She clapped her hand over her mouth when I recited “There’s only you, Rosie,” and she kicked me under the table at least five times when we got back.
What won’t stop replaying during quiet moments, is the last sentence she said before we returned to the group.
“You two make so much sense.”
I slip, tip the bowl over slightly, and send a few of Locke’s uneven apple chucks rolling across the counter.
We make sense, she claimed.
I denied it that night. It seemed like the only thing to do at the time. Deny, deny, deny, that there was something romantic happening between my roommate and me.
It’s been two days. Yesterday, I noticed we were out of trash bags. Locke came home with a new box, a co-op video game he wants to play together, and two pairs of fuzzy socks.
This morning, I didn’t ask what he wanted for breakfast. I knew. By the time he came out of the shower, I’d already set up the table and put food in Ghost’s dish.
I didn’t notice it before. Maybe my subconscious was trying to protect me from how much it would sting if this was all coincidence. I don’t know if I could handle that. Getting my heart tossed around by a guy I thought was cute in class is one thing.
Facing a reality where Locke isn’t a soft-hearted man helping to pick up the crumbs of my life, feels unbearable.
I can’t deny it anymore. We do go together. We make complete sense.
The baking sheet is being pushed into the oven when I wholeheartedly accept it for the first time. My apron is tossed on the counter when I realize what it implies.
I trip over my feet during my short walk to the lounge area, too distracted by how Locke looks. Long legs stretched out in front of him, collarbone sticking out from under his sweater, silver watch glittering under the lamp light while he holds onto the remote.
I’m settling onto the couch and trying to get my heart under control when the evidence ofusbecomes indisputable.
On the television screen is a movie poster from 2007. A couple standing in brown coats, surrounded by falling leaves, and hopelessly in love. It’s the exact film I had in mind.
“Ready?”
Locke’s thumb is hovering over the play button. His black-rimmed glasses are slipping down the bridge of his nose, and his right hand is completely free, but he makes no move to readjust.
We know each other. We’re comfortable together. We’re safe here.
With Ghost lounging on the backrest, I extend my legs across the couch. Closing any gaps between us.
“Yeah. I’m ready.”
eighteen
LOCKE
Rosie setsa timer for the cookies to cool. Our entire apartment is drenched in the scent of apple oatmeal, and I desperately want to taste one, but she says I have to wait another thirty minutes.
When she took the cookies out of the oven, the leading lady on screen was recalling past feelings for her brother’s best friend. There were flashbacks of growing up together and lying to herself that he wasn’t the object of her affections.
My life is nowhere comparable to that. No small-town love story, back-and-forth pining, or family apple orchard to save. Still, while Rosie sets her cookies out on the stove and settles herself back down onto the sofa, I imagine it’s me. And her.
The woman on screen has amber red hair, but I see it in streaks of dark brown. When she talks about loving her family’s business and the farm they run, the words are translated into math formulas and film analyses. Her leading man looks and acts nothing like me. Yet, there I am, in a cowboy hat I’dnever wear, desperately waiting for one shot with the girl of my dreams.
My leg keeps twitching. I subtly try to keep it under control, but every thirty seconds I wonder if Rosalie can see through me. Through the hints I dropped at the café and the hours since, and through the deep interest I have in this movie.
It’s a good, lighthearted film. I’d enjoy it regardless. But imagining this love story is the two of us, makes it one I don’t want to look away from.
It’s strange for us to go this long without discussing something, either related to the film or to our everyday lives. It’s been almost ten minutes since she’s sat back down, and we haven’t passed a word. My hand comes up to mess with my glasses while I motivate myself to say something.
Since we met, it’s always been Rosalie leading the conversations. Rosie being the one to guide me and put her foot forward to make up for my shortcomings.
