The Wrong Roommate

Rooming with my best friend was the worst idea.

North is six-five, built like a vending machine, and the star quarterback. I’m five-nine with a forgettable face and a sketchbook. When he suggested we share a room, I said yes. Because he’s my best friend. My only friend.

Now I’m worried about all the girls he’ll bring back. About lying in bed a few feet away, listening to them go at it. I’m worried about the bathroom situation.

But what worries me most is how my body reacts whenever he gets too close.

Because that’s new.

And dangerous.