My Roommate's Girl Page 5

  She frowns at me. “How’s that painful and embarrassing? Did it happen last week?”

  “No, I was five.”

  “Then it doesn’t count. Try again.”

  I rack my brain, trying to think of something I can actually admit to. “I’ve been sprayed by a skunk,” I announce.

  Aster turns in her seat. “What?”

  “Yeah. Worst fucking thing.”

  “What happened?”

  I sigh and rub the back of my neck, remembering. “I had a, uh, job interview later that day...” It was an assignment to steal my first car, but she doesn’t need to know that, “...and I had a bunch of nervous energy, so I went for a run. I had my music on, wasn’t paying attention, and at the last second I saw this skunk scurrying across the path, three little baby skunks in front of her. I came to a halt but it was too late—she turned tail and sprayed me. Horribly. Intensely. It was awful. If you could die from a smell, I’d be dead.”

  Aster’s laughing her head off. “What about the interview? Did you go?”

  I grimace. “Yeah. I went. I read online that tomato juice helps with the smell, so I bought a dozen tins of juice, filled the tub, and sat in there for an hour. It didn’t help at all. I had a red tinge when I went to the interview, which lasted all of two minutes.”

  That part’s true, too. Teddy covered his face and told me I stank, then gave me a piece of paper with the car information, told me to bring it to the garage in twelve hours, and instructed me to start wearing deodorant. He didn’t buy my skunk story.

  “So you didn’t get the job?” Aster guesses.

  “No,” I lie. “I didn’t get it.”

  “Poor you.”

  “Yeah.” I wait for lightning to strike me dead. “Poor me.”

  We drive in silence for a minute, and I know Aster’s thinking she might get away with not answering the question. I consider giving her the out, but after another thirty seconds I say, “Your turn. I showed you mine; you show me yours.”

  She huffs, then sighs in resignation. “Jerry never did anything wrong,” she says, picking at a spot on her jeans. “Like, really never did. And it wasn’t even annoying. He was just so good. He was always on time. Always called when he said he would, or if he was going to be late. He picked nice restaurants and let me decide what movies to watch. When we first met I had a sore neck because I’d been sleeping in a lumpy bed all summer, and when he learned about it he bought me one of those foam things for my mattress and a special pillow.”

  “He just wanted to get into your bed.”

  She shrugs. “At least my neck stopped hurting.”

  “So he’s punctual and generous. That’s not unheard of.” I can be punctual and generous, if that’s all it takes.

  “Imagine if you’d gone to that job interview, and it was a job on Wall Street that was going to pay you a million dollars a year,” she says. “And you walked in smelling like ass and they shook your hand and hired you anyway. That’s unheard of.”

  “That’s different,” I argue. “You don’t smell like ass. Any guy would want you. Jerry’s not remarkable, he’s alive.”

  Aster arranges her empty cup in the holder between us, stalling before she answers. “He was special to me,” she says softly.

  My heart twists in my chest. One day in second grade I came home from school and didn’t see our dog tied up on the porch like normal. When I asked my dad where she was, he didn’t bother to lie and say she ran away, he said he gave her to someone as collateral on a loan he’d taken out. When he paid it back, we’d get the dog back.

  I had to see another family walking Daisy around town for the next eight years.

  So I know how Aster feels. And now I know how my dad felt when I sobbed myself to sleep, punished for someone else’s bad judgment and selfishness.

  “How old are you?” I ask, changing the subject.

  She lets me. “Twenty-one. You?”

  “Twenty-two. I worked for a year before I came here.” I’d actually been on parole and not allowed to leave the state of Oregon, where I grew up, but close enough. “Point is, you’re young. And if you want to work on Wall Street, there’s someone out there who’ll hire you.”

  “I don’t want to work on Wall Street.”

  “I know. What do you want to do?”

  “I want to be a divorce lawyer.”

  I assume she’s kidding, then sober when I realize she’s serious. “Oh—really?”

  “Yep.”

  “Are your parents married?”

