The Love Project, page 3
“I have not tried to kill you, Wes. I think that’s a bit dramatic, don’t you?”
“Let me take you back to the first day we met, shall I?” I regaled him with my version of events, leaving no dramatic detail out. “There I was, a poor, innocent bystander just minding her own business when suddenly, a gigantic man-child raced up the stairs screaming obscenities at his roommate, man-child number two. That’s you, by the way, man-child number two,” I clarified. He snickered.
“As if it weren’t rude enough to scream in my ear as you passed, you decided to shove me down a flight of stairs to my imminent doom. You could have killed me, but thanks to my cat-like reflexes, I was able to land on my own wrist instead of my head. Said wrist was badly sprained, and I believe it was you who told me I looked like an injured baby bird flapping around on the floor.”
He bit back his laughter, his face red, and his cheeks full with the smile he tried to hide. “To top it off, rather than offer to take me to the hospital like a normal person, what was it you said? Oh yes, nice to meet you, clumsy.”
“In fairness, I did offer to take you to see a doctor,” he said through his laughter.
“Yes, after your roommate threw his shoe at me.”
“He didn’t mean to hit you in the head with it, I swear. He was aiming for me, but he has horrible aim for an athlete.” Oliver’s laughter garnered the attention of several other people in the shop, but once they had a good chuckle, they turned their attention back to their phones and laptops or whatever else they were doing.
“Sure, whatever you say. What about the infamous murder dress?” I asked, moving on.
“The murder dress? You’ll have to clarify; I have no idea what you’re... Oh, that. Yeah, that was an accident, believe it or not.”
“I choose not, Oliver. Honestly, who yells boo behind someone who’s carrying an open bottle and a stack of books? I looked like a murder victim or a serial killer for half the day! Not to mention, you ruined the dress.”
“If you ask me, I did you a favor. That dress looked horrid on you,” he said.
My mouth dropped open, but no sound came out. Eventually, a series of squeaks and sputters managed to merge into a sentence. “That’s rude!”
“I’d say brutally honest, like telling someone their accent is stupid,” he said. “And it’s true, you’re too pretty for that dress.”
“It was my roommate’s dress, and you’re lucky she didn’t hunt you down and kill you. It was her favorite dress.” My phone vibrated on the table, and Ashley’s name popped up on the screen. “Speak of the devil. Hello?”
Ashley’s frantic screaming into the phone made it impossible to understand a word she said, not to mention it rang in my years. I pulled the phone away until she’d calmed down considerably. “Wesley, are you there?” she yelled.
“Yes, just recovering from your attempt to deafen me. What is your issue, Ash?”
“Your best friend just ruined the sofa! Tell her! Tell her what you did, you freaking idiot!” Ashley yelled. I heard a lot of shuffling around before Peyton took the phone.
“She’s overreacting as usual. It’s not ruined, but it probably needs a good cleaning,” Peyton said sheepishly.
“What did you do, Peyton?” I asked.
There was really no telling which of them was speaking the truth. It was either ruined beyond repair or only slightly dirty—but in reality, it was probably somewhere in between. The two never could spend more than thirteen whole seconds together without getting into a shouting match, both exaggerating far beyond the parameters of typical human exaggeration. For example, the time Ashley insisted Peyton had stabbed her, and I arrived home in a rush to find he’d only poked her with a sharp pencil.
“I may or may not have... Will you stop hitting me, you little lunatic?” Peyton said. I heard Ashley smacking him repeatedly in the background. I could easily envision the scene. It happened so frequently, it was impossible not to see it play out in my mind.
“Seriously, guys. What the heck happened to the sofa?” I asked.
“He decided to paint the ceiling! Who paints the ceiling in an apartment?” Ashley asked.
I let my head fall to the table. My forehead slammed onto it for the second time in a week. “Do we need a new sofa?”
“Yes, since this one is covered with paint. Bright green, freaking neon paint!” Ashley yelled. I snapped my head back up.
“Bright green neon paint! Tell Pey I’m gonna kill him myself. I’m on my way home.” I hung up the phone and slipped it into my bag.
