Unfortunately for me, I was privy to all their fights and most often, what soured between them on that particular occasion. They were two broken kids, seeking comfort from the wrong outlet. I can't even recall how often I sat with Sadie in my arms, crying over the boy, wishing he could move past his troubled relationship with his mom and stop projecting that relationship onto theirs. Granted, they were in high school, and it seems Tucker has done some growing since then, but never once did I sit back and think, these two were meant to be with each other. In some respects, it felt like a small-town relationship of convenience. You know, too hard to break up because you'll see them every day.
I always thought they were pulling each other down rather than lifting each other up.
But I guess my opinion on the matter doesn't count. What do I know? I was only there for Sadie through the trials and tribulations of the Tucker and Sadie melodrama. I know nothing.
Absolutely nothing . . .
Do you hear the sarcasm? Gah! So frustrating.
I'm shaking with irritation now. He really shouldn't be mad at me. It's not fair. I was just being a friend, telling him like it is, and I even tried to do it in a sensitive way. Last time I do that.
Yes, that's my bratty thirteen-year-old self popping in for a visit. Just let her fester for a few seconds.
"Stupid men," I mutter as I wrap my robe around my waist and head to the kitchen for some coffee, no longer feeling sorry, more in the mood to kick some crotches.
I'm not surprised when I enter the kitchen and see Tucker hovering over the stove making himself eggs. Unlike our previous mornings when we had breakfast together, he only makes eggs for one now. Typical spiteful man. I get it. You're giving me the cold shoulder. No need to rub your fluffy scrambled eggs and crispy bacon in my face.
Prick.
My sorrys are long gone now; forget the regret. I'm a girl without coffee and yummy eggs and with a roommate who is acting like a dick. Beware of what's going to happen next.
I reach for a mug in the cabinet but come up empty. I look over at the sink and see the one I used yesterday morning . . . dirty. Brain is starting to boil.
Honestly. Who only has two fucking mugs?
On the verge of losing it, I slam the cabinet shut with more force than necessary and huff toward the sink. "You should really get more mugs. Two is ridiculous; you're a grown-up, Tucker; it's called owning things," I snap at him. And the mature award goes to me, the girl with the morning hair and ragey eyes.
I turn on the faucet and start washing my mug. It's not even a pretty mug. It's from his construction company. It's your basic white mug with a blue logo on it. Hideous. Where's the Disney Princess mugs? The Boob mugs? The lick-my-dick mugs?
"Ugly construction company mug," I mutter as I rinse it out.
When I turn to fill it up, I catch a glimpse of Tucker, his back still toward me, pushing eggs around on his pan. Did he even hear me? Does he even care about dinnerware? Why is he being a giant jerk and not talking?
"You know, it's polite to talk to your roommate." I fill my mug up with coffee and turn toward him. "You're being rude by not even saying good morning." He doesn't say anything, causing my bitch pants to be pulled on one leg at a time. Things are about to go downhill quickly. "Okay, so you're just going to hover over your stupid yummy-tasting eggs and not say anything? That's just fiiiiinnnnne." My arms open wide as I say the word, and I can feel the crazy starting to take over. This is what happens when someone gives me the silent treatment. I lose my shit. "Just stand there in your holey jeans and, and, your, well, you're not wearing a hard hat now, but if you were, just stand there in your stupid holey jeans and hard hat eating your bacon and jerking yourself off to your morning eggs while drinking out of your one-of-two coffee mugs." I give him the thumbs up, exaggerated of course, really making sure he can see it. "Real cool, Tucker. You're sooooo cool. Don't mind me." Walking over to the cabinet, I bump him into the stove as I reach for a granola bar. I hold it up to him, making sure he can see that my Chewy Bar is what I'll be eating for breakfast. "I have my Chewy Bar and, you know what? My Chewy Bar is a better friend than you are; at least it lets me eat him." Eh . . . I pause. Not what I wanted to say. I shake my head. "I don't want to eat you, that would be weird. Shit, forget I said that." To myself I say, "I was on such a roll." Getting back to my rant, I poke Tucker in the shoulder, which garners his attention. At last. His face is devoid of any emotion as I continue my mini tirade. I hold up my Chewy Bar and coffee and say, "I'm taking this to my room and, you know what? I'll have a hell of a better time staring at my walls than listening to you heavy breathe over your scrambled eggs. Yeah, you breathe heavy." He doesn't, but it's the only insult I can come up with. "Blow your nose every once in a while, it might stop you from sounding like a barge coming into dock."