“You have a roommate?” We’re sitting beside each other, not across the table. His arm is draped across the back of the seat, and he keeps running his knuckles down either side of my spine, from my hairline to the collar of my shirt. I can feel it right in my magic marble. Which I would love for Randy to roll again.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Do you think she’ll be home?” Now he’s running a single finger back and forth along the collar of my shirt. That he bought for me. So I didn’t have to deal with wearing dirty clothes. I’m also not wearing a bra since all I had was my ugly, ancient sports one.

My nipples are hard and obvious through my shirt. He’s noticed. He touches the scar on his lip with the tip of his tongue. I can almost hear his thoughts. And he’s got an obvious rod in his pants. It’s angled toward my vagina like a directional arrow. That helps with the mind reading.

“I don’t know. Sometimes she works odd hours.” It’s not a total lie. My mom’s job isn’t always predictable, and some days she works from home. Plus it’s a Sunday, so who knows what she could be up to.

“Well, she won’t mind if we come back and use your room, right?” He leans in and puts his mouth to my ear. “You can always bite a pillow if you’re worried about being loud.”

I picture the scene that might require me to do that. Any one of the many positions from last night would definitely qualify.

“Why don’t I pay the bill and we can get outta here?” Randy nuzzles my neck, and my clit lights up like it’s the Jumbotron flashing a winning score. I’d like to jump him right now. At this table. Regardless of the audience.

I have to tell him the truth. I can’t risk bringing him back to my apartment on the off chance my mom is there.

“Unless you’re not interested.” It’s meant to come off as sarcastic, or cocky, but there’s a waver in his smile, and what might be a little insecurity.

I’m experiencing a high level of embarrassment. It’s almost as bad as the first time I met him—naked, with my fur burger on display—or worse, the limbo period of time after I defaced his underwear and before he ate me out in the bathroom. “It’s not that I’m not interested; it’s just that—” I try not to make a scrunchy face, but I can tell I’m unsuccessful.

“Last night too much for you?” Again with the humor/sarcasm.

There’s no way to say this that isn’t going to be horrifying, so I blurt, “My mom is my roommate.”

Randy cocks his head to the side. I say a little prayer. It goes something like this: Dear God, It’s me, Lily. I’ve probably done this three times total in my life, and you never seem to be online when I am, but it’d be super awesome if you clubbed Randy over the head so he doesn’t remember this whole episode. Thanks.

It doesn’t work. Instead Randy gets the look I’m used to by this point: half cocky asshole, half hot bastard. “You live with your mom?”

“I’m saving for an apartment.” It doesn’t matter how good the reason is, I still feel losery.

I’m highly aware that this generation, us twenty-somethings, sometimes stay at home longer than what was normal in the past, thanks to the cost of education and the fact that jobs aren’t as easy to get. There’s also that sense of entitlement thing some people have going on—like Benji, who’s more than happy to ride the free train as long as possible. That’s not why I stay. Mostly I’m there to keep an eye on my mom when her relationships inevitably fail. And anyway, Sunny and I had a plan, which isn’t going to happen now that she’s seriously considering Chicago. Unless I go with her. That’s looking more and more appealing all the time.

“So it’s you and your mom, then? No other roommates?”

It’s a roundabout way of asking a personal question. We haven’t had many conversations about family, apart from what he’s said about his dad. But then, we’ve been too busy getting our sex on for much talking.

“Nope. No other roommates.”

He nods, pensive, but doesn’t push for more information. If we start talking about serious stuff, a last round of ride-the-dick won’t happen.

“There’s a bathroom here.”

I’ve already considered it. I won’t tell him that, though. “So classy.”

“We could always find one of those by-the-hour hotel rooms.”

“That’s the worst idea ever in the history of ideas, Randy. I’d rather do it in the back of the Jeep than a hotel room that looks like a Rorschach test under a black light.”

Randy laughs. “Backseat it is then.”

I’m not sure if he’s kidding, but he gets the check, and we walk out to the Jeep. I still have an hour and a half before my shift, and he doesn’t seem to be a in a rush to leave, so I suggest we go for a drive. We park in the middle of nowhere on a trail that leads to who knows what. Apparently Randy is totally serious about the backseat, because I end up with my pants off and my shirt pushed up with him inside me again.

By the time we’ve finished round eight million of our sex marathon, I’ve got twenty-seven minutes to get to the coffee shop. I change into my uniform in the backseat with Randy’s help—which mostly consists of fondling and some gropes—and he drives me to work.

I’m nervous about goodbye. I don’t know what to expect. This isn’t like any of our previous sexual encounters. He parks the Jeep in the lot and turns to me. My hands are clammy. I’m not going to see him again for at least a month. It’s probably a good thing, preventing me from getting attached, or too comfortable.