“Trouble in paradise?” Oliver asked with an arched eyebrow.
I sighed again, something I probably did too much, but was a habit I couldn’t break. Not while I lived with two idiots and was partnered with another in one of the most important projects of my life. “My stupid best friend painted our ceiling, and from the tone of Ashley’s voice, I’d guess he spilled it all over the sofa. So, now we need a new sofa and a new ceiling.”
Oliver began laughing again and collecting his own things. “I’m coming with you. I’ve got to see this.”
“I don’t recall inviting you,” I said as I tossed my empty cup in the trash.
“Aw, come on, Wes. It’s good research for our project.”
“How is a green ceiling and a demolished sofa good research for our project?” I asked, genuinely curious to know how his brain came to that conclusion.
“Isn’t it obvious? The two are madly in love with one another, but they’re too afraid to admit it, so they take their frustrations out on one another through hostility,” Oliver reasoned. It was my turn to laugh hysterically.
Once I was able to regain some semblance of composure, I said, “Oliver, I assure you Ashley and Peyton are not in love. In fact, we don’t keep sharp knives in the apartment, because I have a legitimate fear Ashely would stab Peyton to death in his sleep.”
“Ah, but she wouldn’t do it while he was awake, which means his pain would be too much for her to bear. As I said, they are in love,” Oliver said with a smile. He followed me out the door to my car, which meant he didn’t care if I wanted him to go or not.
“Whatever Brit Boy, just get in the car so I can go stop World War III from erupting in my apartment.” Oliver climbed in but was wise enough to keep his yapper shut the entire way back to my apartment.
I heard their yelling before I even got out of my car, and Oliver’s eyebrows raised. “Holy cow, is that them?” he asked. I sighed for the hundredth time.
“Unfortunately, it is. Hurry before we get kicked out of another apartment,” I said and jogged toward the building with a prayer that no one had called to complain about the screaming match taking place in our building—again.
“Another apartment? That’s happened before? Why do you room with them if it’s always like that?” Oliver asked, jogging to keep up with me.
“I don’t know. They’re the only two people I like, I guess.” I pushed open the door to our little apartment and found Peyton standing in the middle of the room, covered with bright green paint from head to toe. It dripped from the ceiling and onto the carpet where my eyes landed. I followed the stains on the carpet to the sofa that used to be a lovely, clean white.
“Just because you’re an art major, doesn’t mean you paint your art on our ceiling! You’re not da Vinci, and our ceiling isn’t the Sistine Chapel, Peyton!” Ashley yelled as drips of green fell onto her blonde hair.
“Michelangelo painted the Sistine Chapel! If you’re going to insult me, have the decency to get it right!” Peyton shouted in return.
“Michelangelo is a cartoon turtle, stupid!” Ashley shouted. Oliver chuckled behind me.
Peyton groaned and smacked his face with his paint-covered hand. “The turtle was named after the painter, stupid.”
“I’m stupid? I’m the stupid one? Look at our ceiling!” Ashley screamed, and her face turned such a deep shade of red, it was nearly purple. If her blood pressure rose even a touch more, I fully expected her head would explode like Vesuvius. She huffed and puffed, getting herself worked into such a tizzy she was without words. She sputtered, trying hard to come up with the right words to convey her anger, but there were none. I saw her hands twitch only a second before she dove at Peyton, ready to strangle him to death.
“Whoa!” I shouted, then dove between them before Ashely got her hands on Peyton. “Okay, let’s take a step back before we turn into homicidal maniacs.”
“Too late, I believe,” Oliver joked.
“I will slaughter you where you stand and feed you to your dog,” Ashley snapped at Oliver, who quickly decided it was best to keep his mouth shut.
“Okay, let’s look at the cleaning instructions on the container and go from there. Where’s the paint can?” I asked as I situated myself between the two of them. Peyton handed it to me, and I read over the instructions. Once I had read everything, I placed the paint can on the floor and glanced at my friend.
“Ashley, would you do me a favor? Could you go to my bedroom and shut the door for about two minutes?”
