My Roommate's Girl

by Julianna Keyes

  Aster yawns and stretches, T-shirt riding up to expose her stomach. I just saw it—kissed it, touched it—but my opportunistic cock is ready to go again, right away.

  Then Aster ruins it.

  “Okay,” she says, looking at me seriously. “We need to talk.”

  33

  Aster

  Aidan’s face falls so fast you’d think I’d said I love you.

  Jerry said it, the first time we had sex. And he wasn’t even lying. Wasn’t saying it to get my clothes off, wasn’t saying it in the heat of the moment.

  He meant it.

  I’d been a little surprised, but it hadn’t scared me away. We’d been dating for nearly two months at the time, and it was my goal to find a nice guy, someone who matched up with the new life I’d envisioned for myself. I didn’t say it back, because it wasn’t true then. Jerry wasn’t offended. He never took offense to anything. And when I told him I loved him a couple of months later, he wasn’t relieved, he’d just beamed at me, happy to hear it.

  Then he cheated and tore down all the walls of the new life I thought I’d been building, and forced me to admit that they were just flimsy constructions made up of silly dreams and fantasies with no foundation.

  Aidan is not perfect, and he doesn’t pretend to be. He’s not going to tell me he loves me or bring me flowers or introduce me to his parents. I don’t even know that I want him to. I just know that he was a friend when I needed one, and he’s really good in bed.

  I mean, Jesus. I just almost died.

  Not that I’ll tell him that, or he’ll get even more conceited.

  But seriously.

  “The interview,” I clarify, reading his terror and speaking before he can bolt out of the room, pants in hand. “We have to get it done so we can submit something to Jim by Friday.”

  He grips the side of the desk like it’s a lifeline. “The interview,” he says, swallowing. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”

  I point toward the far corner. “I set up some chairs. You’re by the window.”

  He retreats to the interview area, his relief obvious. I collect my things and take the second seat, curling my legs beneath me and pretending to skim the brief list of questions I’d come up with. It’s nice to see Aidan off-kilter. Nice to know I’m not alone.

  “Ready?” I ask.

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  “Question number one: do you always conduct interviews with your pants off?”

  His mouth curves, looking sexy and tired. “Always.”

  “During the viewing of the horror film Kill Glory 5, how many times did you squeal in terror?”

  He gasps. “Traitor.”

  “I’ll answer that. You squealed six times.”

  He snatches a discarded sock from the floor and throws it at me. “This interview is over!”

  I catch the sock, tossing it over my shoulder. “Okay, we’ll come back to that one once you’ve calmed down. You’re in your third year at Holsom, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how do you feel your promise and potential have progressed since you first arrived?”

  “Since I knocked myself unconscious on a bar floor and was saved by a prostitute? Um...”

  I hold up a hand. “Hang on. I’m writing this down. Saved...by...a...prostitute...”

  “That was off the record. The on-the-record answer is, Holsom has been a once-in-a-lifetime learning experience and every day I’m grateful for my time here and determined to make the most of it.”

  I mock gag. “That’s on the welcome sheet they hand out each year.”

  “You read that?”

  “Come on. Answer for real.”

  He sighs and studies the ceiling. “Okay. When I first came to Holsom, I knew I had an opportunity. But it’s one thing to give someone an opportunity and quite another for them to know what to do with it. Hence the unconscious-in-a-dirty-bar part.”

  “Okay.”

  “So I just started emulating the things I saw around me. Go to class, take notes, speak up once in a while, do the readings, pass the tests. I got the job in the library and I showed up, did my work, and went home. I did all the right things to stay out of trouble.”

  “Uh-huh...” I scribble this down as fast as I can.

  “And I thought I was doing okay. I thought enough time away from temptation would mean it wasn’t tempting anymore. I stole cars for money, but it also made me feel something. Feel...powerful, maybe. Like I could have those things, if I wanted them.”

  “Mm hmm.”

  He exhales and studies his tattooed knuckles. “Then I saw you and it dawned on me that the temptation wasn’t stealing the car, it was having something that was out of my reach. And I wasn’t immune to it at all. No amount of promise or potential could override the feeling of being willing to do whatever it took to have you.”

  I stop writing.

  “But then...” He keeps examining his hands. “Then you were so sad, and that was the first time in my life that I’d had to deal with someone my actions had hurt. It’s not like I ever saw those car owners again. But you were right there in front of me and seeing you made me want to do better. Be better.”

  My chest feels tight. My sinuses sting. It’s one thing to know how his deception hurt me; it’s another to learn that it hurt him, too.

  “So to answer your question, how have my promise and potential been developed here at Holsom?” He strums the armrest. “I guess I’ve learned that having the opportunity to do more with my life isn’t everything. It’s important to have a reason to want to do better. Finding the reason shows you how lucky you are to be here, and you see that the promise and potential isn’t just you, it’s everything around you, if you’re willing to see it. And willing to let it see you.”

  A heavy silence falls over the room when he finishes speaking.

  I haven’t written any of this down. I didn’t want to record it on my phone in case the conversation veered into inappropriate territory, but now I wish I had, because there’s no way I can paraphrase what he just said.

