I get a text alert on my phone as I’m in the kitchen with Kempy cooking dinner. I slip it out of my pocket and unlock the screen.
Jen: I miss you already :( Can u hang out tmoro nite?
I ignore her message and put my phone back in my pocket.
“Is that Jen?” Kempy chops an onion on the cutting board, throwing wedges into the sizzling pan.
“Who else would it be?”
“What are you doing about her?”
“Nothing.” I take the chicken from the refrigerator. “Try and ignore her until she gets the message and backs off.”
Kempy scoffs, laughing at me. “That shit won’t work. She’ll read between lines that aren’t there and make up her own story. Why can’t you two just hookup and enjoy it?”
“Because she doesn’t just want a hookup, and I don’t want anything more than that. Fuck, even a hookup lately is exhausting. I’m not into it.” I peel back the plastic wrap and stab a knife into one of the chicken breasts, dropping it into the pan with the vegetables. “Anyway, we were friends first, and it’ll piss her off if I blank her just like that. I need to ease her into it.”
“Oh, man. You’re so pussy whipped.” Kempy opens the overhead cabinet and grabs two bottles of seasoning. “Cut her off and cut your losses. Friends are overrated anyway.”
I ease him a sideways look, arching an eyebrow. “Yeah, no kidding.”
The trees on the other side of the third-floor cafeteria windows sway and bend gently in the wind, loose leaves swirling in burnt orange tangles from the great height.
Tapping the end of my charcoal pencil to the corner of my mouth, I narrow my eyes as I lose myself in the sweeping motion of the shedding branches, watching the leaves dance through the air before they’re swept away in the blustering wind.
Truth is, I don’t know how to finish my sketch. An expressionist piece for my end of semester group critique. What started from reference took on a life of its own. But today, I’m uninspired, and I’m not sure how I want the half-completed girl on the ivory page to look. What’s her style? The reason she was created?
I blow out a sigh from deep in my belly, casting my eyes down to the pouty face with no irises or eyebrows, a few rough pencil marks for a nose.
Chair legs drag across linoleum, and I glance upward with my chin in my hand, frowning when I see who’s invited himself to the table.
“Uh… hey,” I say, straightening in my seat. “Doesn’t the athletic department handfeed you a special diet of steak and lobster?” There’s no such thing on the menu in here today. Bacon mac and cheese is about as fancy as it gets.
Roman grins, his six-foot frame engulfing the wooden chair as he turns it backward and folds both arms over the top. “It is steak today, actually. But I was just grabbing a granola bar before I head out. And then I noticed you over here by yourself.”
“And you thought you’d come bother me?” My lips curl into a fake smile, collapsing into a genuine one when Roman dips his head in quiet laughter. His white hockey jacket stretches over his broad shoulders and chest. The thin jacket’s zipped up to his chin, the two black lace ties hanging loose. He swipes back his hood and lifts the brim of his snapback, turning it the wrong way on his head.
“You know what I’m here for, right?” His smile’s all smirk now, that knowing glint in his eyes leading nowhere good.
I lower my gaze to my sketch, pretending like he’s no longer there. Roman’s got no intentions of slinking into the background peacefully, though, and he settles in, watching me quietly while my pencil hovers over the page with no direction.
Finally, I drop my pencil and sit back in my chair. “I can’t work with you leering over me.”
Roman lifts one dark eyebrow. “Leering?”
“You know what I mean. You need to sit somewhere else so I can finish this.”
“Didn’t look much to me like you were working before I got here. In fact, it kinda looked like you were staring at the trees. Anything interesting up there?” He glances out the floor-to-ceiling windows, narrowing his eyes on the burnished autumn scenery.
“Actually, yeah,” I say in a level tone, trying not to smile. “You just missed a leopard and a spider monkey going at it. But then a squirrel came along and broke it up, so…” I shrug.
“Eh.” Roman’s mouth quirks on one side, the shallow outline of a dimple showing. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”
I roll my eyes. “Sure it isn’t.”
