Constructing Us (New Adult Romance)

by Lake, C. J.

  “Of course,” Andy agreed easily, extending her hand.

  As they shook hands, he felt instantly the soft warmth of her palm, her fingers, the gentle way she clasped his hand in hers. When the contact broke, he started to leave.

  “Wait!” she called. He turned back. “I made lasagna before. It’s still in the oven. If you’re hungry, you’re welcome to have some.”

  His eyes lit up at that. “Lasagna, really? So that’s the awesome smell? I didn’t want to ask, but--um--hell yeah I want some!”

  She broke into a smile that was part laugh and waved toward the kitchen. “Help yourself.”

  “Thanks.” As he walked into the kitchen, he commented, “Huh, so the stove does work. That’s good to know.”

  “Um, how long have you lived here?” she called back.

  “Two and a half years.”

  “Okay…”

  Grabbing a bowl from the cabinet, Tragan threw open the oven door. As it screeched on its hinges, he heard Andy call out, “Oh, by the way, it’s probably still really hot.”

  Casually, Tragan called back, “Eh, I don’t care if I burn my mouth.” He spooned a mass of lasagna into his bowl, snagged a water bottle from the fridge, and crossed to the other kitchen exit, the one near his room. On his way, he started eating. “Damn, this is so good,” he muttered to himself as he shoveled in more, even though it was half-burning his tongue. Something even possessed him to yell, “Andy--this is awesome!” as he headed to his room.

  Chapter Six

  That night Andy lay awake staring at the window across the room. From here she could just see the bottom curve of the street lamp behind their building. For endless minutes, she looked into the hazy, orangey glow of the bulb, lost in thought.

  Not good thoughts, of course. Good thoughts rarely kept her up. Anxious thoughts, worries, scary hypotheticals--those were like vampires, emerging at night. Relax, she told herself, pulling her mind back from the cliff. Reset.

  She’d never particularly been a worrier until she’d gotten sick at the beginning of her junior year of college. What started as a bad headache spiraled into a debilitating kind of chaos. Was it a “bug”? Mono? A heart defect that had gone undetected all the healthy years of her life? No, to all those things. After a month in and out of the university medical center and a couple of overnight hospital stays, she’d gotten better. The headaches had stopped, the tiredness faded. Her strange illness began to recede into the past.

  Until she relapsed over Christmas break and ended up in the ER at St. Catherine’s Hospital in Brookline. Though they stabilized her blood pressure, they couldn’t figure out why it had plummeted in the first place. She insisted on going back to Chicago for her spring semester and by March, she felt like her old self again.

  It wasn’t until a full eight months later that it all began again. This time her mother wanted her home, so she’d left school and taken the rest of the semester off.

  And now here she was--after recovering again and finally finishing her degree, a semester late. Admittedly she had suffered a brief turn this past Christmas, but she’d only felt ill a few weeks, not months. She’d love to think of that as progress, but since her condition was such a medical mystery at this point, who knew what to think?

  If only doctors understood “Bronsteg Disorder” better. If only it wasn’t so rare and uncharted. When she allowed herself to reflect on the situation, she felt like a time-bomb--perfectly healthy, but for how long? At what random moment would it change again? And would this strange uncertainty go on like this for her entire life?

  When she busied herself during the day, she didn’t even think about it much. It was at night that the fears tended to creep in--the dread of blinding headaches, dizziness, fuzzy concentration, even aching limbs. Brad had told her once that her muscles weren’t precisely aching; they just felt so fatigued that her mind mistook it for ache. But what was really the difference? The point was: it sucked.

  Even though she’d felt perfectly fine for almost two months now, Brad had convinced her to join this latest drug trial. Though he wasn’t part of the study, he knew about it since he was a second-year resident at St. Catherine’s. The drug they were testing was actually for Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, but some of the symptoms overlapped, and CFS wasn’t all that well-understood, either (though it was far more common).