  “Wow,” I say inanely.

  He lifts his eyes and shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant but not succeeding. He’s more embarrassed than he was when he thought I was going to slap him. Veering back into less vulnerable territory, he echoes our conversation in bed. “Wow good?”

  “Wow—”

  A pounding at the door interrupts. “Aster?”

  “Is she in there?” another voice asks. “I need—”

  “I was here first. Get in line.”

  More pounding. “Aster?”

  Aidan drags his hands over his face, then gets up, stalks over to the condoms still on the floor, and jams more under the door.

  “Go away!” he orders.

  “Um, thank you, but I just need a corkscrew,” a small voice calls. “I can’t drink my wine.”

  “And do you have change for a dollar?” the first voice asks. “I need quarters for laundry. Why do you have so many condoms? Are these flavored?”

  Aidan rests his forehead against the wall, shoulders slumping in defeat.

  I pull on my pants, grab quarters from the jar on my desk and the corkscrew from the drawer, then push Aidan out of sight and open the door to reveal the needy faces of my residents.

  “Who’s here?” one asks, trying to peek inside. “Is it Jerry?”

  “I thought they broke up.”

  “They did? Why?”

  “Not sure. Why did you—”

  “None of your business. Here’s the corkscrew. Return it tomorrow. Here are the quarters. Give me the dollar.”

  “How do you use a corkscrew? Are there instructions?”

  “Google it.”

  “When you do laundry, is it important to use laundry detergent, or will dish detergent suffice?”

  “How do you not know the answer to that?”

  “Well, I—”

  “If it’s not Jerry, who is it?”

  “Goodbye, guys.” I use my
foot to pull the stray condoms back into my room while fending off the interlopers with my hands. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Can we—”

  “No.”

  I close and lock the door, turning to see Aidan now sitting on the bed, elbows resting on his knees.

  “You need a new job, and you need a new place to live,” he says. “If we’re going to do this properly, the interruptions need to stop.”

  “All right,” I say. “I’ll give up everything for you. What does properly entail?”

  He sticks his finger through the belt loop on my jeans, pulling me close. “Take off these pants and I’ll show you.”

  34

  Aidan

  I stumble out of my room around noon the next day. I snuck out of Aster’s building at four a.m., hoping to avoid not just her residents but also Jerry. There’s no way for him to know I’d just crawled out of his ex-girlfriend’s bed, but I’d rather he not ponder the question in any context. And while my feelings about all the sex we had yesterday are predominantly positive, I still feel a bit...guilty about how things came to be.

  Jerry’s standing at the sink when I enter the kitchen, rubbing my blurry eyes.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey,” I mutter, pouring a glass of orange juice and downing it in two swallows. I pour another one. Aster and I didn’t get much sleep last night and I’m in desperate need of refueling.

  “Want some aspirin?”

  “Ah, no. I’ll be okay.” I grab a couple of frozen waffles from the freezer and stick them in the toaster, then plop a frying pan on the stove and turn on the heat, adding three eggs when it’s hot. There are bananas on the counter, so I eat one while I wait for everything to cook.

  A rhythmic clicking sound has me paying closer attention to Jerry, and I see he’s trying to use a flint to start a fire in the sink.

  “What, uh, what are you doing?” I ask, flipping over the eggs.

  “Practicing my survival skills,” he replies, blowing on a tiny spark that quickly peters out.

  “You’re still doing that? The volunteer stuff?”

  “Of course. It’s been a real learning experience.”

  “You can’t learn to bring matches?”

  He hits the flint again. “It’s a progression. The first few trips we stay in a cabin and work on basic outdoor survival skills. Then we move to the real outdoors, using tents, matches, fishing rods. Then we start working with less – flint, etcetera. It’s about getting back to basics.”

  A spark flies up, lands on his polo shirt, and promptly burns a tiny hole through the cotton.

  “Dammit,” he mumbles, patting it out with his hand, then sighing. “Okay, I admit, the learning curve has been steep. I miss the cabin. A lot. You got the sense of being out in the wilderness, alone, uninterrupted, but you didn’t actually have to be in the wilderness. That might be more my style.”

  The only word I’m hearing right now is uninterrupted.

  Aster and I worked our way through a generous helping of condoms yesterday—and today—but there were non-stop visitors at all hours of the day and night, interrupting the very dirty proceedings.

  “Where is this cabin?” I ask, sliding the fried eggs onto a plate, then adding the waffles and a squeeze of maple syrup. “Nearby?”

  “About an hour drive,” he says, naming a popular state park. “Maybe a bit more. Once you leave town you travel north on the highway until...”

  He chats merrily as he fails to start a fire, and I eat and make a mental note of the directions. State park. Dirt road. Large rock. Forked tree. Another large rock. Drive straight for three hundred yards.

  Empty cabin.

  * * *

  “What?” Aster says the next day once I’ve pitched her the idea.

  She’d met me at the library after her class, and now that my shift has ended we’re walking back to her place, presumably to continue our “interview.” We’re taking the long way around, navigating a quiet, tree-lined pathway that’s more popular with cyclists and joggers than students going to and from class. It’s also more private.

