Chapter 5
five
LOCKE
Grant was wrong. My roommate, as it turns out, is not a six foot three, introverted nerd.
She’s a foot shorter than me and wears matching pajama sets around the apartment. She talks, a lot, but it’s not overwhelming. In the week we’ve lived together, it’s been nice to hear something other than silence after class, and she doesn’t expect me to match her word for word.
Rosalie, against Grant’s guess, is not a copy of me—although she does wear glasses when reading her textbooks.
We differ in everything else. I don’t think her brain works like mine. I doubt she recalls our first interaction every morning and silently dies of embarrassment before walking into the kitchen.
She never mentions how lost for words I was when we met, or how bad I am at articulating myself.
Our Ghost misunderstanding was the closest I’ve gotten to acting normal around her.
It’s like my poor attempt at socializing days ago doesn’t exist in her memory.
Even better, she hasn’t mentioned recognizing me or knowing who my father is.
Two acts of kindness wrapped into one person.
The overly optimistic part of my brain hopes she can tell I’m trying to work past my shyness.
When we run into each other throughout the day and she greets me with a large smile, I try to talk more.
Yesterday, I managed out an entire four sentences before the sweat on my palms were too much to bear.
Rosie still greeted me happily this morning, too, despite that.
We’re different in the way that I’d usually be rushing off to my father’s office on a Saturday morning. I’m not used to lazy days, getting to lay around for an extra hour and not worry about cufflinks while heading out the door.
Rosie seems perfectly adjusted to it. When I emerged from my bedroom to feed Ghost, she was moving around the kitchen, opening and closing half-empty drawers in her black plaid pajamas.
Instead of weekend office meetings and avoiding eye contact with everyone, Rosalie smiles on Saturdays. She insists on making pancakes but can’t find a spatula.
I don’t know how to tell her I’ve never owned a spatula. Instead, with all the strength I can muster, I offer to drive us to the grocery store to grab one.
The weather is getting cooler. Boston streets that were once lined with sundresses and farmer markets are shifting to light jackets and autumn drink advertisements.
Throughout the short drive, I consider commenting on it.
I grip the steering wheel while fighting with the social anxiety of speaking first.
It’s so rude of me to force her into a silent car ride. But it’s painfully embarrassing to open small talk on the fucking weather.
We’re barely ten feet into the store, not even to the first produce display, when someone runs up to us excitedly.
“Rosie!”
The stranger’s smile is stretched across her face.
She grabs Rosalie’s arms in her excitement, but her aura still isn’t half as bright as my roommate.
Rosie greets her with an eagerness I didn’t know people could have when socializing, and the two of them jump into small talk and jokes I don’t understand.
I pretend I’m not there. Rosie doesn’t make a move to introduce me, and I’m grateful for that. It’s relieving not to be at the center of half-hearted introductions when I don’t have to be.
After they talk for what feels like ten minutes, the girl gives Rosie a tight hug and goes on her way. We don’t discuss the random reunion, or the fact that I’m the awkward sidekick to Rosalie’s shine.
“This grocery store is nice,” she says while we’re slowly navigating around the wooden displays and unconventionally small grocery carts.
It’s one of those organic-only markets. The kind that justifies their overpriced seasonings by saying everything is sourced out-of-country.
They sell forty different cheeses you have to wait in line for, but no one complains because apparently a lot of people are hosting charcuterie nights on a Thursday.
It isn’t the ideal spot for a spatula. The handwritten chalk signs are geared more towards their unprocessed foods, and not utensils tucked into the least aesthetic section of the store, but I didn’t know anywhere else nearby.
“It is,” I answer through mumbled breaths. My glasses aren’t anywhere out of place, but I lift and move them around anyways.
I could write a twenty-page long dissertation on my flaws. Every single one of them in great detail, their origins, their impact on my life. At the height of the paper, in bold letters, it would be this. I can’t fucking talk.
When I’m mentally yelling at myself for being so inept and rude to Rosalie, she throws me one of her bright smiles, and waves towards the back of the store.
The embarrassment doesn’t subside, but it gets a bit easier to breathe.
When we’re walking past the jams and jellies aisle—because of course, there’s an entire aisle just for that—she gets stopped again. Another person recognizes my roommate and pulls her into a hug, and she reciprocates like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
There isn’t much you can learn about a person in six days’ time. There are the obvious facts: Rosalie is more extroverted than I’ll ever be, she speaks with a certainty I’ve never had, and—the first thing I noticed—she is unbelievably gorgeous.
Sleek dark brown hair, round and kind eyes, golden skin, and a smile I’m sure someone has fought for in their lives. It’s too bright and addicting not to have been.