“Why?” she asked.
“Can you just humor me, please?” I begged, exhausted with the lot of idiots standing in the room with me. Ashley did as I asked, more than happy to get away from the boy she detested most in life. She needed to be another room, because, with the new information I'd acquired, Peyton would be dead in a nanosecond when Ashley heard.
“Pey, I’m going to kill you myself. This is oil-based paint! Not only do we need a new sofa, but we will also be paying to re-carpet the entire room and hire a painter to fix the ceiling!” I fussed.
“What? No, it isn’t.” Peyton took the can back and inspected it. “Oops. I wondered why it smelled so strong.” He dropped the can to the floor and gave me his puppy eyes.
“Peyton, no. Don’t you dare try to use that on me. Don’t even... Ugh, fine. I’ll help you pay for it, but you have to pay me back. This isn’t like last time. I want to be paid back with real money, not chocolate you stole from the cafeteria! Am I clear?”
“Clear as a bell. Now, can someone help me get this thing out of here before the crazy woman storms back in?” Peyton asked and pointed to the sofa.
With Oliver’s help, the three of us managed to get the sofa downstairs and into the dumpster without getting paint on the walls in the hallway. The same could not be said for our clothing or Oliver’s hair. He looked like a very tall leprechaun, and it made me giggle. Bleh.
“What’s so funny?” he asked, running his hand through his hair.
“Your hair. It’s streaked with green,” I said.
“Oh, this? It’s what all the cool kids are wearing. Want some?” Oliver pushed his hand toward my face.
“No!” I yelped, but he chased me down and smeared it across my face anyway. “Stupid Brit Boy! This will take hours to get off my face and out of my hair.” Oliver let me sit up as he chuckled. He made no effort to escape when I used his shirt to wipe my face. Peyton wandered back toward the apartment, but his pace said he was in no hurry to walk back into the lion’s den. Oliver watched him go, then turned back to me.
“Question, why do you tolerate the two of them if it’s always such a hassle?” he asked.
“I told you they’re my friends.”
“Right, but if anyone else had done what Peyton did, would you have forgiven so easily? Would you tolerate Ashley’s insanity if she were anyone else?”
“Uh, no. Definitely not. Why do you ask?”
“Research, that’s all. Just research. I’ve got class in two hours, and something tells me it will take that long to get this paint off.” Oliver tried to wipe it off his face, but all he managed to do was smear it around. “See you at Saxton’s tomorrow.”
He walked away before I had a chance to question him further about the research. Whatever he was thinking, he wasn’t willing to divulge just yet. No matter, I had a lot of work to do anyway, like figuring out the best way to tell our property manager our carpet and ceiling were bright green. Peyton, if he weren’t my best friend in the world, I would have let Ashley kill him.
Chapter Three
I MANAGED TO GET UP before Ashley had a fit over the alarm clock again, but that was only because I was staring at the ceiling when it went off. For some reason known only to my subconscious mind, I couldn’t sleep. I sighed and turned it off, resigned myself to the idea that I would not be in a good mood for the rest of the day, and hobbled out to the kitchen. My excellent mood was made even worse by the sight in the living room, the reminder that we would have to pay nearly a thousand dollars to have the ceiling and carpet in one teeny room repaired, not to mention the cost of a new sofa.
Peyton had been missing in action since the incident, likely staying at his friend’s place until Ashely had a moment to regain some sanity. I’m not sure she ever had any where he was concerned, but at the very least, she was less likely to murder him after a few days passed.
Ashley was nowhere to be found but left a note on the counter. Evidently, the smell of oil-based paint mixed with her general disdain for all things Peyton gave her a migraine, so she went to sleep it off at her boyfriend’s apartment. I sighed and ate breakfast in peace, then headed to class where Oliver would no doubt make my day so much brighter... Sarcasm, even when there’s no one around to appreciate it.
Imagine my surprise when Oliver actually did make my day a little brighter. I wandered into class, only noticing that my pants and shirt did not match once I walked into the bright, fluorescent lighting. Oh well, I thought, close enough. How could white be two different shades? The constant struggle to resemble an adult human being was one that bit me in the butt every single morning.