  She slants me a look that says the topic’s off limits. “No. Yours?”

  I give her a look that says the answer may be different, but the unpleasantness is the same. “Yep.”

  Her lips quirk and she peers through the windshield. “Great day for a wedding.”

  9

  The wedding venue is a small white clapboard church two blocks from the beach. The day is absolutely freezing, icy sea water adding a damp chill to the air and filling my lungs with cold from the inside out.

  “Eek,” Aster squeals, fishing her bag out of the backseat and jogging in place as she waits for me to grab my things from the trunk. “How do you know when you have hypothermia?”

  I shudder, tasting salt on my tongue when I inhale. “Let’s go.”

  We hustle to the small building, a cutesy sandwich board propped up out front to advertise the Lewiston-Hershey wedding, and pass through the double doors into a foyer with a table set up with a guest book for signing. I scribble my name but Aster declines, saying she doesn’t really belong here.

  “It’s probably better you don’t write anything,” I say, putting down the pen. “You’d probably frighten the other guests.”

  She’s gorgeous when she smiles, no trace of whatever shadows I’d glimpsed in the car.

  “Shaw!” a deep voice booms.

  I turn to see Wes approaching, already in his dress pants and white shirt, collar unbuttoned. He’s Brix’s best man and they arrived last night to get things ready for today.

  “Hey, man.”

  We hug, then he turns to Aster expectantly.

  “This is my friend,” I say. “Wes, meet Aster. Aster, meet Wes.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Aster says, shaking his hand.

  “You too.” The look he gives me implies I will be grilled about this later.

  “There’s a waiting room just down the hall,” he says, pointing. “We’ve got some snacks and stuff. Wedding starts in an hour, so if you want to relax, you can do it there. Take your time, get dressed, and we’ll call you out when we’re ready.”

  “Thanks. Will do.”

  He studies Aster one last time before returning to the chapel to continue preparing.

  “Shall we?” I lead the way to the waiting area, where T.J. and a few other friends are already hanging out. In suits and ties and holding dainty glasses of champagne, they’re hard to recognize as the guys I saw at Bender a few weeks ago.

  I make the introductions, and everyone looks at Aster and looks at me, then looks at each other. It’s not just that she’s so obviously better than us, it’s that I keep calling her my friend. They know “friend” is usually code for “I’m working on her,” but she’s not the kind of girl I’ve “worked on” before, so they’re confused. So am I, if I’m being honest.

  “I’m confused,” T.J. whispers when Aster leaves to get changed. “Is she really your friend?”

  “She is.”

  “But...why?”

  I scowl at him. “Why wouldn’t she be?”

  “Because you’re you?”

  That’s a fair point, but it still stings. “She doesn’t know much about me,” I admit. Some girls might judge me for being at Holsom as part of this type of scholarship program—hell, some girls might be turned on by it—but I meant it when I promised the judge I’d make a fresh start at Holsom, and I can’t do that if I keep dredging up the past.

  Wes and Brix rush in and swivel around, searching for something. �
��I heard you brought a friend,” Brix says. “Where is she?”

  I glare at Wes. “Really?”

  “Is she a parole officer?” he asks. “Undercover cop? Bodyguard?”

  “None of the above. She’s a student and she’s my friend.”

  “You don’t have female friends.”

  “I could totally—” I can’t finish the lie. “Well, I do now.”

  “How long have you been working on her?” Wes asks.

  “I’ve known her about six weeks,” I say. “And I’m not working anything. She’s just...”

  Everyone’s jaws drop and they gawk over my shoulder, instantly forgetting me. I turn to see what they see: Aster, in a fitted knee-length black dress with a plunging neckline, shiny red heels, and lipstick to match. Aster, who’s breathtaking in jeans and a T-shirt, now looking like a million-fucking-dollars.

  “Whoa,” Wes whispers.

  Brix is the first to break the silence, stepping forward with his hand outstretched. “Hi,” he says. “We haven’t met. I’m Brix. I’m the one getting married.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Aster says, fixing him with that perfect smile. “I’m Aster. Aidan’s friend.”

