She breathes in deep, and I gulp.
“I love mixers, but I’m not excited about this one. And I only really wanted to come because there’s an internship I’m applying for, and I’m hoping to schmooze some people from the company, if they’re here.” We both let out a deep exhale. The crushing weight of anxiety relieves itself just enough for me raise an eyebrow. “That probably goes against some ethics shit, but I really want this internship.”
I laugh under my breath. If only she knew how little ethics come into play in the professional world. Dad’s career should’ve fallen apart decades ago.
Again, I don’t have a appropriate response for the conversation she’s kindly given me. Slowly, I’m starting to think my roommate doesn’t mind that I can’t develop full sentences around her. She just says what she has to say, leads me further where she wants to go, and accepts if a reply doesn’t come.
Her attention shifts from her confession to the event’s snack table. It’s full of finger foods I’ve seen too many times—triangle-cut sandwiches, hummus and vegetables, and meat slices stabbed onto sticks. Rosalie doesn’t pay any attention to that, though.
“Popcorn!” She grabs a snack cup from the back end of the table, smiling.
It’s not child-like glee, or unbridled happiness over something simple. It’s just someone enjoying what they like, and not being hyper-focused on the professionals scattered around the room. I feel equal parts of admiration and jealousy.
After a few bites, she opens her mouth to speak, but it’s not her voice I hear.
“It’s princess Rosie!” Someone calls from the left. A man in a white pressed button down tucked into navy blue slacks walks up to us, smirk plastered across his face. “How did you possibly get to Locke McCarthy before the rest of us?”
The energy around me goes dark again. No more admiring Rosalie’s bubbly personality or letting myself become comfortable around her. A switch flicks.
Spine straight. Shoulders back. Chin up.
Her demeanor shifts too. She moves the cup of popcorn behind her back, quickly wipes her fingers onto the side of her thighs, and posts a smile. It’s tight lipped and not at all like the one I’ve come to know.
“Hi, Jeremiah.”
“Nice dress.” His attention shifts off me and onto her, smirk growing. It’s undeniably condescending. He’s shorter than me, the top of his head where my shoulder is, but his height on Rosie lets him stare down at her. “Are you planning to go clubbing after this or do you like dressing inappropriately to serious events?”
Her dress isn’t inappropriate at all. It’s not half a suit like we’re wearing, but it’s semi-formal, falls just above her knees, and doesn’t show any skin above her bust line. The fabric hugs her in a few places, but not to the point of being unprofessional.
Besides, this is a student event on a college campus. She’s not running for office.
Rosie must know this. The guy next to us is being a dick just for the sake of it. I wait for her to say something. In the time we’ve spent together, she’s never shied away from anything. She goes headfirst into interactions like this.
Yet, when there’s a perfect pause for her to defend herself, she says nothing. I see Rosie’s throat move with a gulp, her hands tugging the skirt of her dress lower. She says nothing and tilts her head to the floor.
“Don’t mind her.” The man’s—Jeremiah’s?—words distract me from wondering why this Rosalie is so different than the one I know. “I apologize if she’s bothering you. If you want, we-”
“I’m perfectly fine here.” My own voice turns stoic.
Years of interacting with people like this taught me I should always thank someone after they offer something—even if it’s not of interest. But I can’t bring myself to say, “Thank you,” to this guy.
He moves to completely face me. Jeremiah smiles, but I’m too busy glancing at Rosie to care. “That’s great! I’m happy to hear you’re having a great time! I’m Jeremiah Hastings. It’s so great to meet you.”
He holds out his hand. I only shake it for the sake of appearances. With the other, I push my glasses further up onto my face.
“You know my name.”
I’ll keep my sentences clipped. Out of nerves, and because I don’t want to talk to him.
“Of course I do. I’m sure most people here know exactly who you are.” I let go of his hand and feel the burn of his words. “It’s not every day Keller McCarthy’s son comes walking into the room.”
I mess with my glasses again. I hate this.
Rosalie is staring down at her feet. I wish time would rewind to minutes ago, before this guy interrupted and our attention was focused solely on popcorn.
I want to tell him to leave. I want to say he interrupted our conversation, and we have much more important things to discuss, like her favorite show airing right now or the plot to my favorite anime she seems to actually care about.
I don’t have it in me to say that, though. Being my father’s son means I nod, accept, and don’t ever push back. Especially when it’s my family’s name at the forefront.