“Good morning, sunshine! Here you go. It’s piping hot, so be careful.” Oliver handed me a gigantic coffee from Java Johnny’s, immediately eliciting a smile from my otherwise frowny face.
“You have literally just given me hope for the rest of my day,” I said, sitting in the seat beside him.
“Well, that’s good since I have news that will probably make you want to vomit profusely in a moment,” he said. I dropped my head.
“Why, Oliver? Why couldn’t you just let the moment last?” I whined and sipped the coffee. “Ow, dang it!”
“I told you it’s hot. Why don’t you listen to me?” he asked, then said, “I can’t study after class tomorrow, but I’m free today. Can you make that work?”
“Wait, that’s the news that will make me vomit profusely?” I asked.
“No, that’s this part. I borrowed a load of Romcoms and lovey-dovey movies from my roommate’s sister so we can use them for research. I thought they would be a good way to test a theory I have,” he said, bracing himself for the windfall of complaints and general grumpiness.
“Gross, but whatever. We have to do this project, so I might as well suck it up. What’s your theory?” I asked and slowly sipped again. I burned my tongue again but tried to play it off. Oliver chuckled.
“Hurts, doesn’t it?” he asked.
I shook my head no, but I was almost sure I’d have no feeling in my tongue for the rest of the day.
He chuckled again and said, “Sure, it doesn’t. Anyway, what if love has been defined by what we see and hear on television, rather than how we actually feel?”
“What about before television?” I asked, seeing a light that might help me escape hours of sappy nonsense.
“Right, I thought of that, but at least this is a starting off point, yes?”
“Okay, but what does that have to do with the effect of love on the brain?” I asked, blowing on the hottest coffee I’d ever had in my life, not that it did much good.
“Perhaps it might cause stress? When the love falls short of what we see, isn’t it reasonable to assume it causes stress, anxiety, depression? All that and maybe more?” he asked with a little shrug.
“I can see that. So, we can observe different kinds of love, how they are influenced by outside elements and the effect of both?”
“Sure, I think that would fulfill the requirement and make it a little less boring than just reading through volumes on the topic, don’t you?” he asked.
“I guess. I still think it’s stupid, but I need an A in this class, so I’m on-board with it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go vomit over the idea of watching romantic comedies with you all day.” I feigned illness and gagged. It made him laugh until his eyes crinkled with joy. I couldn’t say why, but his laughter didn’t seem to bother me as much as it had before. I shook it off as merely growing tolerance for him, a coping mechanism or protective shell, so to speak, and turned my attention to the lecture that had begun.
The coffee wasn’t my usual, but it was good, and it did the trick. I felt like a somewhat normal human after drinking it all, at least one who could function well enough to tolerate a few hours of study at the library with an annoying man.
Once the lecture was over, I rearranged my schedule so I could have the afternoon free. While I did, Oliver tapped his fingers on the table, hammering out a rhythm I didn’t recognize while he hummed. Once I’d confirmed my plans, I dropped my phone into my bag.
“Okay, Brit Boy, let’s go.” I hoisted the bag over my shoulder with a grunt.
“Why do you call me that? Is it like a boy band reference or something? We Brits are good at those,” he said, following a little too closely out the door.
“I don’t even know what you just said, but no. It’s just a name, that’s all. My car again, or walk?”
“Walk,” he replied. “So, just a name? Like a nickname or a term of endearment?”
“Endearment and Oliver are not two words I would ever use in the same sentence,” I joked, then promptly tripped on the curb, stumbled a few steps, and kissed a tree. Oliver was by my side in a nanosecond. His hand fell gently on my shoulder.
“Wes, are you okay?” he asked, his concern sincere. “Are you crying?”
My shoulders shook, but I wasn’t crying. I could hardly control my own laughter as I thought about how it must have looked. Me, flying through the air, landing in a full-on kiss with a giant oak tree. “No, I mean, I scraped my face a little, but I’m fine,” I managed to spit out through heaves of laughter.
