My Roommate's Girl

by Julianna Keyes

  Not that she ever seems to buy them.

  The house is quiet when I let myself in, lining my boots neatly along the wall and straightening Wes and T.J.’s. I clear an empty glass and plate from the coffee table, toss a couple of tattered newspapers into the recycle bin, and wipe stray crumbs off the kitchen counter. I’ve got an hour until Aster arrives at seven, and the evening’s menu consists of salad from a bag; frozen chicken pot pies; and a chocolate cake from the bakery T.J. works at that he let me buy with his employee discount.

  I get the pies in the oven and set to work on the back deck, scrubbing down the patio furniture and using a broom to fish cobwebs from the eaves. Once it’s clean, I fill a bucket with ice and water and stick the beers inside, stashing it in the shade of the patio table just as I hear a knock at the front door.

  I wash my hands and grab a small towel to dry off, tossing it over my shoulder as I open the front door to see Aster standing on the stoop. She’s wearing a blue sundress with little orange flowers, and strappy sandals that wrap around her ankles.

  “You look—I mean, hi—you look amazing,” I say, unable to stop the grin from spreading across my face.

  There’s a split second hesitation before she smiles back, her eyes searching mine for any trace of the weirdness from before. She doesn’t find it, because it’s not there. Oh, sure, I still feel guilty as fuck, but those feelings are firmly squashed when I cup her face in my hands and kiss her the way I should have done the last time.

  She kisses me back, her relief evident in the way her fingers dig into my shoulders, like she’s anchoring herself. Anchoring us.

  We’re breathing hard when we break apart, our equilibrium restored.

  “Are you hungry?” I ask, hearing the aroused scratch in my voice.

  “Famished,” she says, the same scratch in hers.

  Right on cue the oven timer dings, and I lead Aster back to the kitchen, gesturing to the limited points of interest along the way. “Living room, dining room, bathroom,” I say, flicking a hand. “Bedrooms are upstairs—I’ll show you later.”

  She gives me a lascivious wink that’s meant to be funny but nearly makes me trip over my feet. “Can’t wait.”

  I indicate the patio doors. “And I thought we could eat outside.”

  “Good idea.” She wraps her fingers around the frame and takes in the rambling, overgrown yard that’s more jungle than garden. “This place is beautiful.”

  I pull the baking sheet out of the oven, two golden brown pies bubbling in the center. “You think? It’s a little messy.”

  “It’s gorgeous,” she says. “Imperfect, but...charming.”

  There’s a weird note in her voice, but when I glance at her she’s already outside, fishing two beers from the bucket and cracking the tops.

  “Need a hand?” she asks, sipping from her bottle as she comes back in to watch me scoop up the salad.

  I pass her two plates. “Can you put these on the table? I’ll bring the pies.”

  “Pie for dinner? This is the best meal I’ve ever had.”

  “Chicken pot pie. Dessert to follow.”

  Moments later we’re sitting in front of our little feast, making small talk. Aster’s completed four of her exams and has her last one next Wednesday; I have one tomorrow and another on Thursday. Just enough time to steal a couple of cars, then come back to Holsom to review my sociology notes.

  I pick out the dried cranberries from my salad and stash them on the side of the plate, concentrating on my task as I work up the nerve to lie. “It’s my mom’s birthday on Monday,” I say, stabbing another cranberry.

  “Oh yeah?” Aster sips her beer, and I watch her lips press against the edge of the bottle and wish I weren’t doing this.

  “Yeah. She’s turning fifty. They’re having a big party.”

  “That’s nice. Are you providing the cranberries?”

  I nudge the pile with my fork. “No cranberries. But I am going down there for the night.”

  “What about exams and the Frisbee baseball tournament—are you still avoiding Shamus?”

  I can tell she’s trying not to nag, but that’s exactly what she’s doing. Or maybe it’s just my guilty conscience that makes everything sound like an accusation.

