My Roommate's Girl

by Julianna Keyes

  “Okay,” Aster says, making a move for the stairs. “We put some stuff inside. We’ll get it and go.”

  “Great idea,” Jerry replies. Then he turns to me. “And when you get back to Holsom, grab the rest of your stuff from the apartment. You’re evicted.”

  * * *

  “Well,” Aster says, twenty-five minutes later. It’s the first thing either of us has said since our premature cabin departure, and its woeful inadequacy makes it the perfect word for the situation.

  “That was brutal,” she adds, when I don’t reply.

  I want to say something, but I don’t know what. Here she is, gorgeous and bright and smart, a fucking ex-con who’s working hard to stop repeating past mistakes and actually succeeding. And here I am, falling off bar stools and paying for other people’s prostitutes and getting evicted. Three years of college and I’m still an idiot.

  It’s humiliating. Just like when I got sprayed by that skunk, all I want to do is hole up in my room and be alone until it passes. Except I no longer have a room. Or a home.

  “We still have the s’more stuff,” Aster says. “Why don’t we stop at one of these campgrounds we keep passing and start a fire? I’m starving.”

  “Let’s just drive back,” I mutter. “I have to pack.” I reach over to flip through the radio stations, hunting for one that’s coming in clear.

  “We have some boxes at the dorm,” she tries. “We can grab them and—”

  “I’ll call Wes. He can help.” I tried not to show it at the cabin, but I’m reeling from the encounter. Somehow over the course of my plan to steal Aster, I hadn’t actually bothered to consider the consequences. I thought when she slapped me I’d paid the price for my lies; turns out I still had debts outstanding.

  When people asked me if I felt bad for the people I’d hurt when I was stealing cars, I lied and said of course I did, but I didn’t. They had money, they had insurance, they had other cars. Jerry doesn’t. Jerry’s just someone who trusted the wrong guy.

  Who trusted me.

  “Resident advisors aren’t allowed to have roommates,” Aster adds, “but obviously you can stay with me for a couple of nights while you find a new place.”

  Her voice, her sympathy, her pity—it’s making me grit my teeth. “I don’t want to live in a dorm, Aster. Being there makes me fucking antsy. There’s always someone who wants something from you. I’m obviously not the right person to set an example. I’m not even close to that person.”

  She blinks. “What kind of person?”

  “Someone that should...” I wave a hand in her general direction. “Be there.”

  “Be at the dorm or be with me?”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose, willing away the headache that started when we got in the car and is now reaching critical levels. I can’t look at her right now. I can’t talk to her. “I just need to think.”

  I hear her pained inhale, but she doesn’t say anything else. From the corner of my eye I see her fold her hands in her lap, knuckles turning white from where she’s squeezing them.

  I need space right now, and this fucking compact rental car puts approximately eighteen inches between me and Aster. Any other day, I’d be thinking of ways to erase those inches, but not now.

  That sex in the woods is the best thing that ever happened to me. It lowered all my defenses, gave me a glimpse of the real promise and potential in the world, and in the process, it revealed all the weak links in my armor, making the subsequent eviction sting all the more. I need some time to repair all those dents and dings, cover them up the way Aster does hers, and put my old, stoic mask back on. Then I can deal with shit. I can’t do it while I’ve got embarrassment burning a hole in my gut.

  The mask is barely in place when we pull up in front of Aster’s residence an hour later. She hasn’t said a single word, hasn’t even breathed in my direction since I snapped at her.

  I sigh. “Hey,” I say. “I’m sorry—”

  But she just climbs out of the car, grabs her bag, and strides into the building without a look back.

  37

  Aster

  I tell myself I’m not going to cry, but the second I’m in my room, I collapse against the door and slide down to the floor, burying my face in my hands as the tears start to fall. I acted like I was letting Aidan cajole me into this trip, but I really wanted to go. I wanted a romantic cabin. I wanted peace and quiet and nature and s’mores and sex in front of a fireplace.

  The sex. Ugh. God. I can’t even.

