by Sara Ney
And a bracelet.
A bracelet.
It’s a braided friendship bracelet, and it looks old and worn and oddly familiar—the same familiarity I felt when I first laid eyes on Roman and wondered if I knew him. The bracelet is made of my favorite colors and I used to make them all the time, painstakingly weaving them in my free time and giving them away to people, stacking them on my wrist one after the other. At one point, I had twenty-three bracelets on my arm.
I gave him this bracelet.
I gave Roman this bracelet when we were freshmen, and he kept it all these years.
Taking it from the dresser, I hold it between my fingers and sit myself down at the foot of his bed, working the fabric between my fingertips as if I were playing a tiny violin. The yarn has worn as if he’s been doing the same thing over and over these past few years.
Threadbare.
Did he recognize me last weekend when we met, down in the kitchen? Did he already know my name? He didn’t introduce himself as Rome that night at the party when we were sitting on the stairs talking, but honestly, the two variations aren’t distinctly different at all, so I’m embarrassed I didn’t make the connection.
He must think I am a ditz.
He must recognize me; I don’t look that different than I did three years ago. I mean, sure, my hair is a lot longer than it used to be, and yes, I’ve had it highlighted and dyed more times than I can count since then. But I am the same person—my face is the same, I am the same height.
Roman, on the other hand…
He’s gotten taller, a little bit bulkier, and has ditched the glasses. Not to mention his hair is longer and unkempt.
Making myself comfortable, I kick off my shoes and relax further onto his bed, positioning myself to rest against the wall. Locate the remote control for the TV and hit the power button—it goes on way easier than the living room television did.
I can’t concentrate on anything except this bracelet in my hands, and I think about it the entire time I’m lying here propped up on Roman’s fluffy pillows.
If he recognized me, why didn’t he say anything? Why did he let me think we’d never met? Does he not want to be associated with me because I’m not smart? Is he the type of guy who only associates with intellectuals socially?
I’m not completely oblivious; I know there are people like that in this world—perhaps he is one of them.
No, Roman isn’t like that. I don’t know him well at all, but…my gut tells me he is a sincere person. He comes off as very humble, with his priorities in order. Most people would’ve gotten angry or upset that their trophy was all but destroyed, but he took it in stride, not losing his cool. Trying to make Eliza and me feel better when we expressed our remorse.
That is a man with his priorities in order.
People over things.
Roman is a good person.
His room? Neat as a pin.
Tidy, like he is, except for his unruly hair.
He had it back tonight, in a kind of man-bun.
I make myself even more comfortable, flipping through the channels, readjusting the pillows beneath my back and head as if nesting. The bracelet is still in my hand, and I make a mental note to put it back before I do something stupid like fall asleep with it in my hand.
It’s completely dark now outside; I yawn, tired and still hungry, and also lonely.
I manage to find something to entertain myself, my mind whirling with possibilities. What does it mean that he kept this bracelet instead of throwing it in the trash as most guys would have done? Obviously Roman is sentimental; there are so many things in this bedroom that indicate that fact.
But it does nothing to explain why he would keep a bracelet from a random stranger, albeit a female one.
My eyelids are getting heavy as I sit here staring blankly at the television. I should probably turn on the bedroom light because the glare isn’t great for my eyesight and makes it hard to watch the program—I’m just so darn lazy and don’t want to climb out of this bed and walk the five feet to the light switch on the wall by the door.
Stomach grumbles a little.
Lids get heavier still…
Outside, the moon rises higher into the night sky above the houses in the distance, casting a little light into the bedroom but not enough to make a difference. I wonder what the man on the moon is up to tonight. Perhaps he’s just as lonely as I am. Maybe I should’ve gone to dinner with Roman; at least then I wouldn’t be sitting in this empty house by myself.
I’m sure by now Kaylee is curious about where I’ve gone, so I check my phone to see if I’ve missed any text messages from her.
Three.
Kaylee: Wanna get dinner?
Kaylee: Hello?
Kaylee: Where are you? I checked your location and don’t recognize the address. Everything okay?
I let out a yawn and tap out a lazy Came to Liza’s for something to eat.
Kaylee: Oh.
Just “Oh.” Classic Kaylee with an Oh that speaks louder than an actual sentence. It’s clearly her subtle way of disapproving without actually intoning her opinion.
Passive aggressive.
Me: You were busy when I left and I didn’t want to bug you.
Kaylee: Sure.
Me: What’d you end up eating?
Kaylee: McDonald’s.
McDonald’s? That doesn’t sound like Kaylee at all—she can’t be serious. I love McDonald’s more than the next person and eat it all the time, but my roommate does not. In fact, the last time I went for a McFish sandwich and fries during Lent because I crave them something fierce, she guilted me the whole time I was eating it to the point that I got up out of my chair and dumped the remaining part of the sandwich in the trash.
Me: Huh. Are we totally out of food?
Kaylee: No—I was feeling sorry for myself because my best friend abandoned me without telling me where she was going.
Best friends?
That’s a stretch.