  “I’ll talk to Shamus tomorrow. The tournament is on the weekend, so it’s fine. I’ll catch a bus Monday morning, go to the party that night, and be back here late Tuesday. My last exam is Thursday, so it shouldn’t be an issue.”

  “And you think this is a good idea?” she asks. “Going home?”

  “It’s her birthday,” I say, hearing how lame it sounds.

  Aster looks at her bare wrist. “Do you know the time?”

  “Why? Do you need to be somewhere?” I pull my phone out of my pocket and check the display. “It’s quarter to eight.”

  “Nope,” she says lightly. “It’s just starting to get dark.”

  I’m not buying her story, even though the sun is rapidly setting, the air around us growing dense and gray. I’d planned for this and turned on the porch lights before we came out, so it’s still comfortable. At least, it would be, if I weren’t getting weird vibes from my girlfriend. “Is there something wrong with the food? We can go somewhere else.”

  “The food’s great,” she says, her smile loosening some of the tension in my chest. I don’t know if I’m nervous because I’m guilty or because tonight I’m planning to tell a girl I love her for the first time in my life, but it’s taking a lot of effort to keep my fork from rattling against the edge of my plate.

  “The company’s great,” she adds. “The garden’s great.”

  I point at her. “Okay, now I know you’re up to something.”

  She laughs, her head tipping back to expose her throat. I take in the pale skin, the smooth expanse of her chest, her collar bones, the dip of cleavage. She’s not hiding anything, because she has nothing to hide. She shook all the skeletons out of her closet, and she’s better because of it. And after Monday, I’m going to close that closet door and lock it tight and never think about it again. I’m going all in on this life, this opportunity, the one I finally know exactly what to do with.

  “Hey,” I say, reaching over to snag her hand. Her fingers feel small and fragile between mine, delicate, even though I know she’s not. And even though I know she doesn’t need protecting, I want to protect her. I want to shelter her from the dark parts of me, and give her only the best parts.

  “What is it?” she asks.

  I rub my other hand on my jeans, my palm damp. “I wanted to tell you something.”

  She blinks, her blue eyes made bluer by the dress. Even in the dimming light, I can still see them. Feel them.

  “Aster,” I say, heart pounding. “I—”

  My phone buzzes, skittering across the glass tabletop and startling us both. Aster jumps in her seat, knocking over a beer bottle with her elbow. I snag the bottle before it can topple to the deck, and Aster grabs my phone.

  “I know this is Shamus,” she says, swiping the screen. “This has gone on long enough. I’m pretending to be you and telling him you’d love nothing more than to be team captain. He’ll be delighted.”

  “No,” I say, reaching for the phone, even as she pushes her chair back out of reach.

  “Dear Shamus,” she pretends to type, fingers flying.

  “Aster,” I say, louder than intended. “Give me the—”

  Her fingers stop moving and I know she’s not seeing whatever message just came in. She’s searching my inbox, and she’s seeing the message from Teddy, my contact in Vickers. She’s seeing the only two incriminating messages in my entire phone, each with an unmistakable picture of the targeted car, make and model, and location.

  “Aidan,” she says, no inflection in her voice.

  “Give me the phone, Aster.” I stand when she stands, and she darts past me into the house, trying to close the patio door. I grip the edge and shove it open, following her inside. “Aster!”

>   She runs through the kitchen and into the dining room, not realizing there’s no exit. She’s trapped herself. But she’s still checking the phone, even as she rounds to the far side of Pearl’s antique table, breathing hard.

  I block the door and start to the left, but she moves to the right, keeping the table between us.

  “Give me the phone,” I say again.

  Her face crumples and she hurls it at me, her aim dead-on. I catch it a split-second before it crashes into my chest, but it’s already too late. She knew what she was doing when she picked up the phone; she may not have known what she was looking for, but she was looking for something. She wasn’t falling for my everything’s-fine-let’s-have-a-nice-dinner charade. She played me. Again.

  “What are you doing?” she asks, her voice dangerously soft.

