My Roommate's Girl

by Julianna Keyes

  The first time I caught the bus from Vickers to Holsom, I wondered how long it would be before I fucked up and got sent back. This time when bus pulled away from the Vickers depot, I knew I was going home.

  I’m lying on the antique red chesterfield, reading over my notes for tomorrow’s exam, when my phone rings. I scramble across the room to grab it out of my bag, hoping desperately—maybe pathetically—to see Aster’s name on the call display. I’ve texted her a couple of times since returning, but she hasn’t replied. Disappointing, but not surprising.

  I look at the screen.

  It’s Jim.

  I sigh and answer the call.

  I mean, at least it’s not Shamus. I’d apologized to him for abandoning the team on Sunday, and he’d used the opening to guilt-trip me into being team captain next year. Now I really don’t want to talk to him.

  “Hello?”

  “Aidan?” Jim says, sounding excited.

  “Yep.” I take a seat on the couch and wince as a spring digs into my ass. I adjust my position but another spring pinches me. I give up and sit on the floor.

  “I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time,” he says. Through the phone I can hear him typing frantically, probably calling up my class schedule to confirm I have one exam left before I’m free for the year. Well, free to move out of this place and into the cramped grounds crew staff accommodation for another summer.

  “No,” I say. “It’s fine.” With Wes and T.J. in jail, Frisbee baseball over, classes done, and Aster freezing me out, I’ve spent more than enough time in my own company. Even Jim’s too-cheerful voice is relatively welcome.

  “I’d like to see you, if you have a moment,” he says. More typing. “You’ve got an exam tomorrow...how about the day after? Can you come to my office?”

  I picture Wes and T.J., sitting in jail, turning me in. Explaining how I’d gone to Vickers to steal cars. Selling me out like Aster’s brother had done to her.

  “Um...” I consider the hole in the toe of my sock, the frayed cuffs of my jeans. I have so little to lose, but I was still stupid enough to risk it.

  “It’s a good thing, Aidan,” Jim says, recognizing my hesitation. “In fact, it’s kind of a great thing.”

  “Really?” The last great plan I had was to tell Aster I loved her and spend the whole night screwing on this very uncomfortable piece of furniture, and that had ended...badly.

  “Yes, absolutely. Can I schedule you in for noon? Would that work?”

  “Yeah,” I hear myself say, still doubtful. “Okay.”

  * * *

  I thought I was nervous about the exam, but the meeting with Jim overshadows that anxiety and leaves me a pacing, antsy mess in front of the PPP building, half an hour early for our appointment.

  I would die for a cigarette right now, but instead of using my thirty minutes to jog over to the nearest store to buy a pack, I just keep pacing. Fortunately the campus is dead quiet at the moment, so there’s no one to witness my shaking, and when I can’t take it anymore, I walk inside, palms damp.

  “Hi, Aidan,” Becca says, smiling at me warmly. “How are you?”

  “Ah, just fine. I’m a bit early.”

  “That’s all right. Let me tell Jim you’re here.”

  I take a seat and stare at my hands, the tattoos I’d felt so badass and dangerous getting inked when I was eighteen. Ride hard.

  What the fuck was I thinking? Yeah, they probably helped me seduce a few girls, but they have nothing to do with me, with who I am. None of them do. Maybe Aster wasn’t hiding her dents and dings because she was ashamed of them; maybe she was hiding them because they weren’t her anymore. The new coat of paint wasn’t a disguise; it was part of the renovation.

  “Aidan.”

  Jim’s voice startles me and I jerk in the seat, making him laugh. “Calm down,” he says, gesturing for me to come back. “It’s still good news, I promise.”

  I stand to follow him. “I guess I haven’t had a lot of good news lately.”

  He takes a seat at his desk and I do the same. “I suppose that’s true,” he says. “I’m sorry about your friends. Wes and T.J. were good guys who tried hard. But sometimes you only get one second chance.”

  I turn over my hands so the tattoos are hidden. “Right.”

  “Anyway,” he continues. “I won’t torture you any longer. I asked you to come in because I pitched your mentorship idea to the board, and they loved it. They especially love that the program has the potential to improve on itself, using senior students to champion the newcomers when they’re struggling.”

  “Oh. Great.”

  “And they’d like to get started right away. Well, beginning with the next school term. Which means we have all summer to get the details ironed out.”

  “That’s good news.” It feels like it’s coming a little too late, like maybe if I’d had the idea sooner Wes and T.J. would have had someone else to turn to instead of dragging each other down.

  “That’s hardly the best part,” Jim says, smiling. “I explained that we simply don’t have the resources to launch a pilot program without additional funding—and they approved it!”

  I’m starting to suspect Jim told Becca this whole story and she didn’t get excited enough, so he checked his roster of students to find out who was still on campus and called me, the last lucky bastard still standing. “Congratulations,” I say eventually. “That’s...wonderful.”

  “Aidan.” He’s practically buzzing with excitement. “The funding is for a summer student to help get the program off the ground. And who better to hire than the guy who came up with the idea?”

  My mind goes blank. “I—What?”

