Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 2

expecting to be able to put my stuff down somewhere not covered by his crap is not too much to ask, seriously. No such luck though. Books, papers, posters, magazines, and electronics smother every flat surface. As the perfect finishing touch, a strip of condoms mocks me from the top of the pile on my mattress.
    Ugh. Thank God for small miracles they're not used. Then again, who would you bring back to this dump anyway?
    I'm not a neat freak by any stretch of the imagination, but the state of this room moves way past slovenly to bordering on hoarding. There's barely a path to walk to his bed, and even on the path something keeps crunching under my shoes.
    But this can happen when you study abroad for a semester and then return to school. As far as campus housing goes, you take what you can get when you get back. This semester it means I have a room with the Prince from Katamari Damacy, otherwise known as Heath Drake. Fuck my luck.
    Moving back into the Track team house will have to wait for me to finish cleaning first.
    Downstairs in the kitchen, I have to rummage through the strangely empty cupboards until I find the trash bags. Just my luck, there's only one left. I grab it and head back up to the pigsty.
    An hour into cleaning, I hear the front door slam shut.
    "Hello?" drifts up from downstairs. I assume he saw my car out front.
    "Up here," I reply.
    He runs up the stairs two at a time and skids to a halt at the door.
    "Flower. Shit!"
    I refuse to acknowledge the word he uses in lieu of my name. Not a flinch or a break in my rhythm. I continue stuffing trash from off of "my" bed into the nearly full garbage bag. And if I feign a bit more force than truly necessary to make him feel guilty, so sue me. He deserves it. I never claimed I can't be petty sometimes.
    "I'm really sorry, Flower. Shit, this place is a mess. Here, let me get that. It's all dirty anyway."
    My soon-to-be roommate nudges past me. At first all I see is his backside as he quickly starts grabbing condoms, CDs, and clothes from my bed, tossing them haphazardly onto his own. I stand as far out of the way as I can get and take a good look at him as he scrambles.
    Heath is an inch or so shorter than I am, but since I'm only five foot eight, both of us are on the short side. Since the last time I saw him, his wavy, brown hair is still short but longer over his ears than it was. It stays out of his eyes when he sweeps it to the side. His T-shirt hangs off him as though it's two sizes too big. His muscles are starkly defined and his arms are thin and bony, more so than I remember them being last spring. 'Sinewy' is not a good look for Heath.
    When he clears off my mattress and finishes overflowing his own, he finally notices the silence in the room. He turns and looks at me bashfully.
    Damn, he still has gorgeous eyes. They're bright chocolate brown, almost reddish. And he knows how to use those eyes to his best advantage, too. He also has long, thick eyelashes most women would kill for.
    I'm not sure I've ever noticed before how super cute he can be. Bashful is so much more pleasant than his usual fare. I usually can't get past his cocky attitude.
    "Flower?"
    I arch an eyebrow at him, cross my arms over my chest, and frown. He already knows what I think of that word when used in reference to me, but it's been seven months. Apparently he needs a reminder.
    "Je refuse de vous parler en anglais jusqu'à vous utilisez mon nom correct."
    I rattle off the French as quick as I can. I'm not above actively trying to piss him off if he's going to go out of his way to do it to me. And he usually does. He doesn't know French, but my body language speaks for itself. I really will continue to speak to him in French all week if he doesn't start using my real name.
    My parents are French and though I was born here in the States, I have a perfectly good French name: Fleury de la Coeur. Sure, I got a bit of teasing about it when I was little because none of the other kids had a name like mine, but it wasn't terribly bad. Not until Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire came out in 2000, when I was ten. The next school year, starting fifth grade, I received a metric ton of teasing about my 'girly' name and my silvery white-blonde hair. I swear to God I have heard every single fucking Harry Potter joke in existence. Especially those about her .
    During the same year I began to realize I "like-liked" boys more than girls too. Bad timing much?
    Of course, it was worse in 2003