When she turns back to her coffee maker, I roll my eyes. “You do realize there are whole shops dedicated to that very purpose, right? There’s probably one on every freaking corner. Like, it’s not nineteen sixty-five, or some shit. You don’t have to brew your own caffeinated beverage.”
She whirls around, ready to fire a retort right back at me at the exact same second my finger flips the switch on my VitaBlend mixer. It’s pretty quiet, as far as blenders go, but it still drowns out whatever Liza started to say. She’s practically got steam coming out her ears by the time I’ve whipped my berries, kale, and protein powder to the perfect consistency.
“You do realize there are entire shops whose sole purpose is to make those, too, right?” Liza asks, pointing at my smoothie as I screw on the to-go lid.
I shrug. “They’re not as good as mine. And don’t even try to tell me that your hazelnut delight or whatever is the same as the stuff that Theo whips up at Drip.”
“If Drip makes such delicious beverages, why don’t you switch to mocha lattes and buy your drinks there? It's the perfect solution because then you’ll have to leave the house fifteen minutes earlier, and I won’t have to deal with you while I make my morning coffee." She smiles sweetly, like she’s doing me a favor.
“Wish I could,” I sigh. “But I save all my extra calories and sugar for my French toast habit. Besides, mornings just wouldn’t be the same if I didn’t have you to bite my head off and bust my balls.”
“You’re an asshole,” she says, her eyes boring into mine as she fills her travel mug with coffee and adds a splash of creamer from a plastic bottle.
There’s no way her concoction tastes as good as the drinks at Drip, no matter what she says, but Liza’s a creature of habit, so I’m never going to win that argument. Besides, she’s right about one thing. I’ve been a dick this morning. “Sorry,” I say, meeting her eyes so she knows I’m being serious. “I had a shitty afternoon yesterday, I’ve got a test this morning, and a presentation this afternoon. It’s no excuse, but I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“You’re not the only person in this house with a busy schedule and a demanding—oh, shit!’
The look on Liza’s face is unmistakable. She’s completely repulsed, and for once, I don’t think her revulsion is aimed at me. I peer around the corner to where she’s standing, and when she lifts her foot, it’s obvious she stepped in something nasty.
Liza’s pulling off her sock, and when the smell hits me, I know the culprit immediately.
“Fuck,” I mutter. “That’s my fault. Let me?—”
“This is your fault?” she asks, holding up her soiled sock. “Oh my god. Did you puke in the kitchen?”
“No,” I assure her. “But Hazel must have. She hasn’t been herself lately. I fed her when I got up, and she ate just fine, but when I was in the shower, she started meowing. I thought she just hacked up a hairball, but I guess I was wrong. Shit. I’ll clean it up. And I’ll wash your socks,” I promise, glancing at the clock.
“Do you even know how to use a washing machine?” she asks.
“Of course, I do,” I scoff. Because I do know how to use one, and I do wash my clothes. Obviously. Okay, it’s possible that there may have been a time or two that my hamper resembled a mountain and I just bought some new clothes. But only a few times. And, really, who hasn’t done that?
“Just go,” she sighs. “You’re running late, and it’s not sweet Hazel’s fault that her tummy hurts.”
When she hears her name, my cat struts into the room, but instead of cuddling me, the man who feeds her, she winds herself around Liza’s legs, purring and rubbing up against her.
My cat is a traitor.
I can’t really blame her, though. Liza’s cooing at her and giving her belly rubs, and only a fool would pass that up. A few seconds later, though, I hear a telltale yowl, and a few seconds after that, Hazel gets sick again. Fuck my life. It really isn’t fair to leave Liza with my cat’s mess, but when I reach for Hazel, Liza waves me off.
“You’ve got ten minutes to get to campus,” she reminds me. “Just go. I’ll take care of the mess and this precious girl. But you might want to call the vet if she gets sick again.”
“Thank you,” I say, grabbing my laptop from the counter and shoving it in my bag. “Seriously. You’re a lifesaver?—”
“Go before I change my mind,” she warns.
I’m not dumb enough to stick around, so I sling my bag over my shoulder and head for the door.
4
Liza
Hazel lets out a sad, whiny meow before cuddling up next to me. Normally, I’d soak up her snuggles, but right now, I’m on my hands and knees on the hard tile, cleaning up cat vomit, so I’m going to need her to be patient for just a little while longer. I give the floor another good scrub before wiping it dry with a cloth I found under the sink.
That will have to be good enough. I don’t have time to mop the whole kitchen, and as long as Hazel can manage to keep the rest of her kibble down, we should be good. The perfectionist in me hates to leave a job partially done, but I cleaned up the mess and the tile is shinier than it’s ever been.
“Don’t do it,” I hear a voice say behind me. “I know that look, but whatever you’re thinking, don’t do it. It’s a terrible idea.”
I look up to see my friend Bridgette leaning against the counter. Her long red hair is mussed from sleep, and, honestly, probably from sex, too. She’s dating Dutton Wagner and those two are incapable of being alone in a room together without getting horizontal. I won’t hold it against her, though. My friend is happy, and that’s all that matters.
