“I’m going to manifest a more positive conversation by not responding to that.” Shelby and I had a unique relationship. When I transferred to the University of Texas for the summer semester, there weren’t any housing options for a last-minute transfer student. I checked Craigslist on a whim and ended up moving in with her the next week. We were opposites in every way that counted. She was a few years older than me, and a local photographer. Shelby was impulsive and disorganized. She wasn’t unmotivated, per se, she just couldn’t keep set on one particular thing. She changed her mind like the Texas weather and had the financial freedom of a trust fund to do whatever she wanted.

She didn’t even need a roommate. Her skyrise condo in the heart of Austin was easily worth more than my entire undergrad degree. She just wanted the adventure of “sharing her life with someone” and got me. I wasn’t sure if she regretted that whim or not, but I’d take advantage of my oversized room and walk-in closet for as long as she’d let me. I wasn’t exactly hurting for money either. My dad was an executive for Plotify, a music streaming service, but he wanted me to get at least a semblance of the college experience—which meant a healthy dose of ramen noodles and a strict allowance every month.

“Well, if we’re talking about the universe, Mercury must be in Gatorade or something, because my vibes are all off. Like literally, I ran out of batteries for my vibrator last night and I’m ovulating, so you know I’m horny as hell,” Shelby said. I rubbed my temples. There was so much wrong with that statement that I didn’t know where to begin. “Did you use the last of the coffee?” she complained, with a loud sigh.

“Nope. My body is a temple,” I replied. “I don’t do instant coffee.”

“A temple of anxiety meds and Diet Coke,” she snapped back. Damn, she was on the struggle bus this morning. I made a mental note always to keep the kitchen stocked with caffeine.

She continued to wrestle with the kitchen cabinets, looking for her instant coffee. I personally didn’t understand her obsession with the crap. It tasted like fermented dirt—and I might have known what it tasted like because I stole the last of it just yesterday.

“Are you sure you didn’t take it?” she asked again. This time, she spun around to scrutinize me, boring those mud-brown eyes into mine as she twisted her bright, box-dyed, red hair on her finger. I gave her frumpy black pajamas a once over before answering her.