  “It’s not—”

  “Don’t lie to me!” She snatches a teacup from one of the dusty place settings and chucks it at me. I grab it out of the air and dash around the table before she can destroy anything else.

  Destroy everything.

  She jumps away, shoulder crashing into the wall, and sprints out of reach. She flees into the living room and I beat her to the small foyer, preventing her from making it to the door. There’s no exit through the jungle out back, and she’s too smart to run upstairs. Now she keeps the coffee table between us, the permanently unlit fireplace behind her, ornate urns and candleholders decorating the mantel. Everything in this house is too good for me.

  “Let me explain,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “Sure,” she says, voice shrill. “Explain. Please!”

  “I’m just—It’s for Wes. I’m helping him. One time.”

  “Helping him how?”

  We both know she knows the answer, she just wants to hear me say it. “I’m going to lift a couple cars—”

  “When?” she interrupts. “During your mom’s birthday party?”

  My heart sinks. “There’s no party.”

  “No kidding,” she snaps. “Is this why you couldn’t get it up the other night? Because you’re so busy stealing shit again?”

  It feels like she hit me with a two-by-four. “Don’t you dare—” I stalk toward her, and this time she holds her ground, her fury palpable.

  “Don’t dare what?” she demands, eyes glittering. “Don’t dare wish for something better from my life? Don’t dare find someone who wants that, too?”

  “I’m not—”

  “Don’t dare ask you why you’re such a fucking idiot?”

  “I’m not!” I roar.

  “You are!” she hollers back. “You’re so fucking stupid, Aidan!”

  “Shut up!” My hand curls into a fist, and when I glance down I see four familiar letters, crudely stamped there in a different time and place, when I was a different person. Hard.

  Maybe I’m not so different after all.

  “I’m not scared of you!” Aster screams in my face. “I’ve been to prison, you fucking moron! You haven’t! You have no idea! You got off easy! You got a second chance without even paying for the first one. And now you’re throwing it all away because you’re an asshole.”

  “Stop,” I mutter, dragging my hands over my face, my whole body shaking. “Stop, Aster. Please.”

  “You stop,” she says, voice breaking. “Don’t do this, Aidan.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “You’re right. I don’t. Have you been doing this all along? Stealing?”

  “No. I haven’t done it since I started here. And I don’t want to, but Wes and T.J. are in trouble and if they don’t get the money...”

  “Their problems are not your problems,” Aster says. “You need to focus on yourself.”

  “Stop quoting the PPP brochure. They’re my friends. I have to help them.”

  “I’m your friend,” she says, pressing a hand to her chest. “I’m your friend. And I’m telling you to help yourself.”

  “Aster...” Hearing her call herself my friend on the night I planned to tell her I love her fucking hurts.

  “They’re not your friends if they’re asking you to do this, Aidan. They’re not.”

  “It’s just one time.”

  “You know it’s wrong. You know you’re better than this.”

  “It’s different, Aster. You don’t have anyone. You don’t understand how it feels to...”

  The tears brimming in her eyes splash over and roll down her cheeks. “My brother is the reason I got caught,” she whispers. “Security guards caught him leaving a store, and when the police searched him they found drugs. They threatened to lock him up, force him to get clean, and instead he turned me in. I went to prison because I understand how it feels.”

  I think about her sparse room. Strictly functional. No pictures, no personal touches. Nothing to take away. Nothing left to lose. Just Aster.

  “I owe them,” I say softly. “They were there for me. The first year at school, when every day felt like torture. Then a few weeks ago, when I needed a place to stay. They helped me. I have to do this.”

  “You don’t,” she says.

  “Aster.”

  “Aidan.” She steps forward and rests her hand against my chest, over my heart. It’s pounding so hard I know she can feel it. “You’re better than this,” she says.

  I shake my head weakly.

  “You’re smarter,” she says.

  “You don’t—”

  “You’re different.”

