Julian & Lia

by Maria Monroe

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, dialogue, and actions, with the exception of famous literary quotes, are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is completely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Maria Monroe

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Design by Jason Maxham

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  A Message from Maria

  About the Author

  Sample from Love (Literally)

  Sample from Afterglow

  Sample from The Rescue

  Chapter One

  "Oh my god. I'm so sorry." I put a hand over my face and turn to run out of the dorm bathroom.

  "No, it's cool. We're almost done here," says a girl as she sits straddling the sink, her back against the mirror. I think I recognize her from down the hall.

  "Almost done" apparently refers to her boyfriend shaving her down there while she smiles lazily at him. He dips the razor into the steaming water from the tap—how come it never gets that hot in the shower?—then runs it along her crotch before rinsing it off again.

  He turns and grins at me. "You're next if you're interested," he says with a wink. "Just, you know, drop 'em and hop on up." He gestures at the sink next to the one where his girlfriend sits.

  "Stop!" shrieks the girl, hitting him playfully. "Leave her alone. I think that's Greer's roommate," she adds in a whisper and tosses her hair back. How in the world her hair is so smooth and shiny is a total mystery to me, as are most things related to hair and makeup. Or fashion of any kind, to be honest. Their laughter bounces off the tiled bathroom walls.

  I can’t believe she’s sitting there on display and doesn’t even care that I’m here. Yet I'm strangely transfixed by the two of them. How is it possible to ever get to the point where you can be that comfortable with someone else? Jealousy swirls up inside me, and the loneliness that I've been feeling since starting college a few weeks ago intensifies. It's not lost on me that my identity here is defined by the fact that I room with Greer; I'm pretty sure nobody except my roommate even knows my name, and that's only because she was assigned to live with me.

  "It's OK, I'll just . . . " I let the words trail off as I hurry out of the bathroom and back down the hall to my room. Once inside, I slam the door and throw myself on the bed. I realize that I'm being melodramatic, but I can't help it. Besides, there's nobody to witness my episode of self-pity; Greer spent last night in a friend's room. Down the hall. Because apparently it's so much more fun to be in someone else's room than stuck here with me.

  For what has to be the millionth time I wonder why I decided to move into a coed dorm. It's three weeks into my freshman year at college, and I should be used to things by now. Everyone around me seems to be so comfortable, already moving around campus in little whispering groups, meeting each other outside the dining hall before heading upstairs into the mess of noise and smells that is, to say the least, overwhelming when you don't have anyone to sit with. Which I don't. People are already hooking up, couples already formed, and I'm not even comfortable peeing in the dorm bathroom.

  There's no time to wallow in regret, though, because I have a class in ten minutes. I'll use the bathroom somewhere on the way to class, since I don't want to take the chance of walking in on the shaving couple again. Or the "mad crapper" from down the hall, who spends at least twenty minutes every day straining so loudly in the bathroom that the R.A. has written him up twice already. Apparently he's planning some sort of revenge on the R.A., and everyone on the floor seems to be in on it, except for me.

  I pull on a jacket and head out to my Film Studies class, which I decided to take as an elective because the rest of my schedule is filled with boring requirements like math and English. The class is fun, and it's early, which, pathetically, makes me happy. My favorite time of the day is morning. I like campus best when there aren't many other students so my complete lack of friends isn't so conspicuous.

  I use the bathroom and grab a coffee at the cafeteria, then pull the sleeves of my jacket over my hands and huddle into myself against the cold as I hurry down the sidewalk. I'm pretty sure I'm late, and I glance down at my watch for a second.

  I run, hard, into someone. Hot coffee spills onto my hand and also onto the first thing I see, an arm covered in a gray sweatshirt. Oh my god.

  "The fuck?" says a low masculine voice.

  I stare at the coffee stain on that gray sweatshirt, not daring to look up. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," I stammer, my eyes still refusing to see whom I've assaulted. Great. Making friends all over the place.