  “I know you’ve worked with the grounds crew for the last couple of summers, and Mack has only ever sung your praises, but I don’t think that’s tapping into your true potential.”

  “He already hired me. I can’t just abandon...” I think about what Aster said that last night we fought. That I can do better. Be better. I think about Wes and T.J., sticking to their guns, even if it was the wrong call. My mom championing my dad through every predictable failure. “Can I really just...quit? Before I’ve started?”

  “The decision is yours,” Jim says, though it’s clear he thinks the choice is obvious. “But the grounds crew job is part of the program, which means the funding is limited, which means you make pretty low pay. The position I’m offering you here is not part of the program—it’s part of the school, which means four months with an actual salary. Now, it doesn’t come with accommodation like the grounds crew job...”

  I picture the brick bunkhouse on the far side of campus, a one-level structure filled with smelly, exhausted men each night.

  “...but it pays enough to allow you to find a place off campus. Lots of units have opened up now that school is finished, and rent is reasonable since most of the students are gone. Aidan, I think it’s a great opportunity for you and I—”

  I think about Aster. I think about her all the time, even though I try not to. I think about her calling me on my bullshit, telling me I can do better. And I try especially hard not to think about her telling me she could love me, if only I deserved it.

  “Okay,” I tell Jim. “I’m in.”

  50

  Aster

  I think I might love IKEA.

  For years I’ve known about it, heard about it, but never stepped foot inside. Never had a reason to think that I should start buying curtains or plates with a mind to making things feel like a home. My whole time at Holsom has felt like a stopover, a temporary resting place until the next part of my life begins. But now I understand that this is my life. So even though my summer accommodation is half the size of my resident advisor room, I’m going to decorate. I’m going to buy a duvet cover and a lamp and a throw pillow. I’m going to take home a catalogue and comb through it for things to buy this fall, when I move back into the larger residence. I’m going to get comfortable.

  I shop for hours. I exami
ne everything. I consider paintings and bookshelves and potted plants and carpets. My rule has always been to save my income from my summer job at the language school and live off the tips I make working the banquet events at the staff dining hall, but now that my dad’s house is up for sale, the pressure of my law school tuition has been eased.

  My phone buzzes with a new message, but my heart doesn’t pound the way it used to. Aidan texted me a few times after the break up, but I never replied, and after the first couple texts, I stopped reading them altogether. I’m still working up the nerve to delete his number, but I’m getting there. Starting over is a slow process. I should know.

  I pull out my phone to find another photo from Missy. She and Jerry went to her home state of Georgia for the summer, and, on Jerry’s suggestion, decided to put his newfound survival skills to the test by hiking the Appalachian trail for three months. She’s sent dozens of pictures over the past two weeks: posing in front of a large tree, washing her underwear in a river, eating a hotdog off a stick. She’s alone in all but the very first photograph, the one where she and Jerry posed beneath the start sign for the trail. That’s because Jerry bailed on the hike after four days, and Missy’s still going strong. The pictures are a good reminder that it’s possible to care about someone—love them, even—and survive without them.

  I hate to admit how often I scroll through these photos. With Missy out of state, my only remaining friend is gone. And while most people would complain about working two jobs that keep them so busy they barely have time to breathe, I embrace it. And not because I need the PPP’s hectic schedule to keep me on the straight and narrow, but because without the constant preoccupation of my jobs, I’d think about, well... anything.

  I stuff the phone back in my bag and push my cart down the next aisle, lined with stylish model kitchens stretching as far as the eye can see. Red and yellow and black and green cabinets beckon, and I let myself get lost in the sea of possibility, a dream that feels just a little more tangible with each step, like the future is almost here.

  * * *

  By the time I get off the bus at the edge of campus and make the short trip back to my room, it’s only nine o’clock. I enter the lobby and take the stairs to my room on the third floor, passing no one on the way. The residences are sparsely populated during the holidays, filling up briefly as summer programs pass through for a week or two, then emptying out again. As it stands currently, there’s only me and one other girl on the whole floor, and I haven’t seen her in days.

  I let myself in and flip on the light, nearly slipping on the piece of paper lying on the floor just inside. I drop the bags on the bed, then frown at the page someone shoved under the door, facedown. I automatically assume it’s a desperate attempt at advertising to the only two people who might attend some lonely event, or a flyer asking us to keep an eye out for a missing cat.

  Then I turn it over.

  51

  Aidan

  The knock comes at 12:02 p.m. on Saturday, three days after I slid the paper under Aster’s door, and three weeks since I last saw her. It had taken me all this time to find out where the hell she was living, then another two days to get into her building since it appears to be deserted and no one was ever conveniently exiting when I needed to enter.

  I turn off the television and check my reflection in the darkened screen, then smooth my T-shirt and glance around my new apartment, the one I’ve been keeping meticulously clean for just this occasion. When Aster came—and I put some admittedly blind faith in the fact that she would—I wanted her to see exactly this. A blank slate. A fresh start.

  An opportunity.

  I open the door, trying not to grin maniacally when I see her unsmiling face on the other side. I’m on the second level facing the street, and I saw her approaching from the sidewalk. I’d glimpsed just the top of her head as she disappeared beneath the leafy green trees, but it was enough.