I like Kaylee, but we are in no way best friends, and I’d venture to say I’m closer to Eliza than I’ve ever been to her…even when I wasn’t all that close to Eliza. The period of time I was dating Kyle, I was a bit of a shit friend to everyone. I hate to admit I was one of those girls—the kind who ignores all her friends when she starts dating someone new—but the truth is, I was.
Kyle love-bombed me from the beginning, and I fell for every second of it.
Me: Sorry I didn’t send you a message, but I told you shortly before I left that I was returning the award to Jack and Eliza’s new roommate, remember?
Kaylee: Whatever. I went to the gym after you left me all alone at the house.
Me: So you left for the gym without telling me but you’re irritated I left to come here?
Suddenly, whatever guilt I was feeling dissolves, and I take my phone and set it back on the bedside table, closing my eyes and listening to the television rather than watching it.
So peaceful here.
So comfy…
5
ROMAN
Lilly is sleeping on my bed.
It’s taken me a few minutes to find her; when I arrived home just a few moments ago and saw her car still parked outside, I assumed she’d be in the living room watching a movie or something.
No Lilly in the living room.
No Lilly in the kitchen.
My heart began to race as I climbed the stairs to the bedroom level, thundering in my chest with dread and anticipation, unsure of where I’d find her, knowing she had to be in the house.
It’s eerily quiet, but when I strain my ears, I hear the faint sound of a television and head toward mine.
Why would she be watching TV in my bedroom?
The pit of my stomach rolls.
Oh god.
What if…
No.
She’s just watching TV—relax. Nothing bad happened.
The light in the hall is on, but it’s not on inside my room, nothing but the chang
ing screens from the television illuminating the space.
The door is open.
I see feet before I see the rest of her, long legs stretched across my bed.
Bare feet.
Bare legs up to the calf before her black leggings cover the rest of her.
A gentle snore accompanies the sounds from the movie on the screen, and when I step inside, I find a slumbering Lilly, rolled toward the opposite wall, hands tucked beneath her chin, sleeping soundly.
She lets out another soft snore.
What is she doing in my bed?
I cross to the other side of it, standing in front of her, looking down at her figure, unsure what action to take. I should wake her up, yeah? Definitely cannot let her sleep—it’s weird.
I don’t even know her.
I stare for a few seconds before shaking my head and glancing away.
You can’t stand here and watch her sleep, idiot. You’re being creepy.
She’s the one invading your space.
Right, but everyone knows watching someone sleep is bizarre.
Just wake her up. Reach over and give her shoulder a shake.
At least say her name, for Christ’s sake. Do something besides stand here.
Instead, I stare some more. Even after pep-talking myself out of it, I still don’t have a goddamn clue what to do in this situation. I’ve only been living on my own for a week—is this what it’s like? Strange girls crawling into your bed and passing out?
It’s Sunday—it’s not like she’s drunk.
She was waiting for you.
I hear the words as if there’s someone in the room with me speaking them out loud. Look down at her again, studying her face. Her closed eyes. The way her mouth is slightly open as she snores.
The hands under her chin.
Don’t stare at her, don’t stare at her.
God, why am I so awkward? Why can’t I just nudge her or say her name without feeling weird about it? What the heck do I think is going to happen if I wake her up right now? She’s going to hate my guts?
I don’t want to embarrass her and I know that’s what’s going to happen and I want to prevent her from feeling awkward. But I also can’t just let her sleep, can I? It’s not that late. I suppose I could sleep on the couch, but what if she wakes up in the middle of the night and forgets where she is and gets scared?
That happens, right?
It seems legit.
“Lilly.” I say her name tentatively, just above a whisper, internally cringing at my hesitation. “Hey, Lilly.”
Hey?
Ugh.
I try again, this time louder. “Lilly, I’m back.”
She stirs slightly, her legs shifting at the foot of the bed, her feet rubbing together but not much else.
“Lilly, wake up.”
“Mmm?” she mumbles, stirring.
Maybe I should turn on the light? That would help.
After I flip the switch, Lilly begins to roll to her back, arm covering her eyes to block out the light, her hand open like a shield against the blaring brightness.
“Why did you do that?” she asks with a tortured groan. “Go away.”
“Um.” I pause. “This is my room?”
She pauses, body going still, hand slowly lowering from her eyes so she can blink at me, the slow realization of it being, well—me—dawning on her.
“Oh my god, Roman.” Lilly tries to sit up. “I am so sorry. Oh my gosh, I…” She glances around. “Did I fall asleep? Was I sleeping?”
“Yeah, you were sleeping.” I stuff both hands in the pockets of my pants. “Don’t worry about it, it’s not a big deal. I just didn’t want to wake you up and scare you.”
“How long was I out?”
“No idea. I actually just got home.”
“Lord.” She groans again. “I’m sorry.”
“You must have needed the rest.”
“I guess.” Her hands are braced on her knees, and I notice something between her fingers but don’t comment on it. Something that looks familiar?
Something that looks like…
Mine?
The bracelet.
Fuck.
Don’t stare at it, don’t stare at it.
