That’s a lie. But it sends another rack of laughter through him, and this one is even more contagious than the first.
It must be a full minute of shared humor before Locke clutches his chest and manages to talk, a dimple appearing on his left cheek. “Ghost is my cat. I tried to say, ‘a cat’ and ‘Ghost.’ At the same time. And said, ‘a ghost.’”
Almost on cue, a soft meow flows from the hallway. A white cat patters across the carpet and makes his way to me, rubbing his head on my ankle. The panic of becoming a horror film final girl washes away. Squatting down, I run my hands over Ghost’s head and nearly die of adoration when he meows again.
“No cats inThe Exorcist,” I say in relief. “No need to move out.”
For a second, my smile falters. I remember a check box from the housing form I didn’t think much of.
Are you okay living with an ESA (emotional support animal)?
I love all animals. Even the insects I pretend not to know exist, and the scaled creatures I prefer to observe through media. I didn’t think an animal in the apartment would affect me at all.
Maybe it’s not Ghost himself, but rather, knowing he’s not just a pet. He’s a support pillar for Locke, who seems to surprise me more and more by the minute. There’s a story here—between the short sentences and fidgeting movements and emotional support cat.
I give Ghost another pet and decide not to pry. It’s not my place. I’ll take this as a sign that there’s more to Locke than awkward pauses, and that’s a side I’ll slowly get to know.
“You’re okay with cats, then?”
“Yeah.” I stand up again and desperately try to ignore Ghost begging for more head pats at my ankle. “I love cats. If you ever go home for a weekend or something, and need me to cat-sit, I’m more than happy to.”
It’s instant. The way his expression falls into its default stone face, like the happiness has been sucked out of the air. Ghost switches from my ankle to his.
“Thanks.” Locke lifts the cat into his arms and tips his head to the door. “Boxes?”
I pretend not to notice how his demeanor shifts. It’s not my place to pry about that, either.
Nodding, I smile. “Yes! You can put Ghost in your room and I’ll prop the door open?’
“Sounds good.”
I wait until he rounds the hallway corner to push a doorstop under the wood. Officially, I throw away any assumptions I could or would make about my new roommate, Locke.
five
LOCKE
Grant was wrong.My roommate, as it turns out, is not a six foot three, introverted nerd.
She’s a foot shorter than me and wears matching pajama sets around the apartment. She talks, a lot, but it’s not overwhelming. In the week we’ve lived together, it’s been nice to hear something other than silence after class, and she doesn’t expect me to match her word for word.
Rosalie, against Grant’s guess, is not a copy of me—although she does wear glasses when reading her textbooks.
We differ in everything else. I don’t think her brain works like mine. I doubt she recalls our first interaction every morning and silently dies of embarrassment before walking into the kitchen.
She never mentions how lost for words I was when we met, or how bad I am at articulating myself. Our Ghost misunderstanding was the closest I’ve gotten to acting normal around her. It’s like my poor attempt at socializing days ago doesn’t exist in her memory. Even better, she hasn’t mentionedrecognizing me or knowing who my father is. Two acts of kindness wrapped into one person.
The overly optimistic part of my brain hopes she can tell I’m trying to work past my shyness. When we run into each other throughout the day and she greets me with a large smile, I try to talk more. Yesterday, I managed out an entire four sentences before the sweat on my palms were too much to bear. Rosie still greeted me happily this morning, too, despite that.
We’re different in the way that I’d usually be rushing off to my father’s office on a Saturday morning. I’m not used to lazy days, getting to lay around for an extra hour and not worry about cufflinks while heading out the door.
Rosie seems perfectly adjusted to it. When I emerged from my bedroom to feed Ghost, she was moving around the kitchen, opening and closing half-empty drawers in her black plaid pajamas.
Instead of weekend office meetings and avoiding eye contact with everyone, Rosalie smiles on Saturdays. She insists on making pancakes but can’t find a spatula.
I don’t know how to tell her I’ve never owned a spatula. Instead, with all the strength I can muster, I offer to drive us to the grocery store to grab one.
The weather is getting cooler. Boston streets that were once lined with sundresses and farmer markets are shifting to light jackets and autumn drink advertisements. Throughout the short drive, I consider commenting on it. I grip the steering wheel while fighting with the social anxiety of speaking first.
