The four of us lived together in on-campus housing last year. We were randomly paired up with one another, and at first, it was uncomfortable. We could not be more different. Payton’s a heavy partier, Ainsley’s a sweet sorority girl, Hannah’s into intramural sports, and I’m the studious one. It took us a few weeks, but once we got over the initial hurdle, everything clicked into place. I guess, sometimes the most inexplicable things end up being the ones that work the best.
For our senior year, we decided to take the plunge and rent a small four bedroom house on a quiet street that borders the north side of campus. It’s quite a bit more expensive than the dorms, but it’s a whole house. And, there were supposed to be four of us to split the bills between. At the time that we signed the lease, it had seemed doable.
Today, not so much.
My parents have the money, but I’m on a fairly strict student budget. They tell me that learning to manage my spending will build character or something like that.
“I just don’t understand this! What the hell is Hannah thinking?” I let my head fall back against the wall with a thud.
Ainsley’s shoulders waggle. She pours hot water from the electric kettle into her favorite mug and drops in a tea bag. The mug is decorated with little cartoon owls and proudly states “Owl have some tea” in girlish pink writing along the rim.
“I doubt that she’s thinking at all,” she says grimly.
“I know. But—what the hell is wrong with her? We’re her best friends!”
“I agree. Hannah was always a bit reckless, but this is ridiculous.” She adjusts the tea bag and looks at me.
Ridiculous just about sums it up. Back in August Hannah was invited for a three week program in London starting in September. Her major is International Marketing, so the program had seemed like a golden opportunity. We’d all encouraged her to take it. In fact, we threw her a going away party, complete with a batch of jello shots and a cake decorated with the Union Jack.
None of us could have anticipated that she would fall head over heels for some British dude in a matter of weeks. Or that she’d decide to bail on us and her last year of college in America.
“Ainsley, I’m sure that when Payton gets home we’re going to figure this all out.” With my arm still around her fragile shoulders, I lead her over to the couch. “You know, maybe I should try calling Hannah. Last spring, do you remember when I talked her out of getting that God-awful fairy tattoo on her butt cheek? I might be able to reason with her this time.”
“Don’t even bother.” Ainsley settles into the cushions and sniffs the air. “She was being so bitchy on the phone this morning. She and Payton really got into it. At this point, I doubt that she’ll answer a call from any of us.”
“She will if she knows what’s good for her,” I warn, but even to my own ears the threat sounds empty.
“Oh my God Ellie, do you realize that my parents are going to kill me?” Ainsley lifts her blonde head. Her blue eyes are round and full of salty tears. “They told me that I should stay in the dorms. They said that it was safer and made more sense financially, but I insisted on getting this house with you guys. Now the whole thing is a debacle.”
“A debacle?” I ask, fighting back the beginnings of a smile.
Ainsley’s eyes narrow at me. “Yes, Elizabeth Jane Glass. A debacle,” she snaps.
I hold up my hands in mock surrender. “Okay. I get it. We’re in a bit of a bind here. Just let me think.”
I jump to my feet and start to pace the room. My mind is surging in fifty different directions—all of them senseless. I don’t even notice when Ainsley’s phone bings.
“You’re not going to believe it,” she says with a tiny gasp. Her thin body is bent forward over the coffee table so that she can read a text message from her phone screen.
“What?” I ask, bracketing my forearms against the back of the couch.
Ainsley looks up at me. Her face is pinched in a strange mixture of excitement and concern. “Payton thinks she may have found us a new roommate.”
“So basically the only catch is that she is actually a he.”
Payton rolls her eyes at me. She’s got her short, dark hair pulled into a spiky side ponytail. Today her nails are painted a glittery black. She’s wearing about ten different necklaces around her neck and at least a half-dozen bracelets on her arm. She’s kind of got a thing for accessories.
“Well, he was never a she to begin with, but if you mean that our replacement roommate would be male, then yes, that is the only catch,” she says.
The three of us are eating pizza on the wood floor. This is what the average person would consider the dining room. If we had a table.
“Well, I want to know what this Ben guy looks like,” Ainsley says, flipping her long blonde hair over her shoulder. She takes a bite of cheese pizza and wipes her chin with a napkin. Her earlier stress seems to have evaporated. In its place, an abundance of lustful hormones have blossomed. I’m not sure which I prefer. “Specifically, I’d like to know whether or not he’s hot.”
With what I’m hoping is a withering glare, I lift my finger and shake my head. I say, “Do not even answer that question Payton. It doesn’t matter in the slightest what this guy looks like. If we are actually going to do this, we’ve got to have some ground rules. And rule numero uno is that absolutely, under no circumstances, save an apocalyptic situation in which you would be responsible for the propagation of the human race, are any of us allowed to have sexual relations with this Ben guy.”
Ainsley sets her mouth in a saggy frown and bats her eyelashes. I am familiar with this look. It’s her signature pout. “Even if he’s hot?”
I tuck in my chin and level my gaze at her. “Even if he’s hot? Lord, especially if he’s hot! Those are the worst kind of guys, and by your fourth year of college, you should have figured that out already.” I take a massive bite of pizza as if to emphasize my point.
