicating with Tessa about how much of a prick he is. Or that’s what I’m gathering. I’m not yet skilled in the art of telepathic communication.

I’ve never understood the intricacies of female friendships, but this confirms everything I’ve ever assumed.

We’re either allies or traitors.

Sometimes both at the same time.

And I can say this, since I’m a woman, but we are not to be trusted.



I’m stirred awake by the smell of bacon and eggs and a relentless throbbing in my head. Images of last night play in my mind, though most of it feels like a blur, like it all happened in a vacuum. The scariest part? I have no recollection of leaving Wellman’s. I have no idea if we walked home, took the Tiger Jitney, or if Thayer dropped us off.

Everything after Wellman’s is just … gone.

I don’t like this feeling. I don’t like that my memories were robbed, that they’re erased forever. But I have no one to blame but myself.

Jerking the covers off my body, I place my aching feet on the floor and realize I’m in last night’s jeans and top. Passing the dresser mirror, I catch a glimpse of a girl suffering her first hangover: mascara-rimmed eyes, smudged lips, crazy hair.

The fact that people do this again and again blows my mind.

There’s nothing fun about the way I feel right now, nothing that makes me want to count down the days until we can do this again.

A burp forces its way up my throat, leaving the taste of stale, sweet alcohol on my tongue, which sends a churn to my stomach. I dash to the bathroom and brush my teeth twice before gargling with mouthwash until the inside of my cheeks burn.

When I’m finished, I head to the kitchen because I’ve never been this hungry in my life.

“Morning, sunshine,” Lauren says, showered and dressed for the day, hair done and smelling like a rose—literally. Her back is toward me as she plates her breakfast and a carton of organic, free-range eggs rest on the counter, along with turkey bacon and fresh-squeezed orange juice. Her phone, which is docked on a speaker in the corner, plays some NPR podcast about climate change in the northern hemisphere.

It’s a far cry from all those Saturdays waking up to the smell of Mom’s greasy, post-sex breakfasts. I can’t count how many times I’d stumbled into the kitchen to find her prancing around to Van Morrison in a tattered, see-through robe as her boyfriend-of-the-month waited for his meal at the head of the table.

I head to the cupboards Lauren designated as mine and retrieve a box of store-brand imitation Cheerios and a plastic bowl with a crack on the rim.