My Roommate's Girl

by Julianna Keyes

  And I have a reason.

  39

  Aster

  I wake up early the next morning, a razor beam of sunlight lasering straight into my brain from the tiny gap between the college-issue green curtains. I wince and cover my face with my forearm, moving carefully so I don’t disturb Aidan. He doesn’t budge. I’m starting to learn that the guy sleeps like the dead.

  I shouldn’t be awake right now; we barely slept last night. We had hours of sex, slow, dark sex, under the covers, everything hidden and everything bared. It was intense and exhausting, and I feel the twinge between my legs that reminds me this isn’t something I normally do. Jerry and I never did it that much, never that long, never that...good.

  Aidan snuffles in his sleep and I spy on him from the corner of my eye. Mouth parted, lips fluttering with each little snore. He’s on his stomach, arms extended above his head, fingers linked like a makeshift halo. The tattoos that span his biceps and shoulder blades are a random hodgepodge of ink that manages to say both nothing and everything at the same time.

  These are my mistakes.

  Don’t look.

  Look closer.

  Don’t judge.

  Much like the last time we fought, I’d come away thinking it was over, we were done. For three years I’ve told myself I can’t repeat past mistakes; I can’t make any mistakes.

  But mistakes are unavoidable.

  Hearing his response to my unanswered question made me forget my determination to slam the door in his face and spend the rest of my life avoiding him. His advice to new PPP students can apply to older PPP students as well. All students.

  Do things differently.

  Running is my modus operandi, and it worked when I was a teenager. But then I went to prison and my brother died and I haven’t spoken to my mother in three years, so the plan is not without its flaws.

  After hanging up with Mitch Goldman yesterday, I’d been determined to continue running and ignore the situation with my dad’s will. Goldman himself had given me the out: they had companies they could use to pack up and sell the house and send me a check when all was said and done. I didn’t have to do a thing, if I didn’t want to. Didn’t have to return to the place I swore I’d never return to, didn’t need to bear witness to the remnants of a life I needed to forget.

  I told him I’d think about it and get back to him, though I had no intention of calling. But Aidan saying that you couldn’t forget the past until you’d dealt with it struck a chord, and my past is an open wound that’s healing much too slowly. I wasn’t ready to deal with it before, choosing to let it fester while I tried to move on with my life. But it’s still there, haunting me, hurting me, so just like Aidan knocking on my door and confronting the issue, I have to deal with it.

  No more running.

  Aidan snorts and I feel him shift on the mattress as he comes awake.

  “You up?” he mumbles sleepily.

  “Yeah.”

  He groans. “Why?”

  “My dad died,” I say, concentrating on the stucco ceiling.

  He stills. “What?”

  “I read the letter and called the lawyer. Yesterday.”

  He takes a second to absorb the news. “So what happens now?”

  “He left me his house. I can go back and deal with the stuff he left behind, or the lawyer can hire someone to handle it. Sell it. Whatever.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Aidan says. “You’ve got your own life to deal with.”

  “That was my first reaction.”

  “You’ve already had a second one? In less than twenty-four hours?”

  “Your speech inspired me.”

  “Well, I’m a pretty inspiring guy.”

  I roll onto my side to face him, fingers trailing over the old tattoos. Some mistakes, some maybe just memories. Or reminders. “You are, sometimes. When you want to be.”

  His cockiness fades as a private battle of emotion wages war across his face. Discomfort. Pleasure. Uncertainty. Hesitation. Like he’s still on the fence about who he’s going to be. But I don’t care. We’re all straddling one line or another. We don’t have to pick a side yet.

  “You inspire me,” he says softly, rolling the ends of my hair between his fingers, concentrating on the task and dodging my compliment.

  I’d be irked by the obvious evasive maneuver, but I’m actually glad he’s not looking at me because I’m pretty sure the same smorgasbord of discomfiting emotions washes over my face. Turns out, it’s embarrassing to be called inspiring.

  But it’s kind of amazing, too.

