I’m not even exaggerating that ratio. Not in the slightest.
We ended up as roommates in campus housing, a “quad pod” in the oldest dorm building, where we shared a room and a bathroom with each other, and a small common kitchen and dining/lounge area with three other rooms, for a total of eight people in that particular space.
Carter was a sophomore at the University of South Florida in Tampa, and so was I, but he was eight years older than me. At first, I didn’t know why he’d started his college career late. Considering I thought he was a cocky asshole nearly upon first sight, I wasn’t about to delve too deeply into that well, at the time. I figured I’d find out soon enough.
And I did.
It was the Friday before classes were to start. I’d arrived bright and early so I could hopefully beat my unknown roommate there and grab the bed I wanted. Unfortunately, my scholarship wouldn’t pay for one of the newer apartment-style dorm rooms, so I was stuck with this. And since my roommate from last year flunked out, and I didn’t know anyone else who’d be in the same dorm situation I was, I would get potluck as far as a roommate and pray for someone who wasn’t a slovenly asshole.
Later that first afternoon, after we’d both unpacked—well, okay, Carter was completely unpacked and settled within twenty minutes of his arrival a couple of hours after I’dstartedmoving in, and there I wasstillstruggling and figuring out how to store my shit two hours later.
That’s when, with his back turned to me, Carter removed his shirt. Just a simple gesture, nothing unusual about it.
Until I actuallysawhis back.
I think I made a noise or something because he froze, his head partially turned. Not even looking at me but I got the distinct impression he could see me just fine with his peripheral vision.
“Not pretty, is it?”
I swallowed, my throat clicking as I did. “H-how…what happened?”
His back, while well-muscled, was a gnarled mass of pink scars, what looked like cuts and burns. A hellish road map of pain and trauma disappearing under the waistband of his jeans.
“In-country happened.” I suspected from his tone of voice he didn’t want to clarify, so I let it drop while he continued changing.
That one exchange perfectly sums up Carter. There was an encyclopedia’s worth of pain and bravery and downrightliteralheroism behind the story, which he could have easily mined and immediately turned me into a devoted friend for life based on his stories alone.
He didn’t.
Again, that pretty much sums up Carter.
* * * *
If you look at Carter’s side of our shared dorm room later that afternoon, other than the fact that he has sheets and pillows on his bed, and a pair of sneakers neatly sitting on the floor next to his bed, and a well-worn backpack on his desk, you’d be hard-pressed to think he’s even brought anything with him.
Here I am, still vainly trying to make all my shit fit in the dresser, bookshelf, desk drawers, and shove the overflow under my bed and into my closet, including the four totes of extra clothes and other crap I thought I’d need. My TV and DVD player sit on top of the dresser, and my desk looks like my school shit has exploded all over it and is making paper and book babies. While I just made my bed with clean sheets, it still resembles a Sunday late-afternoon hotel room checkout following a really bad—or maybe really good—bachelor party.
I silently stew about all this because I consider myself a neat person. Ihadto be, growing up in my mother’s house, or there’d be hell to pay.
Last year, my roommate and I were both very tidy. Although this year I have a lot more crap I’ve brought with me.
I glance Carter’s way every time I make one more futile trip over to my closet and back while trying to tame my gargantuan mess into some semblance of order. As Carter lies stretched out on his bed and silently reads his Kindle without even glancing my direction, I can’t help but feel…less-than.
Admittedly a feeling I am used to—once again, from growing up in my mother’s house—but at the time this is happening, Iliterallydon’t have the vocabulary to put it all into context or give it neat and tidy labels.
All I know is that this cocky asshole I’ve barely spoken five words to since his arrival has shown me up without even trying.
Again, Carter isn’t eventryingto show me up in the first place. My logical brainknowsthis.
My emotions, however, are a fucking mess.
I finally end up kicking another of the totes under my bed, along with an overflowing laundry basket holding my clean towels and extra linens.
A soft snort from the man on the other side of the room catches my attention.
I turn. “What?” I snap.
“Nothing, man. Would you like some help?” During my struggle, he’s walked back and forth a couple of times, to the bathroom, or out of the room and back again. While he hasn’t been obvious about it, I’d spotted him observing my lack of progress during those journeys.
