My Roommate's Girl Page 8

“I’ve got this,” I say, when she reaches for her wallet.

  “You don’t have to.”

  “But I want to. Because I’m so chivalrous.”

  She snickers. “Oh, right. And don’t forget modest.”

  “Screw modest. Don’t forget handsome.”

  The cashier rolls his eyes at the exchange, but I don’t care about anyone else right now, because Aster is finally smiling as she winds through the crowded room and finds us a tiny table in the corner.

  “So,” I say, taking the seat opposite her.

  “So,” she replies, licking sprinkles off the side of her cone. “Let’s talk about something.”

  My heart stutter stops, waiting for the ax to fall. Let’s talk never leads anywhere good.

  It takes a second to find my voice. “Sure. Whatever you want.”

  Aster props her chin on her hand. “Have you always liked disgusting ice cream, or is this a new thing?”

  I freeze stupidly. “What?” My heart feels like it’s trying to beat again, but can’t remember the rhythm.

  “I know people like to experiment in college, but don’t you think you’re taking it to the extreme? I mean, orange and black licorice? Aidan, that’s revolting.”

  I sputter. “You got the most boring option on the entire menu. I was going to be a gentleman and overlook it, but you’ve crossed a line.”

  “I’m boring?” she asks, fluttering her lashes as she twists the cone in her hand, tongue poking out to make a ring in the vanilla.

  My cock does not think Aster is boring.

  I squirm in my seat. “So boring,” I manage.

  She smirks. “Well, maybe a little.”

  A trio of girls clambers into a booth nearby, and Aster sobers as she observes them.

  “Were you two close?” I ask.

  “With Sydney?” Her brow furrows as she thinks about it, like she really wants to get the answer right. And even before she replies I know she cares more than she wants to, and that for whatever reason, this hurts her. “Maybe not close enough,” she answers.

  “How close are you supposed to be? You’re resident advisor to what, forty kids?”

  “About that. It’s just, she dug herself such a deep hole, and I can’t help but feel that maybe if she’d come to me, I could have helped her out of it.”

  “You can’t be responsible for knowing what secrets the students are keeping.”

  She studies her fingernails. “I bumped into her once, in the bathroom. She was crying. I didn’t know it then, but she’d just been caught. She told me she was homesick and I fell for it.”

  “It’s not your fault, Aster.”

  She blows a fallen sprinkle off the table. “I know. I just keep thinking that if she’d told me the truth, I could have helped her somehow.”

  “Maybe she was embarrassed.”

  “Or maybe she didn’t think I was someone she could talk to.” She raises those blue eyes to mine, her pain on display. “That’s my whole job, Aidan. And I don’t think I’m very good at it.”

  I scoff. “You have to be kidding. You’re the sweetest person I’ve ever known, minus your ice cream choices. You’re very easy to talk to.”

  “Would you tell me?” she asks. “If you’d gotten caught?”

  My throat closes up for a second. “Cheating?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ve never cheated on a test.”

  “Something bad, then. Would you trust me not to judge you?”

  I picture her giving Jerry a box containing the ashes of his burnt belongings. “Of course,” I lie.

  Something flickers in her gaze, the blue darkening a shade. “Okay,” she says, smiling sadly, resigned. “Then there’s nothing more I could have done.”

  “Nope,” I say. “Not a thing.”

  She stares out the window and eats her ice cream.

  “You know what else might cheer you up?” I ask.

  She glances at me warily. “What?”

  “Kill Glory 5.”

  She makes a face. “That stupid horror movie franchise? Pass.”

  “It’s not stupid, it’s brilliant. And the new one opens on Friday. Come with me.”

  “I have to wash my hair.”

  I flick a stray sprinkle at her. “Your hair always looks dirty anyway. Just wear a hat.”

  She laughs, a real, reaffirming sound that makes something inside of me ease. It’s a sound I didn’t know I needed in my life until now. A sound I didn’t know I’d been missing.