  * * *

  The knock on my door later that afternoon sounds too fierce and determined to be Aidan. An eye pressed to the peep hole confirms the worst.

  “I know you’re in there!” Missy hollers, mouth close to the peep hole, big and small at the same time. “Let me in. You have some explaining to do.”

  I do a quick scan of the room, grateful I’d tidied up a bit when Aidan left for class. I pull open the door. “Hey, Missy.”

  She arches a brow. “Aster.” She strides in without invitation, thrusting a small box into my hands as she passes. “I brought you a vanilla cupcake as a bribe.”

  I wait warily as she takes a seat at my desk, crosses her legs, bites into a red velvet cupcake, and fixes me with a serious stare. She chews, swallows, and without missing a beat, asks, “What’s sex with Aidan Shaw like?”

  I almost drop the cupcake. “Missy!”

  “What? I’ve been wondering for years.”

  “I can’t—I can’t—”

  “I think you can,” she says, shooting a pointed glance at the box of condoms on the bedside table. “And I think you have. Just spill.”

  “No!”

  She sets down the cupcake and holds her hands about two inches apart, slowly widening them. “Just stop me when I’m close.”

  I press the back of my hand to my heated cheeks. I don’t think I’m a prude, but my experience with girl talk extends no further than listening to my prison bunkmates boast about their illicit sexual encounters.

  “Stop,” I protest, when her hands are about fourteen inches apart.

  She pauses and peers between her palms. “Wow.”

  I laugh in spite of myself. “Shut up. I meant, stop asking.”

  “But I brought you a cupcake.”

  I think about Aidan bringing me ice cream. Maybe I’m easy.

  Missy sighs. “Fine. Did you at least take pictures?”

  I throw a pillow at her and sit on the bed, cross-legged, as I fish out my cupcake. “No.”

  “Dammit. I was hoping I could live vicariously through your romantic getaway since mine got ruined.”

  “I didn’t have a romantic getaway either, remember?”

  “I bet you didn’t spend the afternoon listening to Aidan cry.”

  “Jerry cried?”

  “Yep. He’d never evicted anyone before. Said he felt like a monster.”

  Oh, Jerry.

  I’m seeing now that we were never meant to be.

  “I’m sorry we ruined your trip.”

  She waves a hand dismissively. “Ruined it, improved it. I’m not exactly the outdoorsy type, Aster. I just went along to be nice. Jerry’s so proud of his newfound survival skills, I felt like I had to agree. Surviving the sight of you and Aidan, however, is not something he was prepared for.”

  “It wasn’t really that bad, was it?”

  “How could that be anything but bad? He’s convinced you cheated on him.”

  Even though Jerry’s the one who cheated on me, the accusation still stings. “I didn’t start seeing Aidan until after we’d broken up. Long after. It was...innocent.” It’s hard to say innocent with a straight face, but I’m not about to admit Aidan started this whole thing by paying a prostitute.

  Missy pulls another cupcake box out of her oversized purse and bites in. “Is it serious?”

  “Serious?” I concentrate on folding my wrapper into a tiny square. “What d
oes that even mean?”

  She lifts a shoulder. “It means is this relationship going somewhere or is it just for fun? Because when I saw Aidan, I saw hot and temporary. But when the two of you came out of the woods yesterday, I saw hot and...” Her eyes wander the room as she looks for the right word. “Happy,” she decides. “You looked hot and happy. Sex happy. Hand-holding happy. Got-a-great-deal-on-these-Manolos happy.” She studies her designer shoes. “Like, I got a really great deal. And you were even happier than that.”

  “That’s pretty happy.”

  “So it’s serious? You see a future with him?”

  “A future? Missy, it’s only been... I mean, we’re just...” I can feel my cheeks burning. “I’m just thinking about the present right now. The future will come...later.”

  She licks frosting off her thumb. “Okay,” she says. “Suit yourself. Be vague. But are we talking, like, six inches vague? Eight? Ten?”

  “Missy!”