  About a year ago, Brad had prescribed her anxiety meds to tame her worrying, but before starting the drug trial, she’d had to wean off of them. Which was why she was lying here now with only her unfiltered, unsettling thoughts to lull her to sleep. No chemicals to “boost her serotonin” or put her fears in pretty hats…

  Well, this was ridiculous. If she couldn’t sleep there was no sense staying in bed. Peeling the covers back, Andy swung her feet out of bed and landed them on the soft, warm rug she’d laid down earlier. She glanced around the moonlit room, admittedly happy with the apartment. It was an old building, but clean and well-maintained. The old-fashioned radiator was painted stark white to blend in with the walls, and she could tell that the hardwood floors had been recently refinished.

  Her mom didn’t see why she had to leave their beautiful, spacious house in Chestnut Hill to take a room in an apartment. Of course, logically, she had a point. But emotionally, this felt healthier. This felt like Andy wasn’t going backward in life, living in her childhood home under her mother’s implicit protection. Taking the apartment made Andy feel more in control of her life, even if it was mostly an illusion.

  As for her new roommate, she couldn’t quite get a read on him yet. On the one hand, Tragan seemed like a typical guy her age: laid-back, slightly messy hair, friendly but not effusive about it, and he didn’t exactly project “maturity.” Yet…

  There was something palpably masculine about Tragan Barrett. Andy saw it--felt it--as soon as he’d appeared in her doorway tonight. It was probably just the intensely dark eyes, and the deep, almost gravelly voice. Or maybe the broad shoulders and strong-looking arms. Perhaps it was the faint five o’clock shadow that ran along his jaw. He was certainly a contrast to Andy’s boyfriend, Brad. Both men definitely exuded confidence. But at twenty-eight, Brad was undoubtedly more serious-minded, well-spoken, and polished.

  Brad had offered for Andy to move in with him before she agreed to take Ethan’s apartment. She had declined, partly because Brad’s apartment--while gorgeous, in a coolly-modern-metallic-chic kind of way--was all the way out in Cambridge, and convenience-wise, she would have been better off just staying in Chestnut Hill. The other reason she said no had to do with a lack of comfort-level there, as well as a lack of intimacy between her and Brad these days, and a desire not to analyze their relationship, which was beginning to drift.

  Now she sat on the floor, facing several tall stacks of books she hadn’t figured out what to do with yet. Hmm, what would be a comforting choice tonight? A novel? Or--maybe she’d look through one of her cookbooks and find a new recipe to try. Cooking had become her hobby lately--her new distraction tool.

  Soon, time was going by more rapidly, Andy was turning pages and her mind seemed to relax, finally, as photos of food and passages on culinary techniques stimulated pleasant thoughts, creative thoughts. Not for the first time, a quiet voice in the back of her mind sighed, relieved. Thank God for books.

  Chapter Seven

  Tragan saw little of Andy over the next few days. His crew had to put in long hours to finish a remodel in Brighton, and late this afternoon he’d been able to hit Wallets. They’d only stayed a few hours, because his friends had crapped out early, but Tragan didn’t protest because he’d had an insanely good night and made nine hundred bucks.

  Now, as he arrived home, he was welcomed by an appetizing aroma and the faint sound of clanking utensils in the kitchen. He was about to toss his keys and jacket on the sofa as he passed. Then he remembered the fancy-looking coat rack that Andy had set in the corner at some point, and went back to hang his jacket next to hers. He shoved his keys in his pocke
t as he headed to the kitchen, where he found his new roommate bent over the oven door. Inadvertently, his eyes dropped for a moment. Damn, that perky butt again.

  “Hey,” he greeted her as she reached for a rectangular glass pan inside the oven.

  “Oh, hi, stranger,” she said amiably, glancing up at him. “How’s it going?”

  “Good. Here, you need a hand?” he offered and didn’t wait for her to say yes.

  “Wait, it’s hot!” she warned, handing off the potholders as he took the pan from her. “Thanks,” she said on a breath.

  “No problem. Where do you want this?”

  “The table’s fine. I’m not in your way here, am I?” she asked, sort of looking around. Tragan followed her gaze and for the first time noticed that the kitchen looked a mess with bowls, an open bag of flour, a jar of nuts, a bunch of spice jars spread across the counter, and a cookbook with the page being held by a wooden mallet. He narrowed his eyes, curious.