  There's no response after the initial harsh words, and finally I raise my gaze, right into the eyes of him, that guy from my Film Studies class. Julian. The one who always sits in the back corner, scruffy and slouchy and half asleep, but redeemed completely whenever he answers a question, which is seldom, and proves himself to be insanely smart. He's not a freshman—that much is obvious—and I'm not even sure why he's in the morning class when he can barely keep his eyes open. Now, he stands before me, a pissed off look on his face as he peers out from under the hood of a gray sweatshirt and looks at the coffee spilled on his arm.

  "Oh. Hi," I say, blushing furiously and trying to talk my cheeks out of turning pink, but failing miserably.

  He doesn't respond, just stares at me, a perfect mix of annoyance and amusement on his face. A corner of his mouth turns up in a sneer.

  "We're in class together?” I continue. “Now. I mean, in a few minutes. Film Studies?" It feels like I'm physically unable to stop the stupid words cascading out of my mouth. I'm usually quiet, pathologically so, but when I get nervous, it's all I can do to keep myself from rambling on and on. "Anyway, I'm sorry. For, you know, crashing into you?"

  Shut up, I will myself. Just. Stop. Talking.

  His eyes are so green, surrounded by a ring of brown, and he looks so different from, and older than, the Abercrombie contingent that lives in my dorm. Instead of being clean-shaven and preppy, he has the distinct look of someone who doesn't give a fuck. Because he doesn't have to. Those eyes, and that stubble on his jaw, and that look like he's just gotten out of bed and thrown on whatever clothes he could grab is enough to make me feel tingly inside.

  For a few seconds there is silence, and I have to use all my will power to stop myself from senselessly babbling again. When he speaks, his voice is low and with an edge to it, like he wants to laugh but is holding back, and also like he's a little bit pissed.

  "As stimulating as this conversation is, I've got to get to class," he says. Then, to my horror, he mimics my tone and adds, "It starts in a few minutes? Film Studies? We have it together?"

  With that he turns and saunters off, the frayed cuffs of his jeans almost scraping the ground. For a second I think—hope—he's going to turn around and smile or wink, something to let me know his joking was fun and not mean, but he doesn't.

  "It starts in a few minutes? Film Studies? We have it together?" The words, his mocking tone, echo in my brain.

  "Oh my god," I whisper to myself. "That was the worst ever."

  I stand completely still, not wanting to seem like I'm following him or, God forbid, trying to catch up to him. Should I skip class? I could avoid him that way, but the one thing I've got going for me is my grades, and I'm not about to give that up. I'll just have to suck it up and admit, once again, that my reality never matches up to my fantasies. It never even comes close. The truth is, I'
ve thought of Julian before. In my day dreams, it happens almost exactly like it just did, or at first it does. But in my imagination I'm collected and sexy, and Julian reveals his hidden kind side, and maybe we have lunch together, or coffee, or watch a movie, realizing we have tons in common besides one single shared class at nine in the morning. The actual encounter, though, was worse than awkward. I'm a dork, and he is, sad to say, an asshole. And I wish, not for the first time, that I'm somebody else, somebody witty and sexy and able to turn a chance encounter into something more.

  ***

  In class we're watching the old 1974 version of The Great Gatsby. I've read the book about a dozen times—it has just about the best last line of any novel I’ve ever read—but the movie is so boring. How people ever considered Robert Redford a heartthrob boggles my mind, or maybe I'm just attracted to dirtier, messier guys. Like Julian.

  As usual, he's sitting in the back corner seat of the classroom, legs sprawled out in front of him like he doesn't quite fit into the desk. Also as usual, his jeans are rumpled, like he picked them up from the floor of his bedroom and put them on. He hasn't taken off his gray hoodie, but he's unzipped it slightly, and I can see a black T-shirt under it. For some reason I can't stop looking at his neck, and I keep thinking about touching it, running my finger along the top of his T-shirt. And then . . . I don't know what I'd do then. My innocence frustrates me, mostly because I never chose to be a prude. It just sort of worked out that way. I never had a boyfriend, so I never had any experience. Then I was afraid to find a boyfriend because I didn't know what I was doing, and so on: a vicious cycle of unwanted innocence.