  “Aidan,” Brix repeats with emphasis. “Aidan’s friend.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Ahem.” I intervene, prying Brix’s hand out of hers. “None of these guys have actual friends,” I explain. “They don’t know how to act around normal people.”

  Her mouth quirks. “I’m used to it.”

  She wears a long, fine gold necklace that dips into her spectacular cleavage and it is killing me not to reach out a hand and follow that sparkling chain to God knows where.

  “Let’s go take our seats,” T.J. says. “Someone in this room has found a woman who thinks she can tolerate him. I’m talking about Brix, of course.”

  “Ass,” Brix says, punching T.J. in the kidney.

  “Ass,” I second, punching him in the arm.

  T.J. yelps and scurries out.

  “I should have told you they were immature,” I tell Aster as we follow them into the chapel.

  “That’s okay,” she says. “I can handle myself.”

  * * *

  The wedding goes smoothly, everyone behaves, no one objects, and thirty minutes later we’re on our feet, applauding as Brix and his new bride stroll down the short aisle, hand-in-hand and grinning ear-to-ear.

  I met Brix on my second day at Holsom, and in three years I’ve never seen him as happy as he is now. I’m not quite as poisoned against the thought of love and marriage as Aster, but I still think they’re too young to make such a big commitment. Still, their happiness is contagious and everyone in the room is infected.

  Wes and T.J. are happy because there are a couple of cute—and single—bridesmaids waiting to dance with them at the reception, and even marriage-is-a-death-knell Aster is wiping tears from her eyes.

  “Are those happy tears?” I whisper as we file out. “Because if you start with the fire and brimstone routine, I’m going to deny being the one who brought you.”

  “I’m fine,” she whispers back. “But I’ll be even more fine when I get some lunch.”

  “I hear you. I’m about to pass out.”

  The reception hall is across the street, forty frigid steps that have everyone shivering when we hustle inside. The wedding party is small, about thirty people, and we’re all famished as we take our seats and wait impatiently as the serving staff come around with baskets of bread and starter salads.

  If someone had told me three years ago I’d be at any event with Brix where there were starter salads, I’d have laughed in their face. Now I grab my fork and dig in.

  “Ohmygodbread,” Aster mumbles, slathering a piece with butter and shoving it in her mouth.

  I chuckle around a mouthful of lettuce. “There’s more food coming.”

  We’d stopped for donuts and coffee at the halfway mark, figuring lunch would ruin the wedding meal, but that was clearly the wrong call. Fortunately everyone seems to be in the same boat and they save the speeches until we’ve all inhaled our appetizers and calmed our raging stomachs.

  Wes gives a funny and raunchy toast, then Brix’s parents say a few words, then the bride’s. I don’t know much about Brix’s new wife, but every time she looks at Brix there’s love in her eyes, and I wonder if that’s what Jerry lost. If Aster made him feel the way Brix looks now, and I took that away.

  If that’s how Jerry made Aster feel.

  Maybe I’ve made a huge mistake. It’s not that I don’t want Aster, but maybe sex can’t replace what I’ve stolen. I’m not going to love her like Jerry did; I’m not a job on Wall Street, I’m not a winning lottery ticket. I’m just a guy who wants to fuck her, not much different from every other guy who looks at her.

  The roast beef I’m chewing turns to sawdust in my mouth and I wash it down with the remnants of the champagne we’d used for our toasts. I’m driving us home later so this is the only alcohol I’ll have, and when I hear the cheesy wedding songs start to play, I know it’s not going to be enough to get me on the dance floor.

  They introduce the bride and groom and the happy couple takes center stage for an endless slow dance that starts out romantic and goes on forever. The women in the room gaze at them adoringly, but Aster’s focused on cutting her prime rib.

  “Does this song ever end?” she mutters out the corner of her mouth.

  “It’s been at least eight minutes,” I reply, chewing on a piece of steamed broccoli.

