“I’m not a drinker.” Although I leave out the fact that life with my mother would drive any rational person to take up alcoholism as a professional hobby.
Which is probably why my step-father smokes pot behind her back on a regular basis.
“Even better. Last roommate was. He got pissed off when I reported him to the RA after warning him I would do exactly that.”
“Why’d you do that?”
“Because he and his friends—who were all underaged—wanted to drink in our room. I didn’t give a shit if he wanted to break the law and university rules, but I’m not losingmyscholarship or riskingmyass with law enforcement for tolerating underaged drinking inmyroom. Fuck that noise.”
“Ah. I can respect that.”
“Good. So what happened to your roommate from last year?”
“He flunked out.”
Carter smirks again. “Leaving you stuck with me. Lucky you.”
Hehadhelped me out. I decide to give him a chance and keep an open mind. “You say that like you’re hard to live with.”
He shrugs. “Fair warning, sometimes I have nightmares.”
I wasn’t sure why he was telling me that. “Um, okay?”
“And, serious warning, do noteversneak up on me and try to scare me. You won’t like what happens. In fact, try to make a little noise when coming and going. Even if you think I’m asleep. I would prefer that you do that. I’ll never yell at you for waking me up, I promise.”
That, at least, didn’t sound cocky. It sounded serious. “Can I ask why?”
A dark cloud briefly envelops his features. “I…don’t react well to being startled. PTSD. Nearly broke my last roommate’s arm when he did it, him thinking he was going to be funny. Even after I’d warned him not to.”
I don’t know how to react at first. “Oh.” Then I remember the view I had of his back. “Is that all related to you being in the military?”
Thisgrim smirk is devoid of humor. “Yeah, you could say that.” He falls silent, leaving us to listen to Mumford & Sons’Babelalbum.
At least he has great taste in music, and seems to be an honest guy.
I can work with that.
* * * *
We stop at a sports bar before we reach the grocery store. It’s one of a local chain of restaurants that dot the Tampa Bay area landscape. I’ve never eaten at this one before, but it’s a more PG-rated version of Hooters, with waitresses who are dressed in garments that are actually more substantial than a mere suggestion of clothes, and the only breasts on the menu are poultry.
The hostess seats us at a booth near the back of the restaurant at Carter’s request. When the waitress arrives to take our drink orders, I’m still mentally running through my bills and my bank balance to see what I can afford from the menu.
Carter neatly cuts off my thoughts. “I’ll have water and sweet tea, please,” he says. “And this is all on my check.” He circles his fingers at the table, indicating me, too.
“Just water, please,” I say, and she leaves to get them. My focus darts across the table, meeting his dark brown gaze. Flecks of other colors make a subtle appearance there, amber and hazel and dark chocolate. “Thanks.”
A hint of humor returns to his features. “You haven’t had to put up with one of my nightmares yet. I’d like to build some goodwill while I still can.”
“You did that by helping me get organized. Sorry again for that. I swear I’m not a slob.”
He shrugs. “Some people don’t learn the skills. Can’t do something you were never taught.”
“I’m usually much more organized. I have a lot more room at home.”
“And where is home?” His focus returns to the menu in his hands.
“Orlando. I mean, my mom lives in Orlando. Where are you from?”
