“Why d’you take the class if you don’t like it?”
“Why the third degree?” I arch my eyebrows at him, but his gaze is fixed on the road and after a moment, I feel churlish. “I need more points for literacy to qualify for uni. English is the easiest way to get them.”
“Not if you fail.”
My jaw clenches. “I’m not going to fail. It’s just not my best class. We’re not even halfway through the year.”
“What happens if you don’t qualify for uni?”
“I start drinking and doing drugs, get knocked up, and try to exceed my mother’s target of being dead by thirty.”
He gives a startled laugh. “Always good to have a plan B.”
The drive is over far too quickly. Inside the luxurious vehicle, it’s easy to forget that Zach literally holds the power of imprisonment over me. Easy to believe that he’s just a good-looking rich boy who took enough of a fancy to drop me home after work.
And the sooner I get those thoughts out of my head, the better.
I toss Trent’s jacket into the back seat and get out, stretching my legs and feeling awkward when the curtain twitches. Finley for sure, probably Rosa, too. From the depths of some weirdly polite past, my mouth asks, “Would you like to come in?” before my head works out what it’s doing.
“Sure.”
He slings a possessive arm over my shoulder as we walk to the door, and I steel myself for a barrage of questions from my ever-curious flatmates.
To my surprise, they’re tongue-tied.
The two of them line up along the hallway wall, staring with wide eyes as Zach walks inside, nodding in greeting. When I lead him through to the lounge, they follow, Finley clutching onto Rosa’s arm like a child hanging onto her mother.
“This is Finley and Rosa,” I say, pointing. “And this is Zach.”
“I love the dress you sent,” Finley says, finally recovering her ability to gush. “It’s beautiful. Any time you want to dress me up in something fancy, just say the word.”
“You look pretty fancy to me.”
She preens. My tough-as-nails lesbian flatmate actuallypreensunder his attention. I look at Rosa, hoping she’s more stable, but she appears smitten as well.
“I was about to start dinner,” I say as an excuse to get him to leave. The lie sounds hollow, even to my ears, especially as all we have is ramen noodles, which take a few minutes in the microwave.
“What’re you having?” he asks, pushing me through into the kitchen and examining the cupboards and fridge. “Did you ladies forget to go shopping?”
“Can you cook?” Rosa asks, her voice piquing with interest. “We’re all as bad as each other with meals.”
“Yeah. I used to do it all the time as a boy. My mother wasn’t the best at keeping to a schedule, so I taught myself to cook.”
Finley sounds awed as she says, “You cook for your mother?”
“Not any longer. She’s dead.”
He throws the comment out as though it’s an afterthought, but my two flatmates appear stricken.
“Sorry,” I say, since it’s apparent I’m the only one with a functioning brain. “Was it an accident?”
“Suicide,” he mutters, pulling open our ‘cutlery’ drawer and rifling through the collection of bamboo forks and plastic spoons. “How about yours?”
“Overdose.”
“Mm.” He slams the drawer shut, his lip curling. “This place is not built for meals.”
“We can order in if you’re staying,” Finley offers, though goodness knows whose money she expects to use for that.