She sees me staring at it and slides it onto her middle three fingers, holding it up and studying it like she’s wearing a ring, turning it this way and that as if trying to catch the light in its facets.
Lilly wiggles her fingers.
Raises her brows when my eyes slide from her hand to her face.
I clear my throat, stepping back a foot so I don’t crowd her, and also I want to get the hell out of this room as fast as I can lest she wants to talk about—
“Why didn’t you tell me you knew me? I thought you looked familiar.”
Okay. She definitely wants to talk about it.
Shit.
What the hell do I say?
“I’m not trying to put you on the spot.” Her fingers—still holding the bracelet—smooth her hair down. The bedhead. Finger-combing it into some semblance of order; she must have tossed and turned a few times during her nap, and the strands stick up in several directions. “I just came up here because it was a bit lonely downstairs and…found it.”
That makes sense, I guess.
“I’m sorry if this is making you feel uncomfortable, but I just saw it—I wasn’t snooping or anything, I swear. I came up here and looked at a few things before settling myself on the bed and watching TV. Is that okay?”
“Yeah, of course it’s okay.” The hands I have stuffed inside my pockets come out so I can wipe them on my thighs, despite the fact that they aren’t sweaty. I feel like they should be, though. God this is painful.
“So…why didn’t you tell me we’d already met?”
“I…don’t know. Eliza and Jack were in the kitchen and I thought it might be weird? I don’t know, Lilly. Half the time I have no idea what I’m doing unless it’s related to school.”
I’m tempted to begin babbling to over-explain myself but stop before any more words come out of my mouth.
“Why did you keep this?”
“I don’t know.”
She twirls it round and around on her hand. “Most people would have thrown it away.”
Yes, they would have, but I’m not most people.
“It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just…” I clear my throat uncomfortably. “I was a nerdy little freshman and you were nice to me on a night where I felt incredibly awkward at a party I didn’t want to be at.” I shrug my now broad shoulders. “So I kept it.”
Lilly seems to preen at that as if I was giving her a compliment, telling her she’s beautiful or smart or witty. All I did was say she was nice to me once upon a time, and she’s watching me as if I were a saint.
I might live like a monk sometimes, but I am no saint.
“Most guys are assholes.” She plucks at one of the green strands. When she stands up and stretches, I back away, giving her a wide berth, watching when she puts the bracelet back on my dresser.
“You can have it back,” I say feebly for lack of anything else.
Lilly turns her head. “Don’t you want it?”
Yes. “Doesn’t matter. It’s yours.”
“I gave it to you.”
I cannot tell her I’m dying inside and that every single second we spend standing here is killing me slowly, mortification wanting to suck me into the carpet.
“Sorry.”
Lilly leaves the bracelet, ending the discussion, and snatches her shoes before walking to the door. “I should go. I can’t believe I fell asleep. My roommate was pissed when she thought I left without telling her where I was at.”
She bounds back down the stairs.
I trail along behind her.
In the kitchen, Lilly stops short at the sight of leftovers sitting in the center of the island. My mother sent me home with a container of pasta, a container of homemade spaghetti sauce, several small loaves of garlic bread wrapped i
n aluminum foil, and tiramisu for dessert.
Some of the food is still warm and has already begun smelling up the small kitchen with their aroma, namely garlic of course. Mom used fresh parmesan for the sauce and fresh basil and oregano from her garden out back—the smell is overwhelming and delicious. Lilly tilts her nose up in the air and takes a big whiff.
“What is that smell?” She sniffs again.
“That’s spaghetti. My mom makes it all from scratch, including the bread.”
“Are you serious?” She pauses, still staring down at the food, tongue practically hanging out of her mouth. “My mom hasn’t cooked in years. She usually has it delivered.”
“Well my mom cooks like there are 30 people coming to dinner when it’s just the five of us.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t your grandmother live with you?” Lilly taps her chin in recollection.
“You’re thinking of my great aunt, and yeah, she lives with us.”
Tonight Aunt Myrtle was alone and didn’t have a date with her, much to my mother’s relief. It was a really good time with my mother falling all over me and my brother objecting the entire time because he was being ignored. You would think I’d been gone for a decade the way she hovered around my chair, fetching me things, insisting that I not help with dishes or clean up as I normally have to do when I’m there. There were a few times she tried to convince me to move back home, attempting to bribe me when my father wasn’t within earshot.
“Did you eat dinner tonight?” I ask her as I begin stacking the containers neatly so they’ll fit in the fridge.
“Yes and no.”
I laugh. “What does that mean?”
“It means I had leftover pizza, which was total crap.” Her eyes haven’t left the containers.
I hold them forward as an offering. “Did you want some?”
“I couldn’t possibly.” Her hands go to her stomach, pressing against her belly like she’s feeling it for spare room. “I mean—I am still kind of hungry, but I never worked out today.”
Ah.
I get it now.
I’ve heard rumors about cheerleading and the rigorous restrictions they have, how some coaches and staff are complete dicks, body-shaming and measuring and weighing girls.