  “What’s not to understand?” I say. “We can’t go to my place because of Jerry, and your place gets too many visitors. This way we can...” I trail off when I see the expression on her face. I know she enjoyed the other night as much as I did, but maybe she’s not liking the idea that I might only want to spend time with her to bang. I mean, that was my initial goal when I started this whole ball rolling back in January, but it’s different now. I want the sex and I want more.

  I clear my throat. “...finish the interview without the interruptions.”

  She arches a brow. “The interview?”

  “Yes, Aster. Why, what were you thinking?” I gasp. “Were you thinking about sex? God, you’re obsessed!”

  She laughs. “Shut up.”

  “I knew you’d become addicted. This is my fault. I’m too good.”

  She laughs harder. “Seriously. Shut up. There’s no way to be alone in the woods if your giant ego’s there. Plus we have exams. I need to study. Promise and potential and blah blah blah.”

  “Well, if you can keep your hands off me for a minute, we can study at the cabin. At least, I can study. I’ll exhaust you sexually, then get some reading done when you’re passed out.”

  “You’ve really thought this through.”

  I check that we’re alone, then back her into a tree. “I haven’t thought about a whole lot else,” I say, dipping my head.

  She presses onto her toes and kisses me back, curling her fingers into the neck of my shirt and holding on. I step into her even more, aligning our bodies, grateful that the warmer weather means thinner clothing, which means I can feel more of her.

  “Have you ever done it outside?” I mumble against the soft skin beneath her ear. “Because we can do it right here and—”

  Ding! Ding! “Get a room!” a jerk on a bike shouts as he whistles past, bell ringing righteously.

  Aster snickers as I curse.

  “I think we’ll have to discuss your...potential...back in my room,” she says, pushing away from the tree and resuming the walk.

  I drag my hands through my hair. “I hate that guy.”

  “Yeah, he’s the worst.”

  “But seriously,” I say, snagging her hand. “Have you ever?”

  “Ever what?”

  “Done it outside?”

  “Is that why you want to go to the cabin?”

  “No, I just want to talk about sex.”

  “Oh, shoot!” she exclaims, darting behind a tree near the end of the path. Her residence is about twenty yards away across a short field, and Missy is pacing in front of the doors of the building, typing something into her phone.

  I join Aster behind the tree. “Why is Missy here?”

  She groans. “Because we have plans.”

  “What? You and Missy?”

  “Yes. We’re...friends.”

  “Even though she’s banging your ex?”

  “I’m banging his roommate!”

  “That’s different. It’s not gross. Also, what’s this about you two being friends?”

  “It just happened,” she mutters, peering past the tree. “She’s very persistent.”

  “I know. She’s been trying to fuck me for three years.”

  “You have to leave.”

  “Well, now that I’ve seen Missy, I want to leave,” I say tersely. “But it’s awfully convenient that my worst nightmare spends her nights wailing away on the other side of the wall from my bed, isn’t it?”

  Aster looks exceptionally guilty. “No?”

  “Aster, did you introduce Missy to Jerry?”

  “Yes, but not on purpose,” she says quickly. “We just bumped into him.”

  “Did you tell her he cheated on you? With a prostitute?”

  “Yes!”

  “And that didn’t scare her away?”

  “I mean...you kind of deserve it, Aidan.”

  My
mouth falls open. “What?”

  “I still really hated you then, and I know you’re afraid of Missy—”

  “Afraid is a strong word—”

  “So I told her he’d learned his lesson from the break up and probably wouldn’t do it again.”

  “I sleep three hours a night because of her!”

  “Well—”

  “I can’t believe you.”

  “Are you really mad?”

  I’m about to assure her that I am indeed furious, then consider my priorities and redirect my efforts accordingly. “I guess that depends...” I curl a finger into the collar of her shirt and pull her close. “Are you coming to the cabin or not?”

  She arches a brow, not at all oblivious to my intentions, and failing to lose sight of her own. “Do you promise to finish the interview when we’re there?”

  I try to be angry, but can’t muster up the required righteousness. Hooking up Missy and Jerry is a brilliantly devious plan, and I’m kind of proud of Aster for coming up with it. Plus, if she’s agreeing to come to the cabin, I’m willing to let bygones be bygones.

  “Yeah,” I say, leaning in to kiss her again. “Come to the cabin and I promise to give you whatever you want.”

  35

  Aster

  This time they leave a voice message.

  “I’m hoping to speak with Aster Lindsey,” says an unfamiliar male, his voice terse and formal. “Please call me back at your earliest convenience.” He leaves a number and hangs up without saying goodbye.

  I sit on the edge of my bed and frown at the darkening screen display. I’ve already listened to the message six times. There’s no hidden meaning, nothing I’m missing. It’s not my father’s voice and I don’t recognize the number, though it’s a Washington area code.

  I stand abruptly, nearly tripping over the duffel bag I’ve packed for two nights away at this mysterious cabin in the woods with Aidan. He’s due to arrive any minute, so I grab my laptop and quickly Google the phone number. Because whoever this is—assuming it’s been the same person all along—has been so vague, I’m not expecting any search results, so it’s a huge surprise when the first hit brings me to the website of a small law firm in Chester.