“So,” I say awkwardly. “How are you?”
She shrugs, trying to look tough. “All right. You?”
“All right.” An uncomfortable pause. “I saw Shamus tonight at the game. He said he asked you to play but you were too...depressed.”
Her brows raise. “Depressed? Wow. That’s a strong word.” Then her tough girl image wobbles. “I mean, maybe it’s not the wrong word...”
I resist the urge to reach out to touch her, to do something, anything, better than what I’ve already done. “I’m sorry about...everything.” If she only knew.
Aster wipes a stray raindrop off the tip of her nose. “It’s not your fault. Did you come here to check on me?”
I try not to notice how blue her eyes are beneath her dark lashes, spiky with rain. How pretty she is. But it’s fucking impossible. “Maybe?”
“That’s nice, but it’s not necessary.”
“I know. But you brought us chicken soup the other night, and now here you are taking care of drunk students... Who’s going to take care of you?”
That’d be her cue to bat her lashes and say, “You can take care of me, Aidan!” but that’s not what happens.
“I’ll take care of me,” she says matter-of-factly, turning to push against the fire door to the stairwell. “Come on. I’m one floor down. Do you want some coffee? Tea? That’s really all I can offer. I drank all the wine, but I have a kettle.”
“A kettle? I didn’t know they treated R.A.’s like queens.”
She smirks at me over her shoulder, but I notice the way she’s gripping the stair rail, like she’s just barely hanging on to her composure.
“This life is nothing if not glamorous.” She exits onto the ninth floor and I trail after her into the hallway, finding the same trampled green carpet and white cinderblock walls I left behind.
We pass a couple of students and Aster greets them by name. Though we’re third years and they’re likely firsts, Aster still seems like their boss, their older sister. I grew up fast; I’ve felt older than everybody my whole life. We have something in common.
“This is me.” Aster unlocks the door to the corner unit and I follow her inside. It’s bigger than the other rooms I’ve seen; a room meant for two being occupied by just one, an R.A. perk. There’s a queen bed pushed into the corner, the covers rumpled. A desk, a bar fridge, a wardrobe and a dresser line the walls. It’s a typical dorm room, including the recycling bin topped with two empty wine bottles and a garbage can overflowing with candy bar wrappers.
Aster smiles sheepishly. “It’s been a rough week.” She pats her stomach. “I’m going to stop, I swear.”
“Whatever helps.”
Her bravado drops for a second. “It’s not helping,” she admits, lower lip trembling. “It sucks. Have you ever been cheated on?”
“No.”
“Ah. Well. Lucky you.”
For some reason I have the inane urge to say something in defense of Jerry, even though that’s in direct conflict with my plan.
She plugs in the kettle and grabs two mugs off a shelf, setting them on top of the bar fridge. If I’d tried to predict what Aster’s room would be like I’d have guessed something light and frivolous, lots of reds and yellows. But this place is strictly functional, books in stacks on the desk, a laptop beside them, an overflowing laundry basket in the corner. There’s no artwork, no photographs, no personal touches. The curtains are pulled back to show a view of the street and the small copse of trees beside it. It doesn’t feel anything like the bright and shiny Aster I expected.
“Have a seat,” she says, gesturing to the desk chair. She takes off her coat and hangs it on the doorknob, so I take off mine and drop it on the floor next to my gym bag.
She’s wearing a long-sleeve shirt with jeans, the silhouette of her body highlighted by the streetlamps outside as she grabs a hair elastic from the desk just as the kettle starts to bubble, and pulls her damp hair into a ponytail. She doesn’t offer coffee again, just puts a teabag into each cup and fills them with water. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve had tea before, but I’d drink anything if it gave me an excuse to stay here.
“So.” Aster sinks onto her bed and slumps against the wall, cradling the hot mug in her hands. “Life sucks.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again.
She blows onto the tea, a tiny billow of steam rising. “I never even saw it coming,” she admits, chagrined. “Like, I never had a clue. When he told me, I thought he was joking. He kept saying, Seriously, and I just couldn’t believe it.”