“Where are you from, B?” Roman asks. “Here in Maine, or…”
“Montpelier, Vermont. You?”
“New Hampshire. Colebrook.”
“Not too far away, then. Why Northvale?” I ask.
Roman lifts a shoulder, smiling lazily because I think he knows how he looks when he does that. “Coach Gachet, and I didn’t want to cross too many state lines if I could help it. I’m studying mechanical engineering, and the program here’s one of the most advanced in the country.”
“Impressive,” I say, and I mean that. “So, there is a brain in there.” I check the time on my phone. I’ve got studio art this afternoon, and around thirty minutes before I need to be across campus for it.
I decide to take a slow walk over and hope the classroom’s unlocked when I get there, and I can torture myself over this sketch some more before everyone else arrives.
“Gotta go,” I tell Roman. “I’m on the other side of Campus.” I flip my sketchbook closed, lifting my backpack onto the table to place the book inside, and stuff my pencil in a side pocket. I’ll be using it again shortly, no need for my pencil case just yet.
Roman rises from his chair the same time I do. “I’ll walk you. I’ve got some time.”
Eyeing him hesitantly, I push my chair under the table and shoulder my backpack. “Okay… why?” We aren’t friends. Before I lost the pool game to him—which he won’t let me forget—I never even knew who Roman was. I still don’t know who he is, just that he shows up now everywhere I go and he seems to have reached the same conclusion about me.
“I can’t walk you to your class?”
Why does he always look like he’s laughing at me?
“You could, but that’s not what you’re doing, is it?”
We fall into step together. Before we leave the lunchroom, Roman taps my elbow. “Just gonna grab that granola bar. Wait for me.” He shoots me a hurried smile, then makes a beeline for the cashier station and grabs one of the snacks from the stacked baskets next to the registers. He swipes his student ID card and jogs over to the counter table I’m standing at.
Tearing into the granola bar wrapper with his teeth, Roman eyes something on either the countertop or the wall, a light frown steepling his eyebrows.
“What is it?” I ask, looking where he is and not finding anything more sinister than a few loose crumbs.
He splits the wrapper down the center and snaps off a chewy chunk of nutty granola in one bite. “I dare you to eat that,” he says to me while he chews, eyes trained on whatever he’s found. He points his half-eaten granola bar at the wall.
“Eat what?” I fold my arms, leaning over them on the countertop. Stuck in the narrow space between the cafeteria wall and the long counter is an old potato chip. I don’t want to know how long it’s been trapped down there.
“This?” I point to the stale hoop, but I don’t really believe that’s what he means.
To my surprise, but mostly horror, Roman nods, chewing his granola with a bland expression. He finishes the last bite and stuffs the wrapper in his jacket pocket. “Eat it, identify the flavor, and we’re even.”
“I wouldn’t owe you a hundred dollars?”
“Nope.”
I point again to the stuck hoop. “And all I have to do is eat this chip?”
“Yep.” Roman runs his tongue over his teeth, getting rid of any traces of granola.
“But that’s disgusting.” I don’t even want to touch it with my fingers, never mind put it in my mouth. “What if it’s alr
eady been in someone else’s mouth?”
“That’s a risk you need to ask yourself whether you’re willing to take.” Roman’s blandness gives way to humor, his mouth curving into a slight smile on one side.
“Do you come up with a wager for everything?” I ask. “Like, why would that even come into your head?”
Shifting his gaze to the floor, his eyebrows rise and his mouth quirks down, like him conjuring up dumb shit is my problem and I need to deal with it. “Keeps the boredom away. Are you eating it or not? This deal won’t be on the table much longer.” He puts one foot on the metal bar of the stool behind him, and then sits on the padded seat.
I lean over the counter again, identifying what I’m working with and whether there are any alien substances attached to it, or if there’s more food around it. The chip’s a lone ranger, but I don’t want it anywhere near me.
Before I can do or say anything, Roman carefully nudges the hoop from the thin crack with the tip of a silver key. The hoop rolls onto the table, and I flinch backward like it’s coming right for me. Which it might as well be, considering how scared of it I am.
