Roommates Unraveling

Chapter Nine- Laughter Is Bliss

Lungs burning. Legs about to give in. Arms pumping. Chest beating.

Running.

I'd always hated running or going for jogs- even power walks seemed to disgust me. Exercise repulsed me, and everyday I swore I'd quit running. But I was good at it. Quite gifted, actually. Uphill 130-foot sprints were my jam. 3-mile Color Runs were seasonal events. 900-yard track events were part of my life.

I hated it, but I did it. Because most days, after scoffing down a Chunky Monkey Ben&Jerry's tub, I felt guiltless. Happy. Satisfied. Which is probably why the rivulet of blubber on my stomach never seemed to go away.

Eat it. Burn it. Eat some more. My motto.

My legs beat in a perfect cyclical motion. My fists pumped in unison. My ponytail bounced with each leap, each stride I took.

I was in excruciating pain, on the verge of giving up, but I saw the house's red roof peeking out from between the teak trees. My mind fixated on one word: RUN.

So I did.

I closed the half-mile distance between the house and my body. Flashed a smile at security, let them wave me in. Pumped my legs in the air as I watched the steel gates revolve open, then seal tightly shut. I swung open the house door, almost knocking Frank, a security member, off of his feet.

"Sorry Frank, I'm starving." I apologized, lunging and stretching my way down to the kitchen. Glutes. Hamstring. Quadriceps. Squatting and flexing my way to food. At my miraculously slow pace, it took me about three minutes to get there.

All of the guys were already awake, lounging on the countertops, digging into chicken waffles Niall had made: another one of his crazy food inventions. Yesterday he'd tried to make ramen noodle brownies. It hadn't worked so well...

"Morning!" I tried to grin, but every one of my muscles ached. I got a tea towel and wiped my sweaty, damp body down with it. The guys had stopped eating- they were staring.

"What?" I asked. They looked away, continued eating. Only Harry kept staring. I raised a quizzical expression again. He shook his head, the hint of a smirk on his lips.

Niall held up a chicken waffle on a plate, as if it was holy. "The crème de la crème of my culinary skills –"

"Non-existent culinary skills." Liam corrected.

Niall ignored him. "I present to you: the gauffre de poulet."

"Chicken waffle." Harry said. "Just call it a chicken waffle."

"Magnifique!" Niall exclaimed, but his Irish accent made his French sound horrendous.

"Great!" I lied, taking half a gallon of Cookie Dough ice cream out of the freezer. I grabbed a spoon from the kitchen cupboard and dug in.

"But..." Niall's bottom lip quivered. "My chicken waffle."

"Next time buddy." I said, devouring the ice cream. Soft, sweet, perfectly sugary and freezing cold. I couldn't contain myself. It was too good. I'd just ran three miles. I deserved every last drop. Frantically, I guzzled down spoonful after spoonful, until the heat of Niall's waffle maker had warmed the tub, and melted, gooey, liquefied ice cream was running down my hands, my mouth, my chest. It was everywhere. I kept eating.
"That's horrific." Harry said.
"I only do it once a week," I lied; glad they hadn't caught me doing this before. "Leave me be."

"Once a week?" Niall asked. "Ohhhh, is it your time of the week?"

I paused. What? Didn't he mean time of the month?