“It was out of character,” I hear myself say.
“Ha.” She scoffs. “If someone cheats, it’s not out of character. It’s out of line. Out of bounds. Out of the realm of possibility. He’s just another guy who looks like one thing but acts like another. I’ve had enough of that.”
“What did you think he would be?”
She arches a brow. “Oh, I don’t know. Loyal? Decent? Honest?” She sips her tea and winces at the burn. “Well, I guess he was honest.”
“There’s that.”
“I keep trying to be angry,” she says, eyes trailing over my shoulder to the window. “I keep trying to think of ways to get revenge, but...”
No but, I think. Get revenge. Fuck somebody.
Fuck me.
“But I’m just so sad,” she says, her voice breaking. “Isn’t that stupid? I’m so...fucking...sad.”
I say fuck a lot. I don’t even think about it. But hearing the word come out of Aster’s mouth, contrasting with the simple clothes and the tea and that composed demeanor, it sets off a chain reaction inside me. Like a line of dominos falling, shattering every illusion I thought I had. Aster is perfect. Aster is sweet. Aster is flawless.
And Aster is human.
“Have your friends been checking on you?”
She shakes her head. “My friends were Jerry’s friends. Or rather, his friends became my friends. Now they’re just his friends again. They’re not mean about it, they’re just...gone.”
I swallow. “That’s rough.” I want to ask about the friends she must have had before they met, but it seems mean, given the circumstances.
“At least you’re here.”
“Well, you were nice to me when you didn’t have to be. Bringing the soup and stuff.”
“Why wouldn’t I be nice?”
“I don’t know. Why would you be?”
Something in her gaze softens, pitying and assessing at the same time. Seeing pieces of me she’s not supposed to see. And almost as though she recognizes this, sees my armor locking into place, she looks away and grabs a tissue.
“I’m so silly,” she says, wiping her nose. “I’m super emotional and I never am. Never used to be, anyway. But here I am, crying over some guy.”
“That’s normal,” I say. “It’s...healthy.”
Banging a guy for revenge is not.
Screwing someone over to make yourself feel better is not.
When I first saw Aster, I thought she was above me. If Jerry thought she was out of his league, then she’s ten fucking million miles out of mine. But seeing her here now, in this plain room in her plain clothes with this gross tea, I don’t think she’s anything I thought she was.
“Have you ever been skiing?” I ask abruptly.
Her eyebrows pull together in confusion. “What? Skiing? No. Why?”
“Do you read books to blind kids?”
Now she laughs. “What?”
“You just seemed like someone who would. When I first met you.”
She laughs louder, like a release valve has been turned, letting out some of the pressure that’s been building since Jerry broke her heart.
Since I broke it.
“I guess I was wrong,” I say, cursing myself and my stupid judgments.
“Not completely,” she says, dabbing at the corner of her eye. “I read to kids at a library a few times, but they didn’t have to be blind. Anyone could come.”
&
nbsp; “You did? Seriously?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Do you like me better now?”
I drink my tea to hide my smile. “Yeah,” I mumble, trying not to sound too...sincere. Too eager. “I like you just fine.”
7
I can’t say I’ve been friends with a girl before. Not real friends. Not even “I’m just doing this until she lets me fuck her” friends. But now, somehow, I find myself doing friendly things with Aster. Studying at the library, meeting up for lunch, getting groceries.
As friends.
Jerry doesn’t know about this, of course. Aster wants him to think she’s moved on and practically begged me to keep our friendship a secret; I want to keep this on the down low so Jerry doesn’t start putting two and two together and realize I’m moving in on his girl.
Tonight we’re at the library, sitting opposite each other at a table in the classical literature section, laptops open. I have a paper due at the end of the week and Aster—who’s a criminology major, I learned—is reviewing notes for a quiz tomorrow. I’m so wrapped up in my writing that it takes the moans a second to interrupt my thoughts.