Payton adjusts her collection of bracelets and stretches back on her elbows. She sighs loudly and taps her finger against the half-wall the separates the kitchen from the dining room. “I hate to say it, but I think Ellie might be right about this one.”
I about choke on the bite of pizza in my mouth. My roomies never think I’m right. To them, I’m always over-planning, over-analyzing, over-studying. I’m Ellie Glass: Destroyer of Fun.
I take a quick swig of my bubbly soda and swallow it down harshly. “Come again?”
Payton grunts. “The thing is that Megan told me that Ben is hot, but she also said that he’s just getting out of a long relationship. That’s one of the reasons why he’s looking for a place to live to begin with. The last thing any of us needs is for some ill-fated rebound romance to completely screw this arrangement up.”
I’m stunned with Payton’s logic. It’s basically what I’ve been thinking from the moment she texted the words male roommate, but I don’t expect her to be so rational. It’s not Payton’s style—especially when it comes to dealings with the opposite sex.
“Exactly,” I say, nodding my head slowly. “It would be a…a…” I search for the right term.
“A debacle,” Ainsley offers quietly. She’s swirling her index finger around the inside of her water glass.
“Then it’s settled. Who’s in?” Payton sits back up. Her necklaces make a tinkling sound. She looks between Ainsley and me then thrusts her right hand forward with her palm face down.
“Me,” I say firmly. I spread my hand flat on top of hers.
Ainsley bites the inside of her cheek for about five seconds before she caves. With a reluctant smile, she places her hand on top of mine. “Alright, let’s do this.”
“Jesus, talk about irony.” Payton smiles slyly. “Who would have ever thought that I’d be initiating a no-sex pact?”
A laugh bubbles up from inside of me. “No one. Not in a million years.”
The next several days are a blur of activity. Ainsley, Payton and I pack up cardboard boxes with Hannah’s c
lothes and personal things. The furniture in Hannah’s bedroom stays put. Apparently, Ben doesn’t have much in the way of belongings so he’s grateful for whatever furniture we’ve got.
Admittedly, I am a little worried about living with a strange guy.
There are only a few things that I know about Ben Hamilton. The first is that he used to work at a restaurant downtown with Payton’s friend, Megan. The second is that he’s a musician. He plays the cello with the University Symphony. This pleases me because I picture “orchestra type,” as opposed to some dude in a garage band that’ll be bringing stoners and drunken, slutty groupies in and out the front door at all hours of the night. The third thing I know about Ben is that he’s just been through a nasty breakup. The story we get from Megan is that he caught his girlfriend of two years in bed with his best friend. Ouch.
Ainsley meets him Wednesday afternoon when he stops by to check out the house and his bedroom. I’d been previously committed to meeting with my study group Wednesday, so I missed him by about twenty minutes. The exact words that Ainsley uses to describe our soon-to-be roommate to me later are totally dreamy.
Great.
In my mind this description doesn’t answer the question of whether or not Ben will make a decent housemate. I want to know the big stuff. Like, if he agreed not to host any wild parties without our previous consent, or if he seems like the kind of guy that will keep the toilet seat down so that I don’t fall in if I have to pee in the middle of the night.
He’s supposed to be moving in over the weekend.
On Friday afternoon, Mark and I decide to get cappuccinos for the walk back to my place.
“Do you want to go out tonight?” He inclines his head to me.
“What?” I push the door open and breathe in the scent of coffee through my nostrils.
“I asked if you wanted to go out tonight. Like dancing or something fun.”
I shake my head, letting my hands drop down. “I can’t. I have to study for the LSAT.”
“Ermahgerd! Enough already. Studying for that thing is all you’ve done for the past month, Ellie.”
“We’ll go dancing when this test is over. I promise,” I say, looping my hand through his elbow and stepping into line.
Mark starts to tell me about the horror of having to go back to the library to redo his source work for the paper he turned in last week. As we move forward to place our drink orders, I am not scanning every face for my handsome savior.
I am not.
Okay, okay… I am, though I’m loath to admit it. Even to myself.
“Ellie-bear, what has been up with you for the past few days?” Mark asks as he stirs a packet of sweetener into his cup and replaces the lid gingerly.
I look over at my best friend. His eyes are drawn together in scrutiny behind hipster black-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. They aren’t even prescription. He only wears them when he feels like appearing more intellectual.
“What do you mean?”
“You just seem out of sorts,” he says, rubbing his hand over his ear. “Is it this thing with Hannah? Or school?”
“No.”
“Have you finally decided to let me give you a makeover?” Mark’s eyebrows shoot up with interest.
“I do not need a makeover!”
“Well, maybe not an entire makeover, but I think that we can both agree that it’s time to retire that shirt that you’re wearing.”
I push open the frosted glass door that leads to the outside world and let out my breath. If I can’t confide the woes of my defunct love life to my best friend, then why bother having a best friend at all?
“No, Mark,” I say, scrunching up my nose. “It’s not school, or Hannah, or a makeover. It’s something completely lame. I’ll tell you, but first you have to promise not to laugh at me.”
His mouth goes slack. His left hand goes to his chest. “Me?” He asks, laying on the innocent act.