  As though the deejay can hear us, the song wraps up and everyone applauds. Half the room sweeps onto the dance floor as a faster song comes on, and Aster pushes away her plate and downs the last of her champagne.

  “Let’s dance,” she says. “We’ve been sitting all day.”

  “I don’t dance.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t dance.”

  “Come on, Aidan. You’re not going to make me go out there all alone, are you?”

  “Come with us!” the bridesmaids squeal, rushing up with more champagne.

  Aster takes a glass and shoots me a disapproving look. “I’d love to.”

  They squeeze onto the tiny dance floor, writhing like they’re way drunker than they are. There are three servers carrying trays of champagne, and the girls commandeer one guy to be their personal waiter, stationing him at the edge of the floor, ready with constant refills.

  This is a side of Aster I haven’t seen. The one that gets tipsy and shakes her ass and shimmies in ways that should be illegal. The one that forgets it’s Valentine’s Day and her heart’s broken.

  “There’s more to this story,” Wes says, sliding into Aster’s empty seat as T.J. takes the one opposite. “Spill.”

  I sip my water calmly. “There’s nothing to say. She’s been going through a hard time. I thought a road trip might help take her mind off things.”

  “Are you that hard thing?” T.J. asks shrewdly.

  I watch Aster spin in a circle, hands above her head. The gold chain floats in the air and nestles back between her breasts, making me jealous. “I wish,” I admit. “But not yet.”

  “How much not yet?” Wes demands.

  “Not at all not yet.”

  “Is today the day?”

  “Who knows?” I say, like it’s no big deal and I can wait forever. “What happens, happens.”

  We all look at her, toasting the bridesmaids with their umpteenth glass of champagne, giggling and happy. It’s Valentine’s Day. Love is in the air. The alcohol is paid for. Maybe today could be the day.

  But though we’ve talked about women before, shared sex stories and sex secrets, I don’t want to talk about Aster like that. Especially when I know she’s just recently been betrayed—and that I’m the one responsible, even if she doesn’t know it. I started this whole ball rolling with a clear plan in mind—fuck Aster—but the more time I spend with her, the less solid the plan becomes, slowly morphing into something I ca
n’t identify and don’t have a name for.

  10

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” I mutter six hours later. It’s ten o’clock and we’re halfway between Lawrence and home, and squarely in the middle of butt fuck nowhere. It’s pitch black and freezing and the rental car has been making alarming noises for the past five miles. Aster’s phone says we’re just a mile from the nearest town, though I can’t see any lights—or hope—on the horizon.

  We sputter to a stop on the shoulder of the empty two-lane road, no street lights or signs of civilization in sight.

  “Uh-oh.” Aster hiccups and giggles. She swears she’s just tipsy, but she’s drunk. Too drunk to change out of her dress but too drunk to wear her heels, so she’s sitting beside me in her party dress, sneakers, and puffy yellow jacket.

  “You know anything about cars?” I ask. I know how to pop the locks, break the windows, and hot wire them. I don’t know how to fix an engine.

  “Nope.” Another hiccup. “Did you get insurance when you rented this? Can we call AAA?”

  “Yeah, but who knows how long it’ll take to get someone out here. Wherever we are.”

  “Oh well. It’s Saturday. If we get home late, who cares?”

  “I care,” I snap. “We can’t just sit out here on the side of the road, hoping someone shows up to help.” She flinches at the raised tone and I exhale. “Sorry. I just don’t like being helpless.”

  “You’re not helpless,” she says calmly. “I’ll help you.” Her words are a little slurred, but she holds up her phone, calls AAA, and requests roadside assistance. “Okay,” she says. “Okay, yes, thank you. Goodbye.” She turns to me. “It’ll be seven hours.”

  “What?”

  “Just kidding. There’s a town up ahead, they’ll send someone to collect us.”

  “What about the car?”

  “The town doesn’t have a rental office, so they’ll tow it to the garage and the mechanic will work on it tomorrow.”

  I grip the wheel, watching the tattoos on my knuckles darken against the blanched skin. Ride hard. Or not at all, apparently. “We’re stuck here?”