I freeze and listen, fingers hovering over the keyboard, and a second later I hear it again: a soft female moan. Of pleasure.
I peek at Aster over my screen. She’s hunched over her laptop, just the top of her hair visible.
Another moan.
Not from Aster.
My heart sinks in disappointment even as it grows two sizes when Aster lifts her head and her eyes meet mine.
“Am I imagining that?” she whispers, covering her mouth with her fingers.
Another moan.
“Definitely not,” I whisper back. To say I’m disappointed Aster’s not sitting across from me with her hand down her pants would be a phenomenal understatement. It’s been a whopping ten days since we had tea at her place and if I thought it was painful to lust after her when she had a boyfriend, it’s ten times harder to lust after her when she doesn’t have one. Because now there’s no reason we’re not fucking except...we’re not.
The moans rise in volume and frequency, breaking off with a tiny, stifled yelp that signifies an orgasm. Aster’s gaze darts to the long rows of books to our right as a male groan rattles through the room and we twist in our seats to locate the sound.
“Yeah, like that,” he murmurs, voice carrying in the otherwise quiet space.
“Fuck,” I mutter, dropping my face into my hands.
I haven’t hooked up with anyone since I moved in with Jerry a month ago. I might not do commitment, but I’m a one-woman man until I get the girl. Then it’s onto the next one. And right now the only girl preoccupying my thoughts is Aster, whose cheeks are flushed as she hears the guy’s raspy breathing, the wet sounds of sucking, his guttural encouragements to the girl going down on him.
I think of Sindy.
I think of Jerry.
I look at Aster. She’s got her hands steepled in front of her and she’s examining her unpainted fingernails. I wonder if this is turning her on. It’s turning me on. I wish that was her mouth on my dick, my hands in that silky hair, my voice ordering her to take it.
The guy comes with a satisfied cry, deafening in the quiet library.
I’m so hard it hurts.
I try to swallow but my throat is too tight. I would give anything to fuck Aster right now. Do anything. Say anything.
“I’m not even jealous,” she whispers.
I freeze. “What?”
“Of them,” she says, pretending not to notice the couple scurrying out of the book stacks ten feet away, still adjusting their clothes. “I don’t even wish that was me.”
“You...don’t?”
“No. Since Jerry told me he, well, you know, I haven’t even been tempted. Haven’t thought about it.”
“Like, at all?” My dick is throbbing and my ego is stinging. We’ve hung out half a dozen times and she hasn’t even thought about fucking me? Hasn’t even contemplated it? Here I am working out extra and taking care shaving and she’s not noticing?
“I tried. Shamus asked me out and we had lunch, but I—”
“Wait.” This keeps getting worse. “You went out with Shamus?”
“Yeah. And he was so sweet and funny and all I could think was, It doesn’t matter. People are assholes and I’m just...done.”
My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline. “Done with...sex?”
“Yeah. Sex. Love. Everything. What’s the point?”
I dart a glance back toward the library hookup spot. “Orgasms?”
Aster sniffles. “Maybe I’m broken. Isn’t that stupid? It’s not like I’ve had a wonderful life and nothing bad has ever happened, but this is the first time I didn’t see it coming.”
I try to forget about my dick and concentrate on what she’s saying. “What kind of bad stuff?”
She sighs and shuts her laptop. “It doesn’t matter. I guess Jerry was just another lesson I had to learn.”
I gather up my things and keep pace as she exits the library, the February night dark and cold. “You need exposure therapy,” I say, my breath billowing in front of me in a white cloud.
“Exposure therapy?”
“Yeah. You should be exposed to the thing that scares you, so your brain understands there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
She stops in her tracks and narrows her eyes at me. “Are you suggesting I watch people have sex?”
I try not to laugh. I also try not to come in my pants at the idea. “No. I’m inviting you to a wedding. It’s this weekend, down in Lawrence. Come with me.”