“Yes, you.”
“I would never laugh at you darling. But, I will admit that now you’ve piqued my curiosity.”
“Well…” I begin slowly, taking a step forward.
Mark interrupts me with a grunt. He freezes dramatically on the sidewalk, letting three people brush by him. “Elizabeth Glass, tell me right now. Does the forlorn look on your face have anything to do with a boy?”
I grab Mark’s hand and tug. He lurches forward, nearly spilling his cappuccino down his shirt.
“Okay, first of all, don’t call me Elizabeth. Second, I am not forlorn. Forlorn is a term reserved for losers and literary characters from the 19th century. I am neither.” I wipe my hair from my forehead before continuing. “And third, there is a boy involved in this story. But it’s really a commentary on missed opportunity rather than a retelling of some flimsy moment of infatuation.”
While we walk down the tree-lined sidewalk that edges the north side of campus and leads to my house, I tell Mark what happened at the coffee shop on Monday.
“So that’s it?” Mark sounds disappointed.
A biker in an electric blue helmet speeds by and I let my eyes follow him until he disappears around a corner.
“Yeah, I guess so.” I think about what I want to say. It’s hard for me to describe the feeling properly. “It’s not so much that I missed out on meeting that particular guy. It’s more that I’m upset with myself, because now I’m always going to wonder about him. I should have at least tried, you know?”
We stop at the mailbox where the brick of my house’s front walkway kisses the grass.
Mark shrugs. “I think you’re upset about the guy too.”
I laugh as I take out the mail and begin to shuffle through the envelopes. “You’re probably right.”
“I just don’t understand why you did nothing about it. You’re not particularly shy with guys.”
This is true. But maybe that’s because I’ve never really been interested in someone enough to get shy. I’m not accustomed to the butterflies-in-my-stomach sensation. It completely threw me.
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t have to time to date someone right now anyway.”
Mark rolls his eyes upward. “That’s a load of crap, Ellie-bear.”
“Next year…” I start.
“Screw next year. Why didn’t you say something to me when I showed up? You know that I’m an excellent wing man,” he chides as he twists the end of his checked scarf around his neck. A cool autumn wind picks up, blowing the smells of buttered toast and nutmeg and red currants over to us. The trees sketched out against the bright blue sky are tipped in flames. A few dried leaves—brown as packaging paper—scatter to the ground around our feet.
I shake my head and keep my eyes down as if I’m incredibly focused on sifting through the collection of letters in my hand. “Because he’d already disappeared, and like I said before—the entire thing was really a non-event. Honestly, I don’t know why I’m bringing it up. I talked to him for about thirty seconds. It was a handful of heartbeats. Hardly anything to get myself worked up over.”
Mark’s right hand goes to his hip and he kicks out his foot. “Yet here you stand, worked up and blushing like a schoolgirl.”
I stick my tongue out at him. “Have I told you before that you’re obnoxious?”
“At least a thousand times.” Mark slips my hand over his arm and pulls me up the walk, rocking his body so that his hip bumps into mine. “Now tell me all the good parts.”
“Umm… I thought that’s what I just did.”
He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “I mean... the good stuff. Height? Build? Eye color? Lefty or righty?”
“God Mark! Get your mind out of the gutter!” I laugh and duck my head sheepishly.
Mark adjusts his grip on my arm. “Look, if your exceptionally handsome super BFF isn’t going to ask you these questions, who will?”
I open the front door, my thoughts running through the memory of the guy. “Tall… very tall and lanky, but not awkward look
ing,” I say decidedly. “He had long dark brown hair and almond-shaped eyes that were just a few shades lighter than his hair.”
I think about his mouth. It was curved and sensual, but I can’t say that out loud. Mark would never let me live it down. I sigh. “He was sort of edgy—like maybe an artist, or a writer, or something like that.”
“The kind of guy that would look at home in Brooklyn?”
I laugh. “Yeah, I guess so. He had on a leather bracelet.”
I shiver and turn to face the small table by the front door. Ainsley set up a system of wire mesh baskets for sorting the mail between us and she does not like any deviation from the agreed upon arrangement.
“Huh. So a tall and sexy bracelet-wearer?”
I blow my bangs out of my eyes and nod. “Well I didn’t say sexy, but yeah.”
“And long hair?” Mark leans with his back against the front door and his arms folded across his chest. His blond eyebrows are drawn in so that they’re hidden behind his thick eyeglass frames.
I flip an envelope into Payton’s basket. “Yes, almost to his shoulders. He was a bit… scruffy. You know that isn’t my normal thing, but this guy was different somehow.”
“I see… Different how? Like that guy?” He tips his chin toward the kitchen.
I turn my body in the direction that Mark indicates and everything slips—like I’m looking at and through the scene playing out in my kitchen at the same time. I open my mouth and my heart falls down my throat.
He’s here. My coffee shop rescuer is in my freaking kitchen. And he’s loading glasses into my dishwasher like he belongs here.
His hair is rumpled and he’s wearing a muted red shirt over jeans and that same leather cuff on his wrist. He’s tapping his fingers against his leg and moving his feet across the grey linoleum floor almost like he’s dancing to music.