  She sniffs. “Goodness, Aster. You’re so well-behaved. You should try doing something bad once in a while, just to keep life interesting.”

  I bite into my cupcake and try not to laugh.

  40

  Aidan

  I see Aster before she sees me.

  I’m parked in front of her building in Wes’s beat up old car, watching as she turns in a small circle, shielding her eyes against the spring sunlight. She’s wearing skinny jeans with a hole in the knee and a black tank top, a messenger bag slung over one shoulder. She’s the picture of all-natural college perfection, and she’s waiting for me.

  I honk the horn and wave to her through the rolled down passenger window. She spots me and comes over, slinging the bag into the footwell as she slides in.

  “What are you doing behind the wheel?” she asks. “I thought this was my driving lesson.”

  “It is. We’ll go to Carters and practice there. They’ve got a huge parking lot and the far corner’s always empty.” Plus I kind of lied to Wes about why I wanted to borrow his car, telling him I needed to buy a number of things in bulk from the grocery store.

  “Shouldn’t I, y’know, drive?” she wheedles as I pull away from the curb. “Out of the frying pan, into the fire?”

  “I don’t think you’re using that phrase correctly,” I say. “Anyway, in your case it’d be more like, out of the frying pan, into the passenger seat.”

  She smiles and sits back. During our failed trip to the cabin, I’d learned two new things about Aster: one, she’s never had a s’more; and two, she doesn’t have a driver’s license. Being homeless and then imprisoned had deferred that rite of passage.

  “Whose car is this?” she asks, stroking the torn leather on the inside of the door.

  “I borrowed it from Wes. I told him I needed some bulk items from Carters.”

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  “Like...toilet paper. What else comes in bulk? Cereal?”

  “Tomato sauce?”

  “Yeah, I need those three things.”

  She laughs. “When the apocalypse comes, you’ll be ready.”

  I turn into the Carters parking lot, steering away from the large green building and its bustle of Saturday afternoon shoppers and driving us to the far corner where our only company is a three-wheeled shopping cart and a flattened diaper box.

  Aster claps her hands together. “I’m so excited. The only way this could get better is if I had a s’more in one hand.”

  “You’re going to need to keep both hands on the wheel,” I inform her sternly. “At ten and two o’clock. That’s lesson one.”

  “Okay.” She pushes open her door. “I think I got it. Let’s do this.”

  I plant my feet on the asphalt, but don’t get out of the car as she rounds the front and waits for me to stand.

  “What?” She plants her hands on her hips. “Is there a second lesson? How hard can this be?”

  I take the keys from the ignition and get up. “Lesson number two,” I say, tilting her chin so she’s looking at me. “When we haven’t seen each other for three days, you’re supposed to jump my bones. At the very least, make out with me passionately and let me get to second base.”

  She rises onto her toes to kiss me. “Maybe that should be lesson one.”

  The whole reason for keeping our relationship under wraps was so Jerry wouldn’t find out, but we still haven’t quite shaken off the cloak and dagger routine, even though there’s no longer any need for it. Keeping things close to the vest is force of habit for some PPP students, and knowing what I do about Aster’s history, I think it’s second nature for her.

  Still, she kisses me in the deserted corner of the Carters parking lot like she really is going to jump my bones, and I’m totally on board with the idea. I squeeze her ass with both hands, filling my palms, and she squirms against me, tongues tangling until she breaks the kiss and steps away.

  I try not to ogle her tits as they rise and fall with each ragged inhalation, her raspy breathing matching mine. “Are you going to do something about this?” I ask, gesturing to the erection tenting the front of my cargo pants.

  “No, I can’t. I’m still on parole. If I get arrested for public indecency, I’m in a shitload of trouble.”

  “You Holsom girls,” I say, pursing my lips. “Can’t take you anywhere.”

  Aster laughs as a gust of wind sends the diaper box pinwheeling past. “Nowhere nice, anyway. Now give me the keys.”

  I do and we switch spots, Aster sliding behind the wheel as I take the passenger seat, nudging her bag aside with my feet.

