“First.” My glasses are moved out of and put back into place before I can even register what I’m doing.
“I’m a second year. I know we’re technically not sharing any professors, but if you need any help getting around campus or figuring your way around the grad community, let me know.”
A chill wafts from the open freezer door and past the arguing family. It hits me, and crawls up my forearms, but I don’t feel itcoming up my neck. A small warmth stays there, from the tiny show of friendship my roommate affords me.
“Thank you.” I mumble through the smile creeping onto my face.
“Of course.” The tucked away area of kitchen supplies finally falls into view. She halts and turns to me fully. “Oh! Are you going to the grad student mixer on Tuesday?”
Rosalie is looking up at me again. Large, dark brown eyes staring, not intimidated or in awe. Just wondering. Just asking a random question about my week. I can’t remember the last time someone looked at me without deciding they knew everything about my life and who I am.
I force myself to stare at the group of hanging ladles and steady my breathing.
“Is that required?”
“No, so if you don’t want to go, don’t feel like you have to. It’s honestly more of a networking event than anything else. Both for students, and for the program professors. Some even give extra credit if they see you there.”
A groan bubbles in my throat. That’s the exact type of event my father would want me to attend.
“Again, you don’thaveto go. But if you’re interested, I’m going. We can stick together, if that’d make you more comfortable.”
Her eyes are still large and full of wonder, but they’re creased at the corners. Almost like she’s anticipating something—from me, or from the event. I’m not sure which.
“I’ll go.”
Rosie is the closest person I’ve gotten to a friend in a long, long time. That’s more than I could’ve asked for in a roommate. At least, if she’s there, I won’t feel so alone.
“Sounds good.” She throws a thumb over her shoulder. “Spatulas?”
We choose the second cheapest one. Rosie refuses to spend more than twenty dollars on the “name brand” option, but is too afraid the cheapest will wear down from her weekly pancakes.
At the register, the cashier stumbles to create a conversation. Over the twelve-dollar item and Rosie’s unfaltering smile, he gives us the wrong change and asks her about the purchase twice. It’s like looking in a mirror. Seeing someone struggle so desperately in an attempt to create some sentence that just won’t materialize.
But then he asks Rosalie for her number, and my focus shifts. Off how painfully similar I am to him, and on to how much I admire her.
She doesn’t give him her number. My roommate smiles, quietly says she “doesn’t give it out anymore,” and navigates the awkward situation better than I ever could.
It’s interesting to see someone so effortlessly work around life. Someone who obviously made more connections than she can keep track of, and can continue doing it—even over five minutes and twelve dollars.
It’s interesting to know I was right, too. Other people find her smile just as addicting as I do.
six
LOCKE
Truthfully,I think there are only a few situations worse than standing in a room of grad students desperate to network. My father’s office is one of them. Maybe I should be thankful he hasn’t called me in yet, but the anxiety of waiting for the pin to drop makes it almost unbearable.
I try to think of something else while waking to the grad student mixer. During the ten minutes across campus, I anxiously wait for Rosie to mention my father, too. She still hasn’t shown any signs of knowing who he is.
Even if her industry isn’t linear to Dad’s, I’ve been unpleasantly surprised before. She’s never even hinted at it, though. Either my roommate is great at hiding things, or she really has no idea who my father is.
“So what are your hobbies? Other than video games and Lego sets?” Rosie’s voice rises above the growing sound of a crowd.
Aside from no Dad talk, this is the most refreshing thing about living with her. She asks questions like this. About my day-to-day, or my interests, or Ghost. They’re surface level anddon’t truly constitute knowing the deepest parts of a person, but they’re the deepest cuts anyone’s ever made to get to know me. To me, that’s sacred.
Hands tucked into the pockets of my slacks, I wipe the sweat on my palms. “Not much.”
“Come on.” Her brown eyes are pointed, stern but humorous. She always smiles when we talk, and it’s especially comforting right now. “There has to be something else you enjoy. Video games and building bricks can’t hold someone over for a lifetime.”