  I don't realize I'm staring until suddenly Julian catches my gaze, a grin spreading across his face, but it's a slightly menacing expression rather than a friendly one. When he lifts an eyebrow at me in recognition—of what? when I slammed into him this morning?—I blush, like usual, and look away.

  The movie starts, and I scribble idly in my notebook. I want so badly to look back at him, but I'm sitting a few rows ahead, and it would be obvious; there's nothing to see back there except Julian. Class has never felt so long. I'm restless in my seat, unable to focus on anything but Julian. It's like I can feel him back there behind me. And in my mind, he's all I can see. That jaw, that neck, that chest, not quite visible under his sweatshirt. He looks so much older than any of the guys in my dorm, like a man as opposed to a teenager, and I feel a tingling begin, subtle but there, between my legs. I shift slightly to try to get rid of the feeling, and, as surreptitiously as possible, sneak a look back—I can't resist any longer.

  He's looking at me, like he was waiting for me to turn around. There's that grin again, that cocky smile that leaves me both thrilled and inexplicably terrified. I whip my head back to the front of the room, hearing a low laugh from behind me, even though there was nothing funny happening in the movie. Or I don't think there was; it's not like I've been paying attention.

  "Ms. Hudson." Professor Chooch's voice startles me into attention, and I cringe and slink down lower in my seat as he says, simply, "The movie's in the front of the room."

  Oh god! My heart is pounding and my cheeks are flushed and hot. At least the room is dark so nobody can see.

  ***

  Outside my dorm room, I brace myself, but I'm annoyed that I have to. I know my roommate Greer's schedule by now, and I know she'll be there. But all I want at this moment is to be alone. It's not that I hate Greer or anything. She's been perfectly nice to me. Or at least, she hasn't been mean. We seem to have so little in common, though, and the more friends she makes, the more it hurts me that I don't have any yet. It's worse when she invites them all over and they crowd onto her bed, sometimes spilling onto the fluffy pink rug that she brought, laughing and gossiping and trying not to obviously exclude me. But it's even worse when they throw an obligatory comment my way every once in a while, and we all know the one fact nobody will say out loud: They'd be happier if I wasn't there. Or rather, they probably wouldn't even notice, which might actually be worse. I always pretend to be so engrossed in a book or on my computer that they don't feel the need to say hello, feigning respect for my studying. It lets us all off the hook.

  Greer's alone, lying in bed instead of getting ready for class. Great.

  "Hi," she whimpers when I come in.

  "Hey," I say, pretending she sounds normal, pretending it doesn't bother me that she's not getting dressed. It's not that I care about her grades. Obviously. I do, however, care about my privacy, and I'm starting to get the feeling that she's going to skip class today.

  She moans a little, making it obvious that something's wrong and that I should ask about it. I glance quickly her way, slightly awed that she can look so pretty while being sick or hurt or whatever she's pretending to be. Her long blond hair is as shiny as when she goes out at night, and her pale complexion is perfectly even, in a way that suggests she put on makeup just to stay in bed. I swear she's wearing lip gloss too.

  I sigh. "Are you OK?" My question is based solely on obligation, not genuine concern.

  "No," she say. "I'm not OK. Cramps? And I took my pain pills? Not the addictive kind," she assures me. "I can't get out of bed, though. They make me groggy?"

  "Mm hmm?" I'm not sure what she's going for. I put my backpack down and start to take off my jacket.

  "So?" she continues. "I'm starving? But I'm too, like, dizzy to get up. Could you possibly go to the cafeteria and bring me lunch? Please?"

  I want to say no. I know she's taking advantage of me. But I don't know how to turn her down; my social status is shaky at best as it is.

  "Fine." I'm sure she can hear how defeated I feel.

