Chapter 4
four
ROSIE
I silently thank all the forces in the world that I live on the first floor.
I silently curse past me for refusing Liliana’s offer to help move. I’ve managed to condense my belongings into ten moving boxes. Past me figured I would be strong enough to handle those on my own—so confident, I sent the movers away once they got my stuff to the building’s front door.
What I hadn’t considered was that boxes of textbooks and clothes would feel heavier than they looked. The sweat slowly cascading from the nape of my neck and into the fabric of my crop top proves my mistake. The final surge of August heat doesn’t do much to help.
I huff while dropping the cardboard box in front of the brown painted door and try to catch my breath while searching my pockets for the key.
It’s etched with the number 1508, matching the gold-plated digits nailed above the peep hole.
I let another handful of seconds pass to settle my heart. I’m not nervous about living with someone new. I’ve been stuck with a randomly assigned roommate before, and she ended up becoming my best friend.
My nerves are less about living with someone, and more about who I’m living with.
My peers in this program haven’t been the nicest. Their unkind words follow me from class to class. They leave me wondering, just for a moment, if working in the finance industry is worth it.
I just don’t want my living space to be an area of ridicule, too.
Shaking my head, I force away the anxious thoughts. I could end up with a misogynistic, egotistical classmate from my cohort, sure—but it would pass. I would grit my teeth and get through it.
I’m repeating these things in my brain while unlocking the door and twisting the knob.
The dorm isn’t anything special. It’s not much different than the last dorm I lived in—aside from the large man with a head of butter blonde hair staring at me. He blinks behind the black-framed lenses of his glasses and the figure in his hands stalls mid-air.
“Hi!” It comes out more enthusiastic than I expected, but I don’t recognize him from any of my classes. That’s a good sign.
“Hello.”
His voice is soft—comparable to the sound of his Lego figure being precariously sat on the bookshelf in front of him. His eyes are an almost unmistakable green, and I swear I’ve seen the shade before, but I can’t put my finger on it.
There’s a dirt mark swiped across the front of his white t-shirt, sitting under his blue plaid button-down and tucked into his black jeans. In the moments I wait for him to say something else, he pushes his blonde hair back and repositions his glasses.
The last observation I allow myself is that he’s undeniably attractive. In the subtle, quiet way that would have me side-glancing at him in the middle of a lecture and then looking away right before we make eye contact.
We meet eyes now. Locked, while I tug the cardboard box into our dorm and kick the door closed behind me. This isn’t a classroom, and he isn’t a random peer I can secretly gush about to Liliana. He’s my roommate.
I replay that fact in my head while wiping my brow.
“You must be my roommate.” The corners of my mouth turn upwards, but I feel the embarrassment swelling. Duh, he’s my roommate.
Again, I wait. For him to respond or give me any sign he’s understood what I said. I’m questioning if my voice reaches thirty feet across the room when I try again.
“You… are my roommate, right?”
“Yes.”
I’m starting to think these snipped responses are all I’m going to get, but the grin stretches wider across my face. His dry replies don’t feel malicious. They’re too naturally awkward. It’s refreshing to be around someone who doesn’t have a million and one opinions about me, for once.
“I’m Rosalie. Most people call me Rosie, though.”
It takes five large steps to get to his side of the living area and hold out my hand. He lets the silence hang for a bit before connecting us in a shake.
“What are you most comfortable with?”
“What?”
“Rosalie or Rosie. Which do you prefer?”
His tone is leveled. Almost as unmoved as our hands are now, frozen between us before we separate a few seconds off cadence. My eyes trace around the walls of our living space and I hum.
“You know, I’ve never thought about it before. No one’s ever asked.”
I’m good at talking to new people, usually. Conversations usually follow the formula of sharing names, falling into the nickname “Rosie,” and then cracking a joke about our surroundings.
This is different. The tall man in front of me takes inconsistent pauses before throwing out questions I don’t know the answers to, and makes me question the script I’ve followed so closely my entire life.
It’s different, but not uncomfortable.
He pushes his glasses back up his nose and grunts. “Which one?”
His face is unmoving. He must realize that if we’re roommates, we’re both in Brookstone’s engineering program. Yet, it has no impact on how he responds to me. It’s completely irrelevant, it seems.
The thought makes me giddy.
“I think I like them both equally. You can call me whichever. Thank you for asking, though.” I throw another smile at him. When the grin isn’t returned, I don’t let myself overthink it.
While my back is turned to him, heading back to the box I haphazardly dumped in the dining area, I ask, “What’s your name?”
There’s a long pause. I push the cardboard against the wall, near the hallway to our left and out of the way, while he takes his time figuring out his answer. When it does come, it’s in a strained voice.
“Locke.”
“Cool. Like, a lock and key?”