“That sounds like an awful idea.”
“That’s why you should do it. We can confirm whether or not you’re really broken.”
“Who do you know that’s getting married?”
“My friend Brix. From the...” I trail off, but it’s too late.
“Bachelor party,” Aster says. “Where Jerry cheated on me.”
“But back to the wedding,” I begin.
Aster’s eyes are flashing with anger. “Maybe you should tell your friend Brix that his marriage is destined to end in destruction and failure and his heart will be replaced with a bottomless pit of bile and hatred.”
I try not to flinch. “I’ll be sure to include that in my toast.”
“I really don’t think I’m the right person to invite to a wedding, Aidan.”
“On the contrary. Every terrifying thing you’re saying is exactly the reason you should come. And it’s on Valentine’s Day—do you really want to be half a mile away from Jerry when you could be in beautiful Lawrence, Washington?”
She finally looks intrigued and not just disgusted. “That’s a better reason than exposure therapy.”
“Call it whatever you want. The wedding is Saturday afternoon. We’ll drive down first thing in the morning and drive home late that night. And maybe by the time we get back, you won’t be so depressed and scary.”
That earns me a laugh, her smile making her ten times prettier. And even though I’m still the asshole half-responsible for this mess, I also feel like the asshole that just might clean it up.
8
At eight o’clock Saturday morning, I pull up in front of Aster’s building and find her waiting with a carry-on suitcase in one hand and a thermos in the other. My original plan was to catch a ride to the wedding with Wes and T.J., but I’d bailed on the idea when Aster agreed to come, opting to rent a car so we could be alone for the trip. And the plan is already worth it. Even in faded jeans and that yellow jacket, she’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen, and it’s impossible not to smile as she climbs in.
“Good morning,” she says as I pull away from the curb.
“Is it? Or is it a bile and revenged-filled morning?”
She smirks and sips her drink. “Well, it’s still early.”
“How’s your week been?” I take the turn off campus for the freeway, and a few minutes later we’re on our way to Lawrence. The day is cold but sun
ny, the roads clear and quiet.
Aster tells me about a girl who tried to prank her ex-boyfriend by using a fan to blow flour under his door, but accidentally got her hair caught in the fan and tried to run away with it still attached to her head. There’s another story about a drunk kid who came home, forgot where he lived, and tried every door on three floors until campus police got thirty-seven reports of attempted break-ins and came to catch the would-be bandit.
I listen as she talks, her story-telling funny and wry. She takes her job seriously but not too seriously; it’s like she cares, but not in a motherly way. More like she’s been down some of those roads and she wants to point kids in a better direction.
“You remember the other night?” I ask, switching the radio station when it turns to static.
Aster sips her coffee. “Which night?”
“The one where you said you hadn’t had a wonderful life, bad things had happened.”
She’s quiet for a second. “I didn’t say bad things happened.”
“You sure?”
She gnaws on her lip. “I just meant I’m too old to be naïve. So a guy’s an asshole. I shouldn’t be surprised. He was too good to be true, anyway.”
“How so?”
“You first.”
“What do you mean?”
“Asking me to tell you about Jerry is like asking me to tell you I had a winning lottery ticket and I lost it. So you go first. Tell me something painful and embarrassing about yourself.”
“I don’t buy lottery tickets.”
She’s not impressed. “Uh-huh.”
My free pass to Holsom comes pretty close to winning the lottery, but even though I’m not the most impassioned student, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to keep it. Still, I’m not about to tell Aster about my shitty upbringing and my even shittier life choices. I didn’t have amazing parents, but they tried. There’s a large period in my life where I didn’t try at all, and that’s nobody’s fault but mine. That’s what the judge said. It was up to me to make better choices—could I?
I peek at Aster.
The judge would not approve of this.
“Um...” I clear my throat. “I’m afraid of the water. I fell into a pond once, trying to retrieve a tennis ball, and nearly drowned.”
My Roommate's Girl Page 4
