Chapter 9 #2
I sigh into the space of the apartment, releasing the hopes I have for that to be me one day. I shove a handful of popcorn in my mouth to distract myself, but it doesn’t work. I’ll be thinking about romantic rain kisses all night.
“You have… thoroughly considered this.”
“I’m a hopeless romantic. A girl can dream.”
I avoid saying those words aloud most times. I’ve been conditioned to think feelings are negative. Too many emotions mean you can’t be taken seriously. It’s been said to me too many times.
Locke seems different, though. He acts different. Holds himself differently. Doesn’t respond with a laugh or an eye roll. Just nods lightly and turns his attention back to the screen.
Ten minutes later, he asks another question about the main character’s family.
The night flies. The watch list has shifted to an animated film of Locke’s choosing, and it’s me who asks questions.
His answers are shorter, but still informative. I learn about voice acting and English dubbing through his mumbled explanations.
I keep asking. He continues to answer, and with each one, the sentences get longer and his voice more assured.
I’m considering that the length of his sentences is connected to his level of comfort, when he abruptly turns to me and asks, “If someone said something about you, would you want to know?”
I take a deep breath and attempt to hide the awkward, sinking feeling in my chest.
I don’t want to know. I never want to know.
Locke’s throat bobs when he gulps. I bite hard on my tongue to avoid my face twisting in fear.
I don’t want to know. I need to know.
“Tell me.”
If Locke was a storm when he walked in, he’s a drizzle now. Soft and unassuming. He’s rocking side-to-side, teetering on the edge of the couch, making me think it’s only a matter of time before a flood of emotion comes back; The same as when he entered the apartment.
After taking a deep inhale, he says, “I was walking out of class the other day. A guy stopped me. He started talking about you.”
My skin runs cold. Of course he did.
I’m not surprised my unwarranted criticism has bled into other majors and cohorts. The men of our engineering college don’t have anything better to do than gossip about women they barely know.
Before I start going through the list of boys it could be, Locke clears his throat.
“He said some stuff. I didn’t like any of it.”
I uncross my legs to bend them at the knees, bringing them to my chest and not caring about what skin is showing or where the hem of my lounge top falls. He’s not looking at me, anyways, too focused on the rundown carpet in front of us.
“Like what?” I can’t stop myself.
Locke shifts uncomfortably. It’s a sick satisfaction for me. For once, I’m not the only one awkward and uneasy talking about this.
“I’m not going to repeat the words.” He grunts. “But they alluded to your activities. In the program. With other people.”
He doesn’t have to say anything else. It’s enough confirmation that what the people in this school see me for, has gotten back to him.
Tears sting behind my eyes. It’s always like this. I’m not surprised anymore when my few romantic endeavors get thrown back into my face. Like it’s a death sentence to be attracted to people who have the same kind of life as me.
The spot on my tongue where I bite down harder draws blood. My peers don’t take me seriously because I’m a woman who has dated a few guys.
I ignore the pain in my mouth and ask, “What did you say?”
This is my version of morbid curiosity.
He’s still not looking elsewhere, but in the seconds that seem to stretch for hours, I watch Locke. Notice his jaw tightening and how he leans his head back against the couch, tilting just slightly towards Ghost sprawled across the back cushion.
“Not enough. But I told him you were my friend.”
My eyebrows raise. In the larger picture, no, that’s not enough. I don’t know if there will ever be enough done or said to erase the things I’ve heard about me.
But considering how alienated I’ve felt up to this point, it’s a lot. It’s loads of kindness and faith and relief wrapped into a shy bow.
“Really?” When my voice rises in pitch, I feel myself heat up with embarrassment. “What did he say?”
“Nothing. It shut up him.”
Only then does Locke spare me a glance, and when he does, I smile.
“Thank you. That was nice of you.”
“No, it wasn’t. I should’ve told him how horrible of a person he was and not to speak that way about any woman—let alone you—ever again.”
I reel back, my feet falling back onto the floor and head shaking comically. “Damn. I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard you say at once.”
It definitely is.
There’s no time for me to worry about whether Locke thinks I’ve just insulted him, because he laughs instantly.
“It is, isn’t it?” He nods. “That’s good.”
He doesn’t have to explain.
Over the duration of two and a half films, he’s laughed, started conversations, extended his speech and most of all, hasn’t fidgeted with his glasses once.
I think we’re officially friends.
“It is good.” I agree, letting the dread of negativity be replaced with this. Having someone in the engineering program who doesn’t think the worst when they see me. If I’m generous to myself, maybe he’s one person who will actually take me seriously.
It’s that hope I hold onto when I ask, “Who was this guy? Do you know his name?”