  “And to think I was considering your invitation.”

  “What’s to consider? Remember how handsome I am? We just talked about it.”

  She groans in mock disgust, but I know I’ve got her.

  15

  On Friday I get off work an hour early so I can hustle home, shower, shave, and even iron the shirt I picked out. Jerry’s got another commitment with the volunteer program so the tiny, niggling part of my conscience that keeps reminding me I didn’t take the most honorable route to this point is quiet, like it’s acknowledging that I’ve paid my dues and have earned tonight.

  Hell, I even have a bouquet of aster lilies sitting on the kitchen table, ready to blow Aster away with my cleverness. To further cement my position as best date ever, I pre-bought our tickets for two seats at the end of the row on the right, halfway back in the theater. Aster mentioned once that those were her favorite seats, so tonight she’ll have them. Tonight she can have whatever she wants. I just hope we finally—finally—want the same thing.

  I check myself out in the mirror. Freshly ironed black button-up? Check. Clean jeans? Check. Boots? Check. I pull on a coat and jog out to the car I borrowed for the evening.

  I make the short drive to Aster’s building, park at the curb, and reach the front door just as a group of students exits. I let myself in and call the elevator, counting to ten as I wait. I don’t know why I’m nervous. It’s not like I’ve never been on a date before. It’s not like I haven’t hung out with Aster before. Tonight just feels different.

  The elevator dings when it arrives and I almost drop the flowers. “Calm down,” I mutter as I step inside and press the button for her floor. “Act normal.”

  I step out on nine and turn left for her room, lifting my hand and knocking quickly, a strange jitteriness in my chest. I mask the nerves with a cocky smile when Aster cracks the door a couple of inches and peers out.

  “Hey,” I say.

  She spots the flowers, a strange expression fluttering across her face. And it’s not a look of flattered ecstasy, either. It’s...weird. And wrong.

  I chuckle nervously. “Are you going to let me in?”

  She steps back, tugging the door open wider. “Aidan...” she says cautiously. “What are you doing here?”

  I freeze. “What am I doing here? We have a date. Kill Glory 5. It starts in...an...hour.” The words trail off as I take her in. She’s gorgeous. She’s wearing a fitted gray dress with a scooped neckline that shows off her amazing figure. A pair of gold heels sits in the center of the room, waiting to be stepped into. Her hair is sleek and shiny, her eyes rimmed with dark liner that makes her look sophisticated and sexy. And her mouth...

  Her mouth is painted red, her lips full and feminine and...frowning.

  “You look beautiful,” I say, knowing it’s the wrong thing to say. That the dress and the heels and the lipstick are too much for a movie.

  Too much for me.

  “Aidan,” she says, knotting her fingers together nervously. “I’m so sorry. I forgot.”

  She could say, “Aidan, I’m about to kill you,” and I would feel less panicked.

  The flowers hang limply at my side, but I don’t care about them. I don’t care about anything. I can barely see anything besides Aster right now, three feet away and so far out of my reach.

  “What are you... What are you doing?”

  She shifts uncomfortably. “I have a date.”

  “With someone else?”

  “With Sh
amus.” Her voice is small.

  Mine is not. “With Shamus?”

  She flinches. “Yes.”

  “But you... But we...”

  She waits for me to finish, but I barely know where to begin.

  “What the fuck, Aster?”

  She flinches again, but this time her expression hardens and she stiffens her spine. “What the fuck, what, Aidan?”

  “You’re going out with Shamus?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dressed like that?” Dressed like that means she wants him. Dressed like that means she wants him to want her.

  She’s never dressed like that for me.

  That burns, but then an even worse idea hits me.

  “How many times have you gone out with him?”

  She thinks. “Four.”

  My jaw drops. “Four times? Are you...are you...”

  “Don’t you dare ask.”

  Of course I’m going to ask. “Are you fucking him?”

  She looks furious. “That is none of your business.”

