In my messages, I go to search for Liliana, but in the chaos of weaving through college students and balancing my backpack on one arm, my fingers must’ve slipped. “Lil” turns into “Loc”.
I pause before I can type out his full name.
We’ve barely texted. Just short questions asking one another to open the door when we’ve forgotten our keys, or if we need anything from the market. Basic roommate communications.
The inside of my lip gets chewed while I consider what to do.
It really was a mistake. I was trying to text Liliana. But now that this is here, it wouldn’t hurt, right? I would tell Locke the good news anyways when I get home.
Part of me wants to tell him now. It almost feels wrong not to, considering that, when anger almost overtook my composure, it was his kindness that brought me back down.
I’ve mulled over that trait of his after we first really spent time together—without the obligation of a mixer or errand. Just us, sharing our interests, gossiping about random topics in our lives.
Learning about the relationship with his father, my brain went a few places. I created a theory that his resistance to socializing stems more from his inability to do so, rather than a lack of desire.
I considered my own family. I thought about how appreciative I am towards my parents, who didn’t have much in materialistic things, but never spared my brother or I anything. They immigrated from the Philippines for us, selflessly, and even if we didn’t live with riches, we were always happy and satisfied andloved.
What stood out the most, though, is how different Locke is. From what he’s presented as to the world, and especially to our engineering college.
Being Keller McCarthy’s son means something to the boys in my program. Their happiness comes from the power behind dollar signs and swearing they’ll make something of themselves. Those guys worship anything connected to prestige and money.
Locke is presented as exactly what they want to be. His quiet, stoic demeanor is probably one they think is meant to be intimidating. Masculine, and overbearing, like he’s trying to command a room with silent stares and an overstuffed wallet.
Locke isn’t like that. He’s just shy. And quiet, and struggling to navigate a world where his last name holds more value than his first.
Although he’s in the perfect position to look down on me—or anyone else at this school—and scoff while we try to find a place in the world he’s already apart of, he doesn’t. Locke treats me with respect and kindness.
I don’t think he realizes how far that sentiment takes me. In mind, when I decide not to delete the name on my screen, and in spirit, when thinking of him calmed me right before that interview.
I could wait until I get back to the dorm to tell him. It’ll be no more than ten minutes, I’m sure.
My thumbs are opening our text log, full of short and clipped messages, and I decide I’m too impatient. He’ll understand my excitement more than anyone else.
Biting back the smile fighting its way onto my face, I text him.
please tell me you’re home
i can’t wait to tell you what just happened!!!
thirteen
ROSIE
The leaves scatteredacross Boston’s sidewalks have fully transitioned to fall. Walks home from the train station don’t feel as long when the streets are outlined in my favorite shade of orange.
I’m not sure what time it is exactly, but sunlight has already dipped past the skyline when I walked out of the train station. Meaning it’s well past six on a Saturday night.
During the semester, it’s hard for me to justify the two-hour train ride to and from to my childhood home. Mom’s birthday is one of those rare instances, and it results in too many containers of food I struggle to balance while ripping my apartment door open.
My dorm is exactly as expected. Locke, in long, superhero-printed pajama pants and a nerdy graphic t-shirt, lounging on the couch with the cat I sneakily give treats to when he’s not looking.
I smile at my roommate—myfriend—before kicking off my shoes and dropping the bags of food onto the carpet.
“Welcome home.” His voice gets louder as he approaches. By the time I set my shoes in their designated corner near the door, Locke has picked up my bags and placed the containers on our counter.
It’s eerily similar to what living with Liliana was like. One of us would visit our parents, come back with leftover food for the next few days, and almost immediately jump into a meal once we’re reunited.
Living with Locke isn’t exactly like living with Lil. He’s quieter than her in the moments we pass one another before class, but louder with his video games than she would be with her lo-fi study music. She pretended to be overly invested in the movies and shows I’d introduce to her, only really finding interest in a few of them. With Locke, the only time hedoesn’tseem invested in our watch parties is when he’s invested in our conversations.