  Last night when he’d gotten home from work, her room had been dark. But he’d found a new covered pan in the fridge. Now tonight’s feast? He had to wonder what the point was of making all this food, and if Andy actually ate it herself.

  Just then he noticed that her eyes had fallen to the wad of cash he’d tossed on the counter before taking the pan. “Good night?” she asked.

  “Oh.” He nodded. “Yeah, I killed it tonight.” For some reason he felt an impulse to brag, to impress her by recounting the specifics, like how many times the manager had switched dealers on him, and how they’d tried and failed to rattle him. But he stopped himself.

  “How did your friends do?” Andy said, pulling a metal spatula from the top drawer.

  Tragan shrugged. “Enh. Two of them lost their money and one of them only played the slots--then spent all his winnings on a steak. Hey, all this cooking…are you trying to start a catering company or something?”

  “No, no. This is my new thing. Like a creative outlet.”

  “Ah, so you’re an amateur chef?”

  “Um, that’s putting an ambitious spin on it. I’ll take it!” she said brightly. Tonight Andy wore pink pajama pants and a yellow tee shirt, both mostly covered by her apron. Until now Tragan had never realized how adorable a girl in an apron could be. She really looked cute, especially with her hair in a ponytail and a streak of flour on her cheek. He resisted the urge to move closer to her and brush it away with his thumb. He wouldn’t even do that kind of in-your-face move to a girl in a club--just touch her cheek with no segue--so he wasn’t about to assume he should invade his roommate’s personal space after they’d only met a few days ago.

  Andy said, “I cook a lot, I should warn you. You’re welcome to anything I make. I usually give most of it away.”

  “To who?”

  “Mostly my sister, Emma. She lives in Newton. Of course it was easier to bring stuff over to her when I lived in Chestnut Hill.”

  Tragan was still wrapping his mind around the first part. “So wait you go to all this trouble and don’t even eat it yourself?”

  “No, I have some. You know, I taste it. Make sure it’s okay.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Well, the truth is…”

  For a horrible second he was afraid she’d tell him she was one of those messed-up girls who starved themselves to be thin. Except she didn’t look skeletal or anything. Instinctively, his eyes scanned her figure: five-three and slim, with some nice feminine curves.

  “I don’t know if Ethan told you, but I’m participating in a drug study right now. It’s kind of messing with my appetite.”

  Not sure how to respond, Tragan said, “Oh. How come you’re doing that anyway?”

  When Andy turned to open the fridge at that exact moment, it almost seemed like she was avoiding eye contact. “Um, it was just something I heard about,” she said with a shrug as she grabbed a water bottle. “A doctor I know is running the study and I wanted to help out.” Before she closed the refrigerator door, she looked over her shoulder. “Want one?”

  “Yeah, thanks,” Tragan said, stepping closer to her. When he took the bottle, his fingers accidentally grazed hers. She seemed a little startled by it. She sort of averted her eyes and then sidestepped, letting the fridge door fall shut on its own.

  No longer up so close to one another, Tragan felt an almost imperceptible coil of tension in his chest dissolve.

  Leaning against the counter now, Andy seemed at ease so apparently the subject of the drug study didn’t bother her. But she obviously didn’t want to mention her condition--or to admit that participating in the study had anything to do with her health, in particular.

  Going along with that, Tragan nodded casually. “I understand.” Then, out of a sudden curiosity--as well as the fact that he didn’t want to leave yet, but wanted to keep talking to her--he asked, “So what do you have to do in the study?”

  “Not much,” she answered after a sip of water, and re-screwed the top. “Just go three times a week, answer a bunch of questions, sometimes give blood, do a stress test. It’s pretty boring.” He pulled a kitchen chair out and sat down. “Anyway, I’m told appetite loss is a side effect of the drug.”

  “But you love to cook,” he remarked idly.

  “Well, it works out anyway, because my sister’s kids love when I bring them food--they are literally the best taste testers. Emma has two little boys,” Andy explained. “Jake and Ben--they’re four and six--and they have loved everything I’ve made so far, even the mistakes.”