  “How is it none of my business? You know I’m crazy about you! You know I’ve been waiting for you to get over Jerry and you’re fucking Shamus?”

  “I’m not fucking Shamus!” she shouts back. “But I plan to. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  “Of course it’s not!”

  Her cheeks are flushed, fists balled at her side, and she’s sexy and terrifying. And heartbreaking. Because she’s supposed to be mine.

  I’m the one who cares about her.

  Not Shamus.

  Me.

  “You don’t even know him,” I mumble stupidly.

  “I’m getting to know him.”

  “But you know me.”

  She stares at me for a long moment. “Do I?”

  “You know you do. In the pool, you...you...”

  “I what, Aidan? I learned that you had a dog named Daisy? Is that what it means to know someone?”

  This isn’t her. This isn’t the sweet, shiny Aster I’ve known since January. Something is wrong. Very, very wrong.

  “What’s going on, Aster?”

  She shrugs. “I have a date. I don’t know what you’ll be doing.”

  “Did you do this on purpose? You knew I was coming over here. I texted you to tell you the time.”

  “I texted you back,” she lies. “I told you I was busy.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Everybody lies, Aidan. Or are you the only one who’s allowed to?”

  I toss the flowers onto the bed. “I’m not Jerry.”

  She blanches. “This isn’t about Jerry.”

  “Bullshit. It’s definitely not about Shamus.”

  “If you think it’s about you, you’re even more conceited than I thought.”

  I step toward her and she holds her ground.

  “You’re afraid,” I say softly.

  She juts out her chin defiantly. “I’m not.”

  “You’re lying again.”

  “I’m not, Aidan.”

  I trail a finger up the side of the dress, gliding over the curve of her hip, the indent at her waist, the slope of her breast.

  “Stop me,” I say.

  I hear her swallow.

  I don’t hear her say no.

  I slide my hand higher, past her clavicle, her neck, her jaw. I let my fingers slip into her shiny hair, cupping her head, tilting her just slightly as I lower my lips to within a millimeter of hers.

  “Do it,” she says, and it sounds like a dare.

  So I kiss her.

  I kiss Aster.

  Two months after deciding I had to have her, I’m about to.

  Her lips are soft and pliant beneath mine. She doesn’t resist. For a second she doesn’t do anything, then I feel a tiny tug at the base of my shirt and I know she’s holding on. I lift my other hand to join the first, gripping her tighter, deepening the kiss.

  Her lips part and I slide my tongue into her mouth, finding hers, the wet contact making my whole body come to life.

  She whimpers slightly and presses onto her toes, increasing the sensation. She tastes like mint and smells like lemons; she feels like warm cotton; she sounds like warm girl. I groan and kiss her harder, feeling her fingers curl into my chest, the shirt I ironed in anticipation of exactly this moment.

  Well, not exactly this.

  But close enough.

  I don’t know what Aster was thinking when she made this date with Shamus, but I want to show her once and for all that I’m the only guy she needs to see. That I can be everything she wants; that I can make her feel the way she makes me feel.

  We break apart to breathe, our lips an inch apart. She’s shaking, fine tremors racking her body as she looks up at me, her eyes troubled. Wavering. Like she’s deciding something.

  I lower my head to kiss her again, to help with the decision.

  And then she slaps me.

  Hard.

  16

  What.

  17

  The.

  18

  Fuck.

  19

  It takes me a full five seconds to comprehend what just happened, and then I leap back, gaping at Aster in shock.

  “What the fuck?” I demand. Now I’m the one who’s shaking. The one who’s confused.

  “You asshole!” she screams.

  “Me? What? You’re the one who slapped me!”

  “You deserved it!”

  “Why?”

  “Because I know what you did!”

  Then the shouting stops and there’s an endless silence as the words settle around us.

  Because I know what you did.

  I swallow anxiously. “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t you dare lie to me,” she seethes. “Not again. Not more.”

  “But...”

  “Tell me,” she says. “In your own words. Explain it to me. Tell me why.”