“Tell you what.” Roman leans a forearm on the countertop, peering down at the chip. “We’ll share it.”
“Share it?”
“You eat half, I’ll eat half. But you gotta go first.”
That sounds extremely fishy.
“How do I know you’ll eat your half, though?” Am I actually considering going through with this hideous idea?
Roman looks me steadily in the eyes. “Because if I say I’m going to do something, I do it.”
I let my shoulders relax now I know the potato chip isn’t going to grow legs and climb into my mouth on its own. “And I won’t owe you?” I ask with a measure of skepticism.
“You can owe me fifty. Or, you know…” Roman shrugs carelessly, the lazy look in his eyes shooting little tingles to the base of my spine. “Just spend some time with me and keep your wallet nicely lined.”
“Well, I would love the opportunity to do more of this.” I rearrange my gaze to the gross potato chip Roman thinks would be a good idea to digest. “So that’s a super tough one to call.”
I’ve barely got the words out of my mouth and Roman’s got the chip in his gloved hand. Securing it between his fingers, he’s careful to divide the now-soft potato in half, eying the two pieces to make sure they’re equal in size. I secretly hope his piece is bigger, because that’s exactly what he deserves.
He holds one piece out to me. I give his piece a thorough onceover, checking I’m not being duped. “Hang on.” I open the zipper on my jacket pocket, taking out my own gloves. I zip up and tug the black gloves over my fingers. “’Kay,” I say, shaking out my arms and stretching my neck from side to side like I’m preparing my mind and body to step into the boxing ring. “I’m ready.”
“Sure you don’t wanna do some clap push ups first?” Roman asks.
“Just gimme the damn chip before my brain wakes up from its coma and I change my mind.” I hold out my hand, my stomach twisting into a loose knot when Roman drops the half-hoop into my palm. “Ohmygod.” I close my eyes, pull in a full breath through my nose, open my mouth and throw in the hoop. I make high-pitched screeching noises as I chew, blocking out any unwanted sensations. I keep my eyes closed and my face scrunched in terrified determination.
“Hey!”
Roman tugs on the cuff of my jacket, his laughter penetrating the horrors I’m currently living through. “You’re meant to be identifying the flavor. Slow down and open your eyes.”
I do open my eyes, but I’m still chewing like a mad woman. For a quick second, I concentrate only on what’s in my mouth, and my tongue taste’s what’s left of the potato chip before I swallow it. Reaching blindly for anything, I pat down my pockets and then move forward, patting down Roman’s when I don’t find what I’m looking for.
Then I remember the dregs of water in the bottom of my backpack. I pull back the zipper, rake through what’s in there, and grab the bottle that’s lying on its side at the bottom. I twist the cap and neck the warm liquid. It’s only a mouthful, but I’m grateful for it.
Roman watches my frantic hysteria with a loose grin on his lips, but he seems more curious than amused.
I recap the bottle and catch my breath, ignoring the sickness that curls my stomach and reaches its twisty fingers into my esophagus. “Barbeque,” I say, the acrid taste of old, soggy, slightly smoky potato chip making my toes curl in my Converse. “It was barbeque. Your turn.”
Roman nods, impressed. “That was pretty badass. I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”
“Seriously,” I deadpan. “Eat the chip.”
With ease, Roman gives it a brief glance, and then he puts it in his mouth. His initial wince is the only indication he doesn’t like what he’s eating. He opens his mouth and shows me his pink tongue and white teeth. “Done. And you were right. Barbecue Fritos.” He pulls a face and picks something out of his teeth. “Nasty.”
“You’re nasty,” I say, grabbing my stuff. Why didn’t I pick up my toothbrush this morning? I could use it right about now. Along with some extra strong toothpaste. “I can’t believe you just talked me into doing that.”
Roman follows me out into the hallway, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Bet you aren’t bored, right?”
I shake my head, smiling at the floor as we pass other students on their way into the lunchroom. “Definitely not bored. Possibly have food poisoning now, though.”