  I pull in a shaky breath. “It’s just one night. Then I’ll come back and we’ll—”

  “No,” she interrupts. “There’s no ‘we’ if you do this. I didn’t work this hard to have it blow up in my face. I could love you, Aidan, but not if you don’t deserve it.”

  I try to clutch her hand, hold it against me and keep her there, but she takes one step back, then another, and another, until she’s at the threshold. She pauses, her hand on the knob, giving me one last opportunity to do the right thing.

  “I know you deserve it,” she says quietly, pulling open the door.

  But I don’t.

  46

  Aster

  Aidan doesn’t call.

  I tell myself it doesn’t matter, that I said everything I needed to say—everything I could say—five nights ago. I threw him every lifeline I could, I told him about my fucking brother, but he wouldn’t grab on. Wouldn’t save himself. I know I’m right, but knowing I’m right is cold consolation.

  I know from personal experience that saving someone is not in my repertoire. I tried for a full year to get my brother help, but Ramsay wouldn’t take it. The drugs were an easier reality than our circumstances. Even after he turned me in, even after I was charged and sentenced, I tried. I thought maybe seeing me in prison beige would spark something in him, but it didn’t. He visited me once and never again.

  Then he died.

  It’s not easy, but I make myself get on with my life, even as I swear with each step that I can hear the shattered pieces of my heart rattling around in my chest. It hurts, but I’ve started over before, and I’ll keep doing it until I get it right.

  Shamus invited me to come watch the Frisbee baseball tournament today and tomorrow, but I made my excuses, blaming exams, work, whatever. I have to admire the guy’s spirit; he never loses hope, even when there’s none on the horizon. But there’s no way I can go to that tournament and see Aidan, be near Aidan, and not break down.

  I thought I was devastated when I ended things with Jerry, but that was nothing. That was an illusion, a mirage, an idea. It wasn’t real.

  Aidan was real. And I was real when I was with him.

  But I was real that night at his house, too, and I’m not throwing away my shot at a better life for a guy who’s too mired in the past to see what’s right in front of him.

  I’m due in Chester at ten o’clock tomorrow morning for the walkthrough of my dad’s house. I’ve already cancelled on Goldman three times, and as much as I want to cancel again, I know I
have to do this. It’s time to pull off the bandage once and for all.

  I fall asleep, the kind of rest that’s not restful at all, waking up even more exhausted than I started. I recoil when I see my reflection in the mirror, unwashed hair and dark circles under my eyes, even less ready for this trip than I was all the other times I postponed it.

  A nagging voice whispers that I can still cancel.

  Mitch Goldman’s probably on a golf course, waiting for my call. He’d been kind and patient the others times I’d bailed on the visit, telling me there’s no rush, the house isn’t going anywhere.

  But that’s exactly the problem. If I don’t deal with this, it will continue to loom there, the last vestige of the life I left behind, a shackle around my ankle, holding me back. I force myself into the shower, into clean clothes and sneakers, and out the door. The bus leaves from the campus depot in half an hour, and today I’m going to be on it.

  My phone rings as I step out of the elevator, and I sigh when I see Shamus’s name on the display. I could let it go to voice mail, but I know from experience that Shamus calls three times before giving up. Better to shoot him down on the first try.

  “Hey, Shamus,” I say tiredly.

  “Aster,” he replies. His normally upbeat lilt is gone, replaced by stress. “Is, uh, Aidan with you, by any chance?”

  My heart lurches. “No. Why?”

  “Ah, well, he’s not here, and Missy said he might...be with you?”

  Missy. I’ve been dodging her since the fight, too, so she has no idea we’ve broken up.

  I check the time. I know their games started at nine-thirty because Aidan complained about the early starts. It’s nine-forty now.

  “He’s not here,” I say, stepping into the blazing morning sun and wincing, everything too bright. Too clear.

  Shamus heaves an overburdened sigh. “Right. Do you happen to know where he is, then?”

  “No,” I tell him, recalling Aidan’s lie about his mother’s birthday being on Monday, which is tomorrow. “Was he there yesterday?”