  My mouth is dry.

  The first time I’d been hauled into court the judge had said the same thing. Tell me why. And I’d answered truthfully. And stupidly, since it got me six months in juvie.

  But I do the same thing now.

  “Because I wanted to,” I say quietly. Then to clarify: “Because I wanted you.”

  “So you hired a prostitute to blow my boyfriend?”

  Hearing it out loud—hearing the words coming from Aster—is like a punch to the gut. All I can see is her mouth, her lips swollen from our kiss, the lipstick smudged, the promise of what we could have had slipping further away with each word.

  “When... How...?”

  I know it’s the wrong thing to say, but I have to ask. She couldn’t have just guessed.

  “After the wedding,” she replies.

  After the wedding. When I couldn’t reach her all week.

  “I went to see Jerry when we got back. I thought you were amazing and I needed to know where he and I went wrong so I didn’t make the same mistake. The night he told me what happened, I couldn’t listen. I couldn’t hear anything beyond that he’d been with someone else. But this time I made him tell me everything. And because Jerry’s an idiot who’s never even seen a prostitute, he didn’t have a clue. But I did.”

  “You—”

  “So I went to the bar, and I met Sindy, and she told me you gave her a bunch of twenties and told her to do whatever it took.”

  My stomach clenches. I did say that. I didn’t say “Never tell anyone about this” because I never thought anyone would ask. I never thought Aster would ask.

  “Is it true?” Aster presses. “Did you really do that?”

  I want to deny it, but I can’t lie to her. Again.

  “Yes,” I say quietly.

  She steps forward like she’s going to slap me, and I scramble back.

  “I hate you,” she says, face crumpling. She stops in her tracks and covers her eyes with her hands, shoulders shaking. “I hate you.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I know it—”

  “You hav
e no idea,” she interrupts, lifting her head. “You have no idea, Aidan. You don’t know anything. You don’t know shit.” The gold heels sit on the floor beside her bare feet, everything about her appearance contrasting with everything she’s saying, with everything I thought I knew.

  I think of those glimpses I’d had of her before. A moment in the car, an unexpected flicker at dinner or in the library or walking home. Tiny fractures in her composure, a sneak peek at what lay beneath. “What don’t I know?”

  “He was my chance,” she says brokenly. “Jerry was my chance.”

  “At what?”

  “At anything I wanted. At everything.”

  “You didn’t really love him?”

  “I really did,” she says, tears dripping off her chin. “I loved him and he loved me. He was perfect and he was real.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “How could you?” she snaps. “How could someone who pays a hooker to ruin a happy relationship understand what happy is? How could someone so fucking miserable understand anything?”

  “I’m not—”

  “I don’t care what you’re about to say,” she says abruptly, swiping at her tears. “Just leave.”

  “Did you plan all this?” I gesture to her, the dress, the ruined makeup. “Did you really let me come here so I could see you leave with Shamus?”

  She nods, the movement sharp. “Yeah. I wanted you to know how it felt. To see something you thought was wonderful fall apart in front of you.”

  I look at her, all the broken pieces of the stupid idea of us. An us I’d fabricated; an us I’d destroyed.

  I reach for the door, then stop. “I didn’t know,” I tell her.

  She scoffs. “You knew.”

  “When I did it,” I say. “I didn’t know it would ever come to this. I thought you’d fuck me for revenge, I’d get you out of my system, and we’d both move on.”

  She just stares at me, uncaring. Her eyes are dark, the cornflowers gone. Like the flames rushing out of a rundown house and into a dry field, destroying everything because of one stupid, selfish choice.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “No kidding,” she says.

  20

  The next morning Jerry comes out to find me sitting in the kitchen wearing a Holsom hoodie and a pair of boxers, staring morosely into a glass of orange juice. I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror and know I’m a mess. My skin has a sickly pallor and my hair is sticking out every which way. It’s pitiful, but it’s the best I can do.