“I mean, look at her. She’s so pretty. She’s hands down the second-funniest person at the table.”
“Who’s the first?” Derek makes the mistake of asking.
Without missing a beat, she answers, “Me.”
Normally I’d have to stifle a laugh. Despite her quick-witted banter usually putting me at the end of the joke, I do think my little sister is funny. I would argue she’s the funniest person I know. Rosie is her only real competition.
But it’s the thought of Rosalie, and the echoing of Billie’s “jokes” that keep any humor from filling my head. The insecurity of not knowing who I am, or if I’m the type of man Rosie deserves, is swallowing me whole.
“Didn’t you say she was some math super genius too?” I grunt and look to the ground. I know what comes next. “A math genius, with you, who failed remedial math… do you see where I’m going here?”
She giggles again. I know my sister is just giving me shit. Rarely do I ever take it to heart. It’s almost impossible, I’ve come to learn, to not take things to heart when Rosalie is involved.
I try to use happy thoughts to cushion what will be another inevitable blow.
The weather lately, chilly enough for a coat and hot cocoa but not cold to the bone. The relaxation of playing my favorite video game and not caring about how much time has passed.
The sound of laughter drifting through the hallway and into my bedroom first thing Saturday morning. Right when the sunis starting to peek over the city skyline, but the brightest thing in Boston woke up thirty minutes ago to make pancakes.
So many things make me happy and should soften the blow to my confidence.
But Billie laughs again, and continues to talk, and everything stings.
“A girl like Rosie probably has a million and one guys lined up, you know? And I don’t know if all of them are spending their Friday nights playing video games-”
“Billie.” Grant’s voice is a deep contrast to the relaxed, laid-back tone he had minutes ago. It’s commanding, but still soft. I look up to see his forehead creased. “Tone it down, please.”
The tension immediately becomes suffocating. My hands move on their own, taking my glasses out of place on the bridge of my nose and putting them back again. And again. And again.
I wish I was back at my dorm. With Ghost. With Rosie.
Where is Rosie?
I start counting the seconds. Surely, it’s been almost ten minutes since she left. I’ll count down to three minutes before I get up to find her myself. Anything to get away from Grant’s arms crossed, Derek avoiding eye contact, and Billie hanging her head like she was scolded.
I’m forty-eight seconds in when my sister clears her throat. “Sorry, Locke. I was just messing around. I didn’t mean to make things weird.”
She pokes a finger into my arm and I shrug. This is her way of saying “Sorry if I hurt your feelings.” I don’t think she knows how to fully say those words aloud because she’s never had to.
I don’t think she has now, either.
“You’re fine. Nothing’s weird.”
“I just really like Rosie.” Billie lifts her head, looks around the table, and huffs. “Kill a girl for wanting another baddie as a sister-in-law, damn.”
A chuckle finally finds its way out of my chest. The shaking of my upper spine against the chair’s back makes me realize how far I’ve slipped into my seat. I readjust, roll my shoulders, and punch my sister’s arm for good measure.
“She’s my roommate.”
She scoffs and jabs my side. “See? That mindset is why I said you need to put in the work to win her over.”
Grant laughs and shakes his head. The tension disappeared as soon as it emerged, and I laugh, too.
“She’s my roommate” I repeat.
I almost add “just” in the middle of the sentence, but it doesn’t feel right.
Billie rolls her eyes. She glances around the table before that signature smirk reappears. “Alright. Since you’re only roommates, Derek should shoot his shot.”