  “Hey--I could be a taste tester,” Tragan blurted.

  “Yeah?”

  Now he grinned at her. Clearly he was winning in the deal, and anyone could see that. “Sure, why not?” he went on. “I love to eat and I never cook. Boom, done. Perfect partnership right there.”

  “Okay, well…” She stepped closer to him, came up beside the table, her legs--he noticed--were only inches from his. “Would you like to try this?” As she asked, she pulled back the foil covering the hot glass pan he’d set on the table for her.

  “Hell, yeah. I just need a fork--”

  “And a plate,” she pointed out with a wry look, as if to say, You weren’t really just going to eat it out of the pan, were you?

  “Right,” he agreed, turning his chair more toward the table. “What is it? It smells awesome.”

  “Pecan-crusted trout over orange-scented black rice.”

  Tragan paused, jerked his head back. “Ohh…” he began, trying not to grimace.

  “Perfect partnership hitting a snag already?”

  “It’s just…see, Andy, it smells great and I’m sure it is, but I hate fish. Literally hate it. Always have.”

  “Really? Okay, I didn’t realize.”

  Of course not, how could she have? Come to think of it, his friends might not even know that about him. Fish was just something he never ordered when they were out. Tragan added, “It’s actually a sore point in my family, because my dad was a commercial fisherman for years.”

  Andy tilted her head as if she might tease him, and crossed her arms, which caused her apron to press tighter against her chest. That brought Tragan’s attention instantly to her breasts, pushing against the fabric. Soft, enticing curves…

  “I see, so you were one of those difficult kids growing up, huh?” she said, squinting her pretty blue eyes. So she was teasing him. In his experience, when men and women teased each other they were often only a step or two away from outright flirting.

  “No, not me,” he said with a grin. Holding her eye contact, he added, “Didn’t I already tell you? Andy, I’m a nice guy...” Damn, what was he doing right now? Flirting with her? Was he really trying to go there?

  She gave a little laugh, which only made him notice her lips, her whole mouth. He ignored a sudden bolt of lust and forced an easy smile. Roommate or not, Andy was very appealing, but it was most likely a bad idea to even contemplate--

  Just then a song began playing. It startled them both and took a second for T
ragan to recognize the tune, though he didn’t know the name of it, off hand. It was a love song that had been on the radio a lot a year or two ago.

  “Oh, that’s my boyfriend!” Andy yelped suddenly, as if just remembering the ring tone she’d programmed for him. “I’d better get that,” she added, flashing a smile at Tragan before darting out of the kitchen.

  As he heard Andy’s bedroom door shut and her muffled voice in the background, Tragan sighed to himself--more annoyed than anything else. Of course Andy would have a boyfriend. Why hadn’t he considered that? She was prime “girlfriend material,” after all. Friendly, pretty, loved to cook. He should’ve seen that coming, and all the more reason why attempting to flirt and vibe with his female roommate was a terrible idea.

  Maybe he’d assumed Andy was single because of basic logic: if she was moving out of her mom’s house, wouldn’t she rather live with her boyfriend than a random guy like him?

  Either way, Tragan was relieved the issue was settled once and for all.

  Now he stood, went to the counter to scoop up his wad of cash, and headed toward his room. Sure he might feel a physical attraction to Andy--and would be prone to flirting if he let his male impulses take over--but now that he knew she wasn’t available, he wouldn’t even let his mind go in that direction. He barely knew her anyway. She was good-looking, but so were a lot of girls. So, done. Topic over. It was good to know.

  Yet, as he entered his bedroom and tossed his cash on the dresser, he couldn’t quite shake a lingering feeling of disappointment.

  Chapter Eight

  Tragan was watching baseball the following evening when he was surprised by a knock at the door. Andy had been in her room with the door closed since he’d gotten home from work. When she didn’t emerge, he muted the game and rose to answer it.

  A blonde guy stood on the other side, wearing a v-neck sweater with a stiff-collared shirt underneath. He’d been in the middle of scrolling on his phone when Tragan swung the door open.