Locke continues mumbling about how good the food was. I’m smiling through his compliments as a new collection of streaming films pops up on the TV and I gasp.
“They started putting together the spooky movies!”
The crunch of Locke eating a kernel of popcorn is delayed; Hesitant.
I smirk. “What?”
“Nothing.”
I slowly scroll through the horror films on screen, glancing between the options and the look on his face. Gemstone eyes slowly slipping from skepticism to fear, and I giggle.
“Locke McCarthy, are you scared of horror movies?”
“No.” My roommate is short with his words sometimes, and occasionally quick with his sentences, but never this fast. “Weren’t you the one who almost didn’t live here because of a ghost?”
I scoff and hold up a finger. “First of all, that was valid. Second of all, watching a movie and living it are entirely different things.”
Locke avoids eye contact and fidgets with his glasses up before mumbling, “Horror movies don’t bother me.”
“Right.” Sarcasm oozes into my tone. “Why did you name your cat Ghost if you’re afraid of horror movies?”
Locke huffs. “That’s what the shelter named him. I didn’t want to call him something else and confuse him.”
A whine nearly makes it out of my throat before I can stop myself. It shouldn’t be possible for a guy like this—six foot three, with a defined jaw and sharp green eyes—to be so adorable.
Sometimes. Occasionally.
His nose twitches, probably without intention, and I have to spit out another witty comeback to avoid clutching my chest.
“You didn’t deny being scared of horror movies.”
“I’m not scared.”
“Okay. Fine.” I make it a point to focus my eyes on the screen and not at his tall frame sinking into the couch adorably. “So I can choose?”
“Of course. Anything you want.”
I love the sound of that.
What I want ends up being a classic slasher film from the ‘80s that hasn’t been scary to me since my childhood, when I first watched it.
But from my peripherals, five minutes into the movie with the first jump scare lined up for audiences, I see Locke backing further into his cushion. I subtly reach over the bowl of popcorn and poke his thigh. When he flinches, I cackle.
“Not scared my ass.”
fourteen
ROSIE
Through every painstakingminute of our three-hour lecture, I try to ignore the immature boys who do everything but pay attention. Every bragging word Jeremiah throws around in not-so-quiet whispers make my pencil dig harder into my notebook. I’m sure one specific “0” is indented throughout the rest of the pages.
But he doesn’t stop. I know he’s doing it on purpose to grind my nerves. It’s working.
“And then they said my qualifications were unlike any they’ve seen from another candidate. Especially not from a Brookstone grad student.”
I know he’s lying. Or, at the very least, exaggerating the truth.
I get distracted anyways. Miswriting the specific detail my professor outlines about liquidity risks, and my skin burns from wiping my eraser violently back-and-forth on the paper.