Other things have to be observed over time. Through her interactions with me, I’ve learned my roommate is good at navigating awkward situations. She’s able to work around a few sentences with me and not let it phase her.
Through interactions with other people I’m seeing that Rosalie is captivating. A person so enchanting you cross the entire room when you see them, just to say hi.
After she separates from the second stranger of the day, we continue walking towards the small UTENSILS sign, and she gives me a half-hearted laugh.
“I’m sorry about that. Again.”
“It’s alright.” I gulp down my nerves and will myself to keep trying. “Happen to you often?”
“Running into old classmates? Occasionally. Not so much since I’ve enrolled at Brookstone, but sometimes I see people from high school or undergrad, yeah.”
I hum. As much as I want to say something that’ll push our conversation forward, I’m clueless on this.
The only thing I can connect to it is the bubbling jealousy in my chest, but I think that’d be better off not mentioned.
To be recognized for who you are to people, rather than your last name, is something I’ve never experienced.
I think inevitable silence is going to fall over us again, but Rosalie tilts a smile at me.
“I never asked. What part of the engineering program are you in?”
I push my hands deeper into the pockets of my dark wash jeans and let out a slow breath. The small talk questions are getting more constant, and slowly, easier to answer. “Software engineering. You?”
“I’m in financial engineering.” She takes a pause, staring at me like she’s waiting for something.
I’m not sure there’s anything I can say.
Aside from being short of words normally, I’d definitely get tripped up trying to express how impressive her major is.
My brain can barely handle the numbers and formulas from my current field of study.
Financial engineering is infinitely more complicated in that aspect.
That would’ve been the perfect opportunity to transition into a McCarthy conversation, too. Most of Dad’s weird followers know I studied software engineering at Brown. She doesn’t take the chance to bring it up, if she knows.
I can only thing to reply with a nod. For Rosie, it seems to be enough.
“Are you a second year?” She asks while we side-step a family arguing over fruit-flavored gelato.
“First.” My glasses are moved out of and put back into place before I can even register what I’m doing.
“I’m a second year. I know we’re technically not sharing any professors, but if you need any help getting around campus or figuring your way around the grad community, let me know.”
A chill wafts from the open freezer door and past the arguing family. It hits me, and crawls up my forearms, but I don’t feel it coming up my neck. A small warmth stays there, from the tiny show of friendship my roommate affords me.
“Thank you.” I mumble through the smile creeping onto my face.
“Of course.” The tucked away area of kitchen supplies finally falls into view. She halts and turns to me fully. “Oh! Are you going to the grad student mixer on Tuesday?”
Rosalie is looking up at me again. Large, dark brown eyes staring, not intimidated or in awe. Just wondering. Just asking a random question about my week. I can’t remember the last time someone looked at me without deciding they knew everything about my life and who I am.
I force myself to stare at the group of hanging ladles and steady my breathing.
“Is that required?”
“No, so if you don’t want to go, don’t feel like you have to. It’s honestly more of a networking event than anything else. Both for students, and for the program professors. Some even give extra credit if they see you there.”
A groan bubbles in my throat. That’s the exact type of event my father would want me to attend.
“Again, you don’t have to go. But if you’re interested, I’m going. We can stick together, if that’d make you more comfortable.”
Her eyes are still large and full of wonder, but they’re creased at the corners. Almost like she’s anticipating something—from me, or from the event. I’m not sure which.
“I’ll go.”
Rosie is the closest person I’ve gotten to a friend in a long, long time. That’s more than I could’ve asked for in a roommate. At least, if she’s there, I won’t feel so alone.
“Sounds good.” She throws a thumb over her shoulder. “Spatulas?”
We choose the second cheapest one. Rosie refuses to spend more than twenty dollars on the “name brand” option, but is too afraid the cheapest will wear down from her weekly pancakes.
At the register, the cashier stumbles to create a conversation.
Over the twelve-dollar item and Rosie’s unfaltering smile, he gives us the wrong change and asks her about the purchase twice.
It’s like looking in a mirror. Seeing someone struggle so desperately in an attempt to create some sentence that just won’t materialize.
But then he asks Rosalie for her number, and my focus shifts. Off how painfully similar I am to him, and on to how much I admire her.
She doesn’t give him her number. My roommate smiles, quietly says she “doesn’t give it out anymore,” and navigates the awkward situation better than I ever could.
It’s interesting to see someone so effortlessly work around life. Someone who obviously made more connections than she can keep track of, and can continue doing it—even over five minutes and twelve dollars.
It’s interesting to know I was right, too. Other people find her smile just as addicting as I do.