Jesus fucking Christ.
She’s claimed the oversized armchair by the fire. The side table is filled to the brim with cups of coffee that I refuse to move because it’shergoddamn mess, but they’re going to start walking by themselves soon. I’ll come downstairs in the morning, and she’ll still be in the chair from the night before, hair in a messy bun, glasses on her face, typing furiously with Asher’s headphones on. Then she’ll crawl to bed for six hours, which at least means I get some peace, but then she’ll wake up cranky as all hell at dinner time.
I. Hate. Her.
And now the last of my Oreos are gone.
Fuck this.
I slam the cabinet door closed.
“Gibson, youdietoday!”
She looks up from the laptop, hearing me over her music. Her writing time runs from seven at night until seven in the morning, but she won’t make it to sunrise because I’m going to kill and bury her.
“Where are they?”
She pulls the headphones off, fake innocence oozing from her smile. “Where are what?”
“My Oreos, you she-demon!”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. I haven’t touched an Oreo since we got here.”
“Really?” I stalk toward her. “A week and not a single Oreo?”
“Nope.”
“So if I go into your room right now, I won’t find empty packets?”
She glares at me. “Go in my room and die.”
I dart up the stairs and hear her scramble after me.
“Gable, don’t you dare!” she screeches.
I storm down the hallway and throw open her door. And my God, the fucking mess. How does someone live like this?
She wraps her hand around my arm, trying to pull me out.
“Get out!”
“Are you … what iswrongwith you?” I ask, not budging, no matter how much she tries to pull me.
“I have a process!” she says, fixing her feet to the ground and pulling me. “Get out!”
“This isn’t process, this ismess.” I stalk to the bed, snatching up an empty Oreo packet and brandishing it at her. “Ah-ha!”
“That … is not mine.”
“No, you’re right, it’s fucking mine!” I say, shaking the packet, excess crumbs littering the floor. “You are a nightmare to live with!”
“And you’re not much better! Where are all the fucking towels, Gable?”
I look around. “Maybe they’re all in here! Growing moss!”
“No, they’re not, they’re inyourfucking bedroom!” she says, pushing me. “And don’t say they’re not, because I know they are!”
“Stay out of my room! And stop eating my Oreos! Or I’ll cut you up, Gibson; I swear I fucking will!”