  It was too much. Too good. We couldn’t have gotten any closer physically, but in other ways, we’d gotten closer than I’ve ever been with anyone, even Jerry. But just like the night I confronted Aidan about his deception, I’d once again I’d convinced myself I was strong enough to handle something, only to have the theory tested and proven untrue.

  Before seeing my dad in the parking lot that night, if anyone had asked me what I’d do if I saw him again, I’d have said I’d do absolutely nothing. I’d hold my head high and stroll right past like he didn’t even exist. But the reality was nothing like that. His calm dismissal had shattered me, snapped any hope I had that our current circumstances were only temporary, a misunderstanding, fixable.

  But some things you can’t fix.

  I fumble for my duffel bag and stick my hand in the zippered compartment at the side until I find the wrinkled edges of an envelope. I pull it out, holding the corner between my fingertips and letting it dangle there like a talisman.

  “You ruined my trip,” I murmur, but the envelope doesn’t burst into flames or do anything to show it’s possessed. It’s just an envelope.

  I swipe the back of my hand across my cheeks, wiping away my tears, and pull out the single piece of lined paper, neatly folded into thirds. The first thing I see as it unfurls is my name at the top in my father’s terse handwriting, each letter written with as much economy as possible.

  Aster, I read. It’s me.

  I’m unwell. I don’t have long, and I don’t have anyone else. There is a lawyer who will handle the details, but I need someone to act as executor. I am leaving the house to you; perhaps you can sell it. There are some local groups to whom I would like to leave a few items. Please see to it that they receive them.

  Goodbye,

  Phillip Lindsey

  I read the last words a dozen times. Goodbye, Phillip Lindsey. Not, I love you. Not, I’m sorry. Not, how is school? Just...goodbye. The word we’d been running too fast to say when we left.

  Phillip Lindsey. Like he was never my father. Like in all the years we’d been apart, he hadn’t learned a single thing. Still as stingy with his kindness as he’d always been. Maybe that’s why I fell for Jerry. He was so generous. With his time, his encouragement, his love. He was so completely and utterly open, drawing me in with his sheer newness and unfamiliarity.

  I grab my phone and replay the lawyer’s voice message, then call back before I can talk myself out of it. The ringtone sounds ominous, like a time warp or a warning. After the third ring, a woman’s voice answers.

  “Good afternoon, Goldman Hartshorne Law,” she says.

  “Hi,” I say, the word coming out scratchy. I try again. “Hi. My name is Aster Lindsey. I’m returning a call from Mitch Goldman.”

  “Oh!” she exclaims, as though she’s been waiting to hear from me. “Just one moment, I’ll tell him you’re on the line.”

  Tinned hold music starts to play, and before I can convince myself to hang up, the same male voice from the message comes on the line. “Ms. Lindsey,” he booms, managing to sound both stern and pleased to speak to me.

  “Yes,” I say, trying to pretend I’m an adult and not a drama queen slumped on the floor of her dorm, tear-streaked and hungry. “I got your message.”

  “We’ve been attempting to get in touch with you for some time,” he says. “We don’t have your exact mailing address—you’re at school, correct? Holsom College?”

  “Yes.”

  “Righ
t, that’s what your father thought. Unfortunately the school registrar wouldn’t confirm or deny your enrolment, and our attempts to locate you were largely unsuccessful.”

  PPP students are strongly encouraged to avoid all forms of social media. They’re possible links between our past and our present, a way for people we wish to avoid—or simply should avoid—to contact or to tempt us. And likewise, the school registrar has even more stringent procedures to follow before releasing the names of any of its students, like gatekeepers determined to keep the past out.

  I consider the letter, now resting against my knees. It’s dated January 20. He sent it nearly two months ago, but because of the unspecific address it took a while to arrive, and even longer for me to open. Two months. Two months ago when I was in love with Jerry and Aidan was just his hot roommate. Two months ago when my days were an endless repeat cycle of going to class and coming home and seeing Jerry and going to class and coming home again. Two months ago when I didn’t make a road trip to a wedding or slap a man or kiss that man or have sex next to a picture perfect lake, icy water chilling my knees. Two months ago when I thought I’d fallen in love for the first and only time.

