He smells nothing like powder. Nothing like lavender.
That throws me too.
When he’s cracked open a soda for me and poured a glass of water for himself, he leads me to the living room. An L-shaped sofa has been pushed into the corner and a low-hanging pendant casts a soft glow over the coffee table. It makes the space feel slightly crowded. Slightly too intimate.
He sinks into the sofa, angling his body so he’s leaning against the arm and giving me his undivided attention. I take a seat asfar away from him as possible. He’s wearing a gray T-shirt today. It’s the kind of shirt that should be fitted. The sleeves should be snug on his biceps and chest, but they aren’t. They’re loose. His hair is neater than I’ve ever seen it. If I had to guess, I’d say he ran his fingers through it a few minutes before I arrived.
“Tell me about yourself,” he says.
It takes a moment for me to decipher the question and remember that I’m here under the guise of becoming his roommate. It isn’t an odd question. It’s perfectly normal given the circumstances.
“Uh, not much to tell. I’m from around here, and I work at the university.”
“Wait, so you don’t go to school here?”
“No. I’m twenty-four.” I say it like a kid who’s six and proud of it. Fuck alone knows what’s going on with me. “Student services. I work in the housing department.”
To my credit, I manage not to sound proud of that at all.
His brow creases. He looks perplexed but mildly interested. “Huh. What’s that like?”
“It’s…” I search my mind for a word to describe it, and eventually land on, “Interesting.”
He laughs, a laid-back, throaty sound with a husk in it. “That’s a funny way of saying you hate your job.”
“It’s…yeah. No. It’s not great.” His lips turn down in a frown and his eyes fill with so much compassion, I can’t stand it. “It’s fine though. It’s not forever. It’s just for now.”
His head bobs thoughtfully. Supportively. I’m not sure which. “What do you want to do instead?”
He’s a nosy shit, overly concerned about everything and everyone, and that annoys me. But given how much I know about him, it seems only fair to give him something. “Can I let you know when I figure it out?”
It’s not a great answer, and if he were more discerning, he’d have follow-up questions.
He isn’t, so instead, he says, “Sure. I’d like that,” and looks at me exactly the same way I’ve seen him looking at the barista at Crema.
The same way he looks at the jock and the redhead.
The same way he looks at everyone.
I consider telling him he’s wasting his time trying to make me feel important because I’m immune to that kind of crap, but it seems like the sort of thing that might alarm him, so I don’t.
“I’m from here too. We moved here when I was eight and…” His voice drifts and fades to nothing. He sits forward in his seat. His eyes go strangely unfocused and his head tilts slightly to one side. “Holy shit, you’re good-looking.”
What?
My jaw drops, and I don’t move. Neither does he. I flick my eyes around the room, checking to see if anyone else is here, and I’m being pranked. I spot nothing out of the ordinary.
Seconds tick by, and he doesn’t say anything to retract the statement or qualify it. He just sits there, calm as you fucking please, as he lets his words settle.
It’s too much. Too weird. I can’t take it. My heart’s been pounding since I got here, and now my palms are sweaty as fuck too. This guy is nothing like he’s supposed to be, and it’s pissing me off.
“Did you mean to say that aloud?” I ask, a little louder than intended.
Laughter bubbles out of him in soft, gentle ripples. Tiny blasts that make light bounce off his teeth and his cheeks. His eyes slide closed for a moment, and when he opens them, I expect to see embarrassment, or an apology, or an explanation at least.
“No. Not really,” he says with an easy shrug, “but it’s true, so I’m not mad about it.”
I blink furiously and eye the door.