“Nah.” Roman dismisses the idea. “Just keep doing more of that and you’ll build up that immune system in no time.”
I glance up at him, holding onto the straps of my backpack over my shoulders. “That’s quite the theory.”
Roman looks ahead, back straight, shoulders squared. I’d say he’s taller than everyone else, but that’s not it. He stands out, for sure. But it’s his presence, how he turns heads and draws attention without putting in any effort. Not sure how I’ve gone a whole year and a bit without being conscious of his existence around campus. Must have had my head planted firmly in the clouds, or up my own ass. It tends to be difficult noticing what others are doing when I’m so morbidly obsessed with upgrading myself into someone I’m starting to think I’ll never become.
I’m having what I’d call a ‘good day’ today, though. I ordered a healthy, plain salad, no dressing, on a whole-wheat roll for lunch, and I ate the entire thing. So far, so good. I’m completely in control. My mood’s up too, and my whole outlook is positive—unfinished sketch aside. My artwork’s another story, one I’m not so in control of.
“What class you got now?” Roman slips his phone from the back pocket in his black Warrior trackpants and reads something on the screen as he walks.
“Graphic design. So I’m all the way in Beverly Art Gallery.” That’s an out for him to make himself scarce, but Roman doesn’t pick up on the free exit, or he chooses not to take it. “Do you know where that is?”
“Not a fucking clue,” he says distractedly, still looking at his phone.
“Ey, King!” someone hollers from down the hallway.
Three imposing bodies stand that little bit taller in the sea of faces, two of the boys wearing a black alternative to Roman’s Warriors jacket, the other boy wearing white and a matching black hat.
Roman lifts his gaze from his phone, an easy smile coasting onto his lips as he spots his loud, approaching teammates, unapologetically polluting the hallway with their raucous voices.
“What’s good?” He puts his phone away and bumps fists with the one in the white jacket. Just as I’m about to scarper in the distraction, Roman pulls me into his side with a heavy arm draped around my shoulders. His fingertips hang at my chest, and my steady heartrate stutters for no reason. “Kempy, Breezy, and Bowers.” His friends nod or finger salute me as Roman reels off the names.
“We’ve met,” the one introduced as Bowers says. “She dusted your ass at pitch and toss.”
“You mean I dusted your ass,” Roman says pointedly to Bowers. I don’t know his first name; these guys operate on nicknames or surnames only.
“Rematch tonight?” Bowers offers, spreading his arms with a confident grin to welcome the competition.
“Rematch any night,” Roman says smugly. “Doesn’t matter to me what day I take your money.”
Butting into their threadbare conversation, I pipe up, “Okay, I gotta get to art.” I duck out from beneath Roman’s arm and wave bye to his teammates, two of their names already forgotten. “See you guys.”
I’m lost in the pull of foot traffic before Roman can stop me or say anything, and it’s only when I’m outside, crossing the quad in the whipping wind that I realize I’ve got the straps of my backpack clenched in two fists, and my fingers have turned numb from exertion.
I slow down and release the tension from my joints, feeding life and warmth back into my knuckles. Using my teeth, I tug off my gloves and push one into each pocket.
What the hell’s wrong with me? I couldn’t get out of there fast enough, and I’m in no rush to explore all the reasons why.
My goodish day continues on its upward slope, and work isn’t a clock-watching drag for once. Maddie and I are on the same shift tonight, and instead of waitressing, we’re sent out into the cold streets with promotional flyers for a fifty percent slasher discount on wings and a beer, our extremely short shorts, and instructed not to return to the bar until at least eleven p.m. The owner’s trying new ways to bump up the Monday rush, which is already pretty steady, what with Monday night football already pulling in the crowds.
Maddie’s teeth clash as she shivers in her knee-length coat and bare legs. Preston hadn’t given us any time to prepare for tonight’s excursions, and so Maddie and I are making do with what we have. Luckily, this is Maine, and hats and gloves are on the scene.
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