  "Lia, you're the best," she says, but we both know she doesn't mean it. "So, I want a salad? And I wrote down the toppings and, like, the approximate amounts of each that I want. It's like important to get the right stuff. The dressing? I wrote Italian, but I need the lite, not the creamy. It's important . . . "

  "Greer," I interrupt. "I got it, OK? I can read." I take the list from her perfectly manicured finger tips.

  "Text me if you have any questions," she calls after me as I leave the room and shut the door.

  Immediately I'm slammed against the hallway wall as a group of guys rush past, one knocking into me. They're laughing hysterically as they dip into a room where the sounds of girls giggling and shouting greets them. "Iggy! The mad crapper!" a guy's voice yells as the door slams behind them. Then silence.

  I continue towards the exit, rubbing my arm that hit the wall; there's going to be a bruise. As I get closer to the R.A.'s room, I smell something. Really bad.

  The R.A.'s door opens and she yells "Shit!" just as I notice something on the floor of the hallway, square and center in front of her door. It looks like shit. This cannot be for real. She glares at me, then down at the floor again. "He took a shit. In front of my room."

  I can't speak. I'm appalled that someone would do that, but equal to my horror is the disappointment that I wasn't included in the group of laughing students, that I'm never included in anything, except being coerced into getting lunch for my roommate, who doesn't really like me anyway.

  "It was Iggy, wasn't it?" demands the R.A.

  "I didn't . . . I wasn't . . . "

  "Of course you don't know," she says. "You're not trouble like every single other person on this floor. Ugh." She slams the door, leaving me alone in the hallway with Iggy's shit and the knowledge that somehow life is happening all around me, but I'm not part of any of it.

  My whole day hits me hard, being stupid in front of Julian, getting called out by the professor, not standing up to Greer, running out of the bathroom because of the couple shaving at the sink. It sucks, all of it, and with startling horror I realize I'm going to cry. I can't. Not here. And I can't run back into my room, either, because then Greer will see me losing it. I rush outside, my vision cloudy from the threatening tears and run smack into someone. Again. Because that's the kind of klutz I am, and that's th
e kind of day I'm having.

  This time my victim is a girl, and her soda drops to the ground and lies on the stairs, fizzing all over the place. I can't tell exactly how old she is, but she doesn't look like a freshman. She looks a few years older and, more importantly, a few years more confident. Of course, anyone's more confident than I am, so maybe that's not saying much.

  "I'm sorry," I say, bursting into tears.

  "Are you OK?" she asks. Then, "Stupid question. Obviously you're not."

  "I'm sorry," I say again, this time for being stupid enough to cry in front of a stranger. "It's just that my roommate is annoying, and I have no friends, and someone shit on the floor . . ."

  "Wait, what?"

  "Someone shit on the floor. In front of the R.A.'s room."

  She starts to laugh. Even her laugh is pretty and confident; she doesn’t hold back. "Are you serious? That's awesome. And awful. Not enough to cry about, but whatever."

  "It's a long story," I mumble, trying to stop the tears.

  "Come on. Let's get out of here."

  "What?" I am completely floored. Nobody has invited me to do anything yet at college.

  "It seems like you need to get away from here and the . . . shit? And I need to do my good deed for the day. Or whatever. So let's go?"

  "OK."

  "I'm Vanessa," she says as we walk away from the dorm. "You're a freshman, right?"

  I nod. "I'm Lia. And I'm so sorry about . . ."

  Vanessa rolls her eyes. "It's totally not a big deal." She pulls her long brown hair, some of which is braided into skinny little braids, up into a ponytail and then lets it fall back down again. She's wearing a long flowered poncho that looks like it's straight out of the sixties, and she's got these really cool green eyes that remind me, weirdly, of Julian's. I shake my head, trying to rid myself of thinking about him for at least a little while.

  "Wait," I say, stopping, my heart sinking. "I'm supposed to be getting lunch for my roommate."

  "Why?"