  “All right,” she says. “Where do I begin?”

  I guide her through starting up the car, which pedal does what, pointing out park, drive, and reverse on the gear shift. Like a toddler, she presses every button she can reach, turning on the windshield wipers, spraying wiper fluid, and popping the trunk and the hood, giggling foolishly as she gets out to slam them shut.

  Soon enough she’s driving in painfully slow circles around the lopsided shopping cart, smiling like a pageant winner. It’s impossible to watch her and not feel happy, maybe the first time I’ve had a girl who’s made me feel that way. I’ve been with women I liked and respected, but it’s never been like this. It’s never been just...good.

  “Okay,” I say, when she comes to a stop. “You’ve mastered driving in circles. Want to try parking?”

  “Yep.”

  “All right. Try to park in...” I lean forward to read the yellow numbers painted on the spaces. “Sixty-eight.”

  “Okay.” She bites her lip as she eases forward, like she might scare the spot away. “Bonus points for not picking sixty-nine.”

  “I’m a gentleman.”

  “Tell me about stealing cars,” she says. “When did you start? What was it like?”

  I lean back in my seat. “Well, for me, the gentlemanly art of stealing cars began at age fifteen.”

  “Whoa, really?”

  “Yes. I was a young gentleman.”

  She snickers. “Stop saying gentleman.”

  “Much like you, we needed money. My dad had—has—a gambling problem, and there weren’t a lot of jobs in our town. Plus, there was this group of guys—not a gang, but as close as you could get, basically—that I really wanted to be a part of. Just something...stable, I guess.”

  Aster doesn’t comment as she straddles the line between sixty-seven and sixty-eight, then drives through the spots and starts a slow circle back.

  “Remember that story about getting sprayed by a skunk?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I lied. I told you I didn’t get the job, but I did. It was my first assignment.”

  “So how’d you do it?”

  I narrow my eyes suspiciously. “You’re not going to steal yourself a car, are you?”

  “I don’t steal anything anymore,” she replies. “A few months ago I bought a candy bar from a vending machine and two came out, and I left the second one there and only took the one I paid for.”
r />   “You’re so lame.”

  “Boring and free.”

  “Anyway, how it worked was they’d locate the car they wanted—I never knew where they got their orders from—and text me the details of where to find it. A photo, make and model, address, whatever. Then I’d wait until the middle of the night and just go take it. It was pretty easy, mostly. I mean, they weren’t million dollar cars or anything, they were just cars. A paycheck.”

  “So how’d you get caught?”

  “Have you ever heard of a bait car?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it’s exactly what it sounds like. The police plant a bait car with GPS and cameras and stuff, and when you steal it, they find you and arrest you.”

  “Yikes.”

  “Yeah. I was a week away from turning eighteen. I could have gone to jail. But the judge looked at my records from juvie, saw I’d behaved myself while I was in there, got good grades, participated in the group sessions, and said I had potential and promise. Asked me did I think I had the same.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “Well, a dozen of the guys I worked with were there and I didn’t want them to think I was a pussy, but the guy was basically offering me a way out, so I stared at my feet and mumbled, ‘Yeah,’ and six months later, here I was.”

  “Did you go to juvie for stealing cars?”

  “No. I went to juvie for fighting. My dad used to give our stuff away to pay off our debts. When I was thirteen he gave away all my birthday presents, the stuff my mom had been collecting, wrapping, writing stupid cards for. The kid whose dad took them rubbed it in my face at school, reading those cards out loud to everyone. I beat the crap out of him. It wasn’t my first fight, but it was my worst. So off I went.”

  “Wow. We’re just two prime specimens, huh?”

  Because we lived in a relatively small town, every girl there knew my story. It scared some, turned on others. Wes is the only friend at Holsom who knows what I did, thanks to a night of drunken confessions I regretted in the morning. But telling Aster feels natural. It’s just information for her, it doesn’t tip the scales one way or the other. She understands that people make mistakes.