“Yes.”
“I like it.”
I throw another smile at him before heading to the front door. It’s to let him know that one-word replies are more than enough, but Locke surprises me with a full sentence.
“Do you need any help with your boxes?”
“That’d be great, thank you!” My excited voice layers with the sound of our doorknob.
It takes three steps, versus my five, for him to reach the front of our shared apartment. He scans over the floor and speaks for the first time with the first hint of emotion in his tone. Concern.
“Did you see a ghost?”
He says something else under his breath, too soft for me to make out, but I wouldn’t have been able to process it regardless. My skin runs cold with the mention of the only thing worse than living with a bad roommate.
I’ve seen hundreds of horror films. Definitely more than any person with a fear of the supernatural should see. Usually, I enjoy them. It doesn’t become a problem unless night falls and I’m on my own, but his worried expression sends panic up my spine.
Alarms blare in my head. This is the perfect opening scene for a straight-to-DVD, 2000s horror film with a debatable three-point-one star rating on Letterboxd.
Slowly, I tilt my head to look at Locke and take a deep, shaky breath. “Are there ghosts in this fucking apartment?”
He doesn’t say much. Which was fine about three minutes ago, before he made me think my phone could ring any second with a demonic voice asking, “What’s your favorite scary movie?” on the other side.
“I meant-”
“Hell no. Nope. No no no.” My thoughts can’t stay on one course when the memories of every horror film I’ve ever seen are rolling around in my head. “I can’t live here if there are ghosts. Nope. I don’t mess with that shit.”
The singular box I’ve pulled into the apartment seems so far away now. It only has a few textbooks and some of my older clothes. I consider going back to get it, before running out the door, but my head shakes. It’s not worth it.
I’m silently saying goodbye to that one box when a sound breaks through my fear. Deep chuckles bounce off the semi-empty walls of our dorm and slowly run my uneasiness away. Either because Locke’s laugh is so jarring from his stoic persona, or because the sound is so infectious.
“Stop!” It’s supposed to come out with serious concern, but I start laughing without meaning to. “It’s not funny! I’ve watched The Exorcist enough times to know that the first rule of possession is to get the fuck out of the house!”
He doesn’t stop. Locke laughs harder, bending at the waist and holding onto his stomach. I will myself to put on a serious face because no ghost is going to appreciate being laughed at like this, but my grin won’t fall.
“I’m sorry.” His tone is so much different than earlier. Still deep, but not at all intimidating. A tinge of joy hangs on to every word. “I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you. Promise.”
My arms cross and eyebrows raise. “I didn’t think you were until just now.”
That’s a lie. But it sends another rack of laughter through him, and this one is even more contagious than the first.
It must be a full minute of shared humor before Locke clutches his chest and manages to talk, a dimple appearing on his left cheek. “Ghost is my cat. I tried to say, ‘a cat’ and ‘Ghost.’ At the same time. And said, ‘a ghost.’”
Almost on cue, a soft meow flows from the hallway.
A white cat patters across the carpet and makes his way to me, rubbing his head on my ankle.
The panic of becoming a horror film final girl washes away.
Squatting down, I run my hands over Ghost’s head and nearly die of adoration when he meows again.
“No cats in The Exorcist,” I say in relief. “No need to move out.”
For a second, my smile falters. I remember a check box from the housing form I didn’t think much of.
Are you okay living with an ESA (emotional support animal)?
I love all animals. Even the insects I pretend not to know exist, and the scaled creatures I prefer to observe through media. I didn’t think an animal in the apartment would affect me at all.
Maybe it’s not Ghost himself, but rather, knowing he’s not just a pet. He’s a support pillar for Locke, who seems to surprise me more and more by the minute. There’s a story here—between the short sentences and fidgeting movements and emotional support cat.
I give Ghost another pet and decide not to pry. It’s not my place. I’ll take this as a sign that there’s more to Locke than awkward pauses, and that’s a side I’ll slowly get to know.
“You’re okay with cats, then?”
“Yeah.” I stand up again and desperately try to ignore Ghost begging for more head pats at my ankle. “I love cats. If you ever go home for a weekend or something, and need me to cat-sit, I’m more than happy to.”
It’s instant. The way his expression falls into its default stone face, like the happiness has been sucked out of the air. Ghost switches from my ankle to his.
“Thanks.” Locke lifts the cat into his arms and tips his head to the door. “Boxes?”
I pretend not to notice how his demeanor shifts. It’s not my place to pry about that, either.
Nodding, I smile. “Yes! You can put Ghost in your room and I’ll prop the door open?’
“Sounds good.”
I wait until he rounds the hallway corner to push a doorstop under the wood. Officially, I throw away any assumptions I could or would make about my new roommate, Locke.