Cameron Cole has a plan.
After yet another relationship ends because of certain shortcomings-literally-Cameron decides it's time to swear off dating and focus her energy into her junior year at the University of Charlotte. There's an internship up...
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For eleven of the twelve months, Wes's house looks like a glorified locker room sponsored by the NFL.
The walls are like a shrine to the Charlotte Colts, with the odd vintage NFL collector's piece mixed in—jerseys, posters, a terrifying white silicone horse mask that gives me a damn fright every time I enter. I hate those things so fucking much.
In the middle of the living room is a large industrial wood coffee table that has clearly seen better days. One corner is duct-taped, like it got damaged during a party and they're planning on getting to it at some point. There's an array of single cleats lying around missing their pair, stray socks in corners and under furniture, empty Colts water bottles, and random hoodies and shirts everywhere.
And yet, it's comfy. Cozy. Lived-in. So wholesomely them.
But then it seems that as soon as December hits—Santa comes to motherfucking town.
Apparently, the guys go hard at Christmas.
There's a fake plastic tree near the front-facing windows in the living room—leaning to the side a little from age. Branches sag under the weight of mismatched ornaments that look like they're found at the bottom of a bargain bin. And at the top, some gimmicky sparkly football instead of the usual star or angel. There are too many string lights wrapped around so tightly the tree is no doubt suffocating—warm hue, cold hue, the multi-colored ones.
And there's some trap version of a classic Christmas song playing through Rome's portable speaker—and he refuses to let anyone touch the playlist.
The whole house is one visual nightmare that makes every interior-design, spatial harmony, color coordinating fibre of my being crash out.
But it's alive and warm and so much fucking better than our place.
Ugh, it literally makes me so depressed every time I go back home and see the cardboard boxes beginning to pile up in different rooms.
And it's not just us being evicted—the whole building is. It's been bought by developers who are just gonna tear the whole thing down and start over—with new luxury condos or whatever the fuck.
Scarlett, being the absolute mother queen she is, has already started looking for alternate places to live that aren't my proposed cardboard box under a highway.
The guys offered to let us live with them—actually, both Clay and Wes were practically on their knees begging to have us in their beds every night. And while it was super adorable and kind of them—and we got off on watching them plead like that—Scarlett and I are way too damn proud to ever rely on men.
But coming here today is certainly a welcome distraction. Surrounded by all these dumb decorations and terrible jokes actually makes it a little easier to breathe.
"So, what do you think?" Wes asks, standing beside me with his trademark cocky grin.
"Honestly—it's like a frat house had sex with a Hallmark movie." I scoff, sliding my gaze from the house to Wes, whose cocky grin blooms into a full-on grin. I scoff again, "Yeah, no—it's great."
