“I am worried. It’s wrong. You deserve better.” He’s not saying anything I haven’t heard from Liliana before, and nothing I haven’t tried to tell myself. But there’s a layer of satisfaction hearing it come from a deep voice, one I know could commandan entire room of our classmates if he wanted to. “It never occurred to me that other people might not see you the way I do. I’m sorry.”
“The way you do?”
The red flush that must’ve creeped onto my own face makes its way to his. Reaching into his cheeks and the tips of his ears before he answers.
“Yes.”
Short. Shy.
I press my fingertips into my thigh and try not to get ahead of myself.
“How do you see me, then?”
It’s loaded. My foot accidentally hits against Locke’s under the table and I struggle to keep a straight face. He’s squinting his eyes in question.
I’m playing with fire.
After what feels like decades of shallow breaths and drying tears, Locke clears his throat.
“You’re unbelievable. You’re outstandingly smart and passionate. You put all of yourself into what you do, and that’s what makes you the best. Because you’re yourself, wholeheartedly. Unapologetically. There’s no one like you in the world. There’s only you, Rosie.”
His final sentence slips into a whisper, but it echoes. Across the walls of our shared dorm, in the depths of my mind when Locke’s hands softly land on the dining room table. Open and inches away from mine.
I sit there, stunned into a warmth that overtakes my senses. A mantra of“There’s only you, Rosie,”digs itself into my subconscious, and Locke glances around. At the ceilings and the walls and the floor, like we haven’t made ourselves familiar with every inch of this apartment in the last two months.
I’m still overflowing with emotions—shock and bliss and affection—when his soft-spoken voice asks, “Are you done with dinner?”
“Oh!” I barely snap out of it to take one last bite.
Both our dishes are cleaned up quickly. His long legs have moved to the sink by the time I stand.
“I’ll do the dishes.”
“You should sit. I’ll do them.”
His back is turned to me and I frown. Half-heartedly.
My mouth isn’t physically able to downturn too much with wisps of “There’s only you, Rosie,” still playing in my head.
“The person cooking dinner shouldn’t be washing the dishes.”
“You had a bad day. Let me take care of it.”
You.
For a second, I swore I heard,“Let me take care of you.”
It felt like he said that.
I wait. For what, I don’t know, but a minute passes before I decide to let Locke take care ofit, and I head to the couch.
There are interview questions I should be studying. A guide on what and how I handle the second interview when it comes around and I’m expected to impress them twice as much as Jeremiah, with half as much effort.
Really, I should dedicate my time to that tonight.
As soon I make contact with the couch cushion, though, I can’t bring myself to think so responsibly. Today’s struggles melt away, down my arms and into the fabric I swear didn’t used to feel so soft and comforting when we first moved in.
Ghost appears, almost out of nowhere, and hops from the floor onto the couch.
