That’s what we call our regulars here in the housing department. We have a special process for them, designed to get them out of our hair as soon as humanly possible.
“Okay. Here’s what I’m going to do for you, Sophie. I’m going to put you on the waitlist for a single room.” I tap my keyboard furiously, updating a shared document calledMake Them Feel Like We Are Doing Somethingand hit save.
As I enter her details, I can’t help noticing that they’ve already been added to the document three times. “Now, I’m going to level with you, there aren’t a lot of single rooms on campus, and generally, by order of the Dean, we have to keep them for the really horrific cases.”
I tell her a tale—possibly an urban legend—about a girl named Emily who got a single room years ago after her roommate kept chicken carcasses in the bathroom and drew a mural on the wall in her own blood when Emily threw them out.
Sophie looks suitably placated, though not as horrified by the chicken carcass-blood mural story as I’d hoped. Perhaps it’s not the first time she’s heard it.
“But not to worry,” I say, “you’re on the waitlist now, and that’s the main thing.”
After that, the day drones on without event until around four in the afternoon, when my phone pings. It’s Connor.
I’ve got it.
Got what?
A plan.
My guts clench. God. What a fucking nightmare. I should have known he was serious about this crap this morning.
Do I even want to know what it is?
Sure you do.
Old movies. We’re gonna watch them to distract you.
Oh Jesus.
He hits that with a laughing emoji.
I look down at my screen, confused. For some reason, I’m smiling inanely.
22
Lennon
Mercifully,Connordecidedtowait for me to get home before starting dinner. He gets in my way as I dice the vegetables, but moves and sits on the counter next to the stovetop when I start cooking. It’s better in that I’m no longer bumping into him every time I move, but he’s a lot closer to me than I consider ideal.
I don’t know why it bugs me, but it does. It really does. Connor being close to me doesn’t feel the way it feels when other people are close to me. His presence is distracting. It disrupts something in my brain and makes it hard for me to follow a thought from start to end.
He’s wearing khaki shorts this evening, and there are freckles dotted all over his knees. I’m not sure why they’re affecting me. I can’t say I remember having a problem with anyone’s freckles in the past, but I do seem to have a problem with his.
I can’t take my eyes off them. There are so many. Not as many as there are on his nose and cheeks, but still, there are a lot offreckles on his knees. There are a lot on his arms too, and on the back of his hands.
They aren’t very dark. Not much darker than the skin on the rest of his body, and objectively, they aren’t a big deal. I doubt most people would even notice them. I have no idea why I’m being like this.
To take my mind off it, I talk him through what I’m doing. He listens intently. Like, really intently. Like I’m the only person in the world. The only thing that matters.
I know it’s bullshit. I know he treats everyone like this.
It’s just that it does feel kind of good.
After dinner, he cleans up. “No, no, you chill,” he says when I offer to help. “You cooked. I’ll clean.”
Though I have no need to be here, I find myself hovering in the kitchen as he scrapes the plates and loads the dishwasher. The kitchen is tiny. It definitely wasn’t built to house more than one person at a time. I’m in the way. I know it.
I just don’t seem to be able to do anything about it.
