Our hotel room is way too small. I’m aware it’s the presidential and I’m aware it’s gigantic but it’s still too small. The awkwardness between Anthony and I take up the whole place. Everything from our (that’s so weird to say) bedroom to my mom’s. I have to admit, it is really nice though. When you walk in you see the main room, attached to an almost full kitchen that strategically takes up a whole wall. On one side is a door that leads to my mom and Anthony’s mom’s rooms. The other side has My Room (I’m just going to call it that to avoid weirdness.) There’s a balcony facing the beach from the main room. Pretty sure this place is bigger then the bottom floor of my mom and my house.
Of course, fighting with Anthony a lot doesn’t make this building any bigger.
It was beyond awkward. Anthony and I were stuck in the same area, same hotel, same room for God’s sake. The guy I had spent so many years in love with and obsessing over would be a few steps away for a week. If you asked me a month ago if I wanted to be in same hotel as Anthony, I wouldn’t have hesitated to say yes. Now I’m sitting here on the couch next to him, alone because our mom’s think we hate each other and would never, ever do anything inappropriate and if we did, my mom would probably have died and gone to heaven. She always tells me I’m deprived. Bitch. I’m not a fan of her constantly bugging me about ‘when are you going to get a boyfriend?’ What happened to strong feminism and the art of not needing a man? I was kind of bitter about this. My mom thought I wasn’t good enough to be kissed. How annoying is that? Moms shouldn't believe their daughters can be left alone in a hotel with young, particularly attractive guys. Anthony’s mom should know not to leave him alone with any female. He’s a womanizer in training, practically. Every female he sees he just has to flirt with. I swear I even saw him checking out my underwear when he was putting his own in the drawer. I don’t know what I’m going to do if every time he goes to get underwear looks at my bras. What, does he need one or something? Last time I checked he was well defined and the last person I would think that needed any type of bra.
“Hey, can you get me a soda?” Anthony looks at me with an expression I would usually call cute (okay, it’s cute. Whatever) and I give him a look.
“Just because I’m a female doesn’t mean I’m your servant. Get it yourself.” I tell him.
“Fine, I’ll get it myself,” he says, standing up.
“Get me one too.”
“Get it yourself,” Anthony says back attempting to mimic my voice but putting it way too many octaves high.
“Fine. I’ll get it myself,” I mimic in the same voice he used for me.
“Was that supposed to imitate my voice?”
“Sure as hell wasn’t for mine.”
“Actually it was pretty close. It needed to be whinier though.”
“So I’m whiny now?”
“Haven’t you always been?”
“You wouldn’t know now would you?”
“Maybe if you weren’t obsessive I would’ve actually talked to you.”
“Obsessive?” I scoff. I’m not obsessive. I’ve never been.
“Whatever you say,” Anthony pops open his soda and I look back at the TV screen.
“Is there always someone drunk on here?” I watch as someone drunkenly throws a drink at the wall. I cringe at the sound of shattering glass. I can’t stand it. It’s a pointless, loud noise.