  “Why have you been calling?” I ask, not sure if I want to hear what I’m expecting or not. Do I want him to be dead or do I want him to have found me?

  Goldman takes a deep breath, and I know the answer.

  38

  Aidan

  “Too bad,” Wes remarks, scanning my apartment—my former apartment—as he carries the last box of my paltry belongings to the door. “This place is nice.”

  “I know.”

  He pauses in the hall as I twist the key in the lock, then crouch down to slide it back under the door. “You think he’ll get another roommate?” he asks. “My place just went from cramped to crowded.”

  “It’s only temporary,” I remind him. “Another six weeks of school, then you guys take off and I move back on campus to work for the summer.”

  “Six weeks,” he says as we get in the elevator. “Time flies.”

  “How’s your mom?”

  He squints into the box as we ride down, and I don’t know if he’s scrutinizing my toiletries or avoiding the question. “All right,” he says eventually. “Hanging in there.”

  “You hang in there, too,” I tell him as we step outside. “You’ll have me and T.J. around now. We can help out when you need it. You just do what you need to do to pass this year.”

  He exhales as we stuff the items into his battered old car. “I’m trying not to add to people’s problems,” he says. “You’ve got enough going on.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I lie. It’s been four hours since I dropped off Aster and called Wes to weasel myself a room. He and T.J. live in an older house on the opposite side of town where they rent out the two top levels from an elderly lady and get a break on rent for helping out with yard work and minor repairs. I’ve been there before, so I know they’ve got space. Problem is, neither one of them is quite as committed to the program as they should be—as I’m trying to be—which is why I didn’t room with them when I needed a place before.

  “You picked a good day to move in,” Wes says as he starts the short drive. “T.J.’s throwing a birthday party for his cousin tonight, and her hot friends are coming.”

  “You can just admit the party’s for me,” I tell him. “No need to make stuff up.”

  “Ha,” he scoffs, parking at the curb in front of the ancient Victorian. It’s got pitched roofs and gingerbread trim, a recent paint job leaving it even greener than the new grass on the lawn. “You can hook up with anyone you want, but steer clear of Shawna. I’ve been laying the groundwork, and tonight’s the night.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Also, I know you have a thing for your roommates’ ladies, but stay away from Pearl,” he adds. “She’s a wonderful landlord, and still quite a looker for eighty-three. You might have a hard time keeping your hands off.”

  I sock him in the arm. “Shut up.”

  * * *

  T.J. and Wes’s parties are legendary, and by midnight the place is vibrating with pounding bass, dancing bodies, and at least a hundred voices. Wes told me Pearl sleeps with ear plugs and doesn’t hear a thing, which is how they get away with it.

  When I met Wes and T.J. first year, I came to their parties pretty frequently, but quickly learned that they’re a cesspool of temptation I can’t afford to get sucked into. Again.

  I’d spent the past hour doing my best to be sociable, but I’m in no mood for it. The drugs and alcohol and half-naked girls and too-macho guys are a one-way trip to the past, a place I can’t afford to revisit, no matter how easy it would be to slip into that role.

  And maybe three months ago, if I’d had a day like today, I’d have given in to all those vices, offering myself whatever justification I needed to throw away everything I’ve worked so hard for. But tonight things are different.

  Tonight I’m in my new “room,” a miniscule space beneath one of the dormer windows. Everything I own can fit in the trunk of a compact car, so I don’t have any furniture. My new “bed” is an over-stuffed red chesterfield—Pearl’s word—that’s approximately four feet long and two hundred years old. The crushed velvet upholstery makes my skin itch, and the smell of dust and mold makes me feel like I’m smothering.

  Tonight, for the first time since laying eyes on her, I don’t know what’s going to happen with Aster. The day we met, I knew I’d have her. The day she slapped me, I knew I’d get her back. But there was nothing at stake those times. I liked her more and more each time we met, but nobody’s heart was on the line. There weren’t feelings involved.