  She came.

  She’s here.

  Now to get her to stay.

  “Hello,” I say politely.

  She arches a brow and holds up my crumpled poster. “Seriously?” she says. “A roommate wanted ad?”

  “Are you here to apply for the position?”

  She glares down at the “ad” on which I’d worked so hard, the page I’d slipped under only one door, seeking a very specific roommate for the summer. Precisely the one standing in front of me, with her sleek blond hair, white T-shirt and torn jeans, flip-flops revealing unpainted toes. It’s the same outfit she had on the day we met, and I wonder if it’s on purpose, like she’s giving me a second chance to do this, to start things off on the right foot. Or maybe she just likes the jeans.

  “Roommate Wanted,” she reads, the letters printed in extra large font at the top. I’d even shelled out for a premium print job, so the photo of my smiling face beneath it is full color.

  “Wanted,” she continues, reading the smaller text at the bottom. “One roommate for summer months, June through August. Ideal candidate is female, blond-haired, blue-eyed, five-feet, six-inches tall, weight completely irrelevant.”

  She shoots me an unimpressed look, then resumes reading.

  “Totally fine if roommate has criminal record, as long as it is for something non-violent, like retail fraud. Roommate should be smart, ambitious, forgiving, kind, tidy, forgiving, sexual, and forgiving.”

  Her chest rises as she takes a breath, composing herself before forging on.

  “About me,” she reads. “Very handsome male, currently gainfully employed as Project Coordinator at Holsom College’s Promise & Potential Program. I believe whole-heartedly in giving flawed individuals second—and possibly third and fourth—chances. I am lonely, apologetic and heartbroken, and have not stolen any cars in three and a half years. Will be respectful of new roommate’s space and privacy, though openly hoping for less privacy and more sex. Just hoping, though. Totally up to new roommate.”

  Her hand is shaking, the paper fluttering like a leaf in a breeze, the picture of my smiling face wavering along with my confidence. I thought she’d find the poster earnest and endearing, but maybe that’s not enough.

  She crumples the paper in her fist to silence it, then raises her eyes to mine, the blue painfully clear and direct, seeking answers and nothing else. I can give her answers. I can give her everything, if she’ll let me try.

  “You didn’t do it? You didn’t steal...?”

  “No. I went home and then I realized that it wasn’t home anymore. That it wasn’t me. And I didn’t want it to be.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want that life. I want this life. I want...” It seems wrong to say you. It seems unfair to put that pressure on her, to tell her she’s my reason. I’m not her reason for waking up every morning, for trying every day to be a better person. She’s doing that for herself, so she can be someone who deserves the good things she has, someone who can trust that she deserves them and they’ll be there for her. And I guess that’s my reason, too. Aster’s just the inspiration. “I want better,” I finish finally. “I didn’t know what I wanted for a long time, but now I do.”

  She stares at me, considering.

  “This apartment has a flat screen TV,” I add inanely, like she needs bribing. “The couch reclines. There’s a king-size bed and a jacuzzi tub. The fridge makes ice cubes.”

  “That’s great,” Aster says after a moment. “Good.”

  “Do you want to come in?” I step back and hold the door, stomach sinking as she contemplates the threshold but doesn’t move her feet.

  “No,” she says. “Not yet.”

  “Sure,” I make myself say. “That’s fine.” My heart climbs into my throat, lodging itself there in a nauseating bubble of hope and fear.

  Aster smoothes the ad, then folds it carefully and places it in her back pocket. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  “Ah...okay. Sure. Whatever you want.” I told myself that if she answered the ad, I’d say and do exac
tly that. Whatever she wanted. She wants to walk? We’ll walk. If she wants to cartwheel around the block, we’ll do that too.

  I grab my keys off the counter and stick my feet into the sneakers I bought with my first paycheck. I know I’m not rich by regular people standards, but it’s more money than I’ve seen in years. Four digits in my bank account. Money I came by honestly. Money that’s mine.

  “Those are new,” Aster comments, eying my feet as I straighten.

  “Boots in the summer aren’t very practical,” I reply, locking the door. “And I’m a practical person.”

  She manages to keep a straight face. “Oh, right.”

  We take the stairs down to ground level and emerge into the sunlight, the sidewalk empty. Holsom is a college town, and the population dwindles considerably during the summer months. The quiet felt like torture the last two summers I’d spent here, like a vacuum in my head that desperately wanted to be filled by the nearest temptation. It was only the fact that the grounds crew job was so thoroughly exhausting that I didn’t have the energy to find trouble.

  This year I don’t have that need. The quiet feels contemplative, like it’s simply time to think things through, consider my future. Sometimes that future extends no further than what shoes to buy, and sometimes it extends past next year, searching online to find Holsom MBA programs for social work. I’m not going to go nuts and picture me and Aster with a hundred framed diplomas lining the walls of our mansion, but it’s not totally out of the realm of possibility. The degrees. The house. The girl. I can have those things if I put the work in. I see that now, clearer than ever.