Game on. I gave her three minutes to get fully saturated. Soap in hair is the great equalizer.
But the bathroom? Chef’s kiss.
The water stopped. “Yeah? I’m in the shower—” cornering my homewrecking roomie in the shower exclusive
“I know.”
“Amber?” I said, voice calm.
She tried to pull the door closed, but I wedged my foot against the frame. “Oh no. We’re doing this face-to-face. Or rather, face-to-foggy-glass.” What followed was the most raw, uncomfortable, and yet cathartic exchange of my life.
Amber sent the text. She packed a single bag, soaking wet, and called her sister to pick her up from the curb at 9:15 PM. Jake called me fourteen times. I answered the fifteenth. Game on
And that’s when I decided that polite conversation was over. No more passive-aggressive sticky notes on the fridge. No more “we need to talk” over cheap wine. This required an ambush. A cornering. And where better to confront a homewrecking roommate than where she is most vulnerable—naked, dripping wet, and trapped behind a fogged-up glass door?