  But that fucking lake sex changed everything.

  Aster changed everything.

  Now I’m lying on a chesterfield, ninety-six different springs digging into my spinal chord, my head pounding with the unrelenting bass from downstairs, and she’s...alone.

  I sit up abruptly.

  I just did to myself what I did to Jerry. Made a mistake, left the door open a crack like a fucking welcome sign for the next guy who comes along. I’m not blind. I see the way the guys on this campus look at Aster. They look at her the way I first looked at her, and that’s a problem.

  A huge problem.

  And my problem solving skills are shit.

  I stand and grab my jacket from the pile of belongings on the floor, then hurry out of the room and down the stairs. Someone calls my name but I ignore it and weave through the crowd to the front door, jogging down the steps and taking a second to orient myself before starting the twenty-minute run to campus.

  By the time I get to Aster’s building it’s nearly one o’clock in the morning, the chilly air cooling the sweat on my skin as I try to contemplate a way in. I’m spared the effort when a guy comes out to smoke and holds the door for me. I pace around inside the elevator for the twenty-second ride up, feeling like a caged animal, and on the ninth floor I stride down the hall to Aster’s corner suite, taking a minute to gather myself before raising a hand to knock.

  No answer.

  No light under the door.

  I knock again.

  Then, after a second, weak light spills through the gap at the bottom.

  My shoulders slump in relief, but when I hear her twist the deadbolt, I straighten, trying for some semblance of composed and reasonable.

  And forgivable.

  Another second passes, then Aster squints into the hall, face soft from sleep. Her blond hair sticks out on one side from where she’d slept on it, the same shade as her rumpled yellow T-shirt and plaid pajama pants.

  She looks adorable.

  And then she recognizes me and her expression turns to one of annoyance. She must have been expecting a student pleading for condoms or coins or corkscrews. All better options than me.

  “Question three,” I say, thrusting out a hand to block the door when she would have closed it. I add my foot to the mix when she pushes harder. “You ask
ed how I’d recommend new students deal with the obstacles they face at Holsom, how they’d handle things differently than they did before.”

  She doesn’t invite me in, but she does stop trying to shut me out. My heart, barely calm after the run over here, starts pounding again, a rapid patter against my rib cage.

  “I’d tell them to do everything differently,” I continue. “If they would have started fighting before, they should walk away and think about things now. And if before they would have run away, they should stay and face the problem. PPP says the past is the past, but it’s only the past if you deal with it. If you don’t, it sticks with you and stays a problem.”

  My hands are shaking so hard I have to stuff them in my pockets to hide them.

  “In the past, I would have let what happened today be an excuse to make a whole bunch more mistakes. But I’m not going to do that now. I moved in with Wes and T.J. I returned the apartment key to Jerry. I finished my reading for tomorrow’s class. And I’m here to tell you I’m sorry.”

  Aster curls her fingers in the hem of her T-shirt, watching the fabric stretch. She’s still trying to be angry, but it’s not working. I can barely take a full breath, but I plow on, seizing my advantage.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t honest about the cabin. I’m sorry you didn’t get your s’mores. I’m sorry about the car ride back. I was...” Fuck. I just said a hundred words and now I can’t manage the one that matters. “I was embarrassed,” I say quietly, scuffing my sneaker on the worn carpet. “I want to be better than I am, sometimes.”

  Aster sniffles and slowly looks at me, her eyes shiny with tears. But they’re blue again, not dark and stormy. It’s that sea of cornflowers, blooming through the ashes. After a moment she steps back and holds the door, letting me in.

  Again.

  When she locks the door behind me, all the tension I’d been holding onto eases away, making room for something else. Something better.

  I extend my arms and she steps into them, hugging me back, her cheek pressed to my chest, my chin resting on top of her head. I don’t even think about how she smells like lemons or her breasts are soft or am I going to get laid tonight. I think about how some people, like Jerry, do good because that’s just who they are. But some people, like me, do good when they have a reason.