Morbid curiosity, again.
Locke shakes his head, reaches for the popcorn, and frowns when he realizes it’s empty.
“No. Never spoke to him before. He’s always asleep in class. He must have some connection to get this far in Brookstone’s software engineering program.”
Lazy and connected to the software world?
I throw my head back in a groan. “Did he have curly red hair?”
“Yes.”
“Of fucking course it was him. Fucking bitch. That’s my ex’s little brother.”
This is what always comes after the humiliation. This is the emotion that gets invalidated by every guy who gets to see it, regardless of why or how it came to be.
Red-hot, pulsing anger.
My hands yank at my hair and I raise my voice unintentionally. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me! I dated his brother in undergrad, for fucks sake, for no more than a semester.”
I can’t help myself. The frustration is radiating off me, throwing my body up to pace back and forth in front of the couch.
“And he broke up with me, mind you—and him and his brothers are still shit talking?!”
It’s me who can’t make eye contact now. My eyes jump between one wall to the other every few seconds, while I furiously dig my heels into the carpet.
“He did mention brothers.”
“I’m not even surprised.” I laugh at the absurdity of it. “Which one was it? Did he have an eyebrow piercing?”
“Uh. No. He had a nose piercing, though.”
“It was Trent! Did he make a comment about my ass, too?”
“Well. Yes.”
“Of fucking course!” I’m panting when I stop, from the flames of anger heating up every part of me.
Hands on my hips, I stare at him. “This is why he’s my second least favorite ex.
Because he was a package deal with his damn brothers, and they all sucked, and they never stopped making gross comments about me.
“You know it all started because I—I was his girlfriend, just to remind you—told him princess was a cute nickname and he thought it was so weird. But instead of telling me that, he went and shit talked me with his brothers. Like, just say something? I didn’t know it was going to be such a big deal! ”
“It started… because of a nickname?”
“Yes! He was so nice to me before then. After that, he got super weird, and his brothers got super weird, and… Even now, in grad school, they turned it into a whole thing. I can’t stand any of them.”
My roommate clears his throat. “He did call you-”
“Princess Rosie?” I groan loudly, remembering how much that stupid nickname has haunted me since.
It was my favorite nickname before they spoiled it.
“That’s what they all call me. Trent and his brothers never let it go, and a few months back it started catching on.
The engineering guys think it’s hilarious. ”
I could go on for hours about Trent, his brother, the boys in our program, why they all need to learn some damn respect, but Locke speaks, low and stoic.
“Your ex shared something personal from your relationship to his brothers, then to your classmates, years after you broke up?” I nod. His face twist. “How can there be an ex worse than that?”
I press my fingers into my eyelids and sigh. If only he knew how bad it is for the women of Boston.
Gathering all my courage, I place my hands back on my hips and brace myself for an even thicker crash of embarrassment.
“The worst ex I’ve ever had was Jeremiah.”
“Jeremiah?” Now, Locke is a hurricane. I see every emotion flash across his face in three seconds. It’s the most animated I’ve ever seen him. “My dad’s weird fanboy from the mixer?!”
“Yes, unfortunately.”
“Are you sure?” From his raised eyebrows, I think he’s seriously asking. Like I would somehow mistake the guy I dated last semester. “He had a stain on his pants. The snacks there were dry. How the fuck did he get a stain?”
He’s not trying to be funny. His face is still creased, and he looks dumbfounded, but the laugh that tumbles out of me is unstoppable.
“I don’t know how the fuck he got a stain.”
“Neither do I!”
My laughs double, triple. It’s only when I’m clutching the side of my stomach that Locke laughs, too.
“Rosie,” he says between chuckles. “Did you actually date him?”
“Yes.” I force out. Date. Kiss. Fuck. Cry over. Too much time dedicated to someone who told me he didn’t know what a dryer sheet was. “I have a lot of bad memories from this program, but the ones with him were the worst.”
There’s still traces of laughter in our conversation, but they’re slowly dying out, and the ringing of embarrassment is returning.
He lets out a puff of air. “I… can’t believe you dated him.”
I drop my body back into my end of the sofa. “Well, believe it. According to our classmates, that was the only worthy topic of discussion last semester.”
Sometimes, when I’m walking down the hallways and pretending I can’t see the glances thrown my way, it’s like I can still hear what they say about me.
I can’t believe Jeremiah is doing that pity work.
How many guys in this program is she going to sleep with?
That gender diversity shit isn’t going to work in the real world. He’ll get tired of it, too.
I cling to the few traces of laughter left, trying to hide how devastating it is that my life’s passion has boiled down to this.
Locke chuckles, softer this time. “I’m just confused.”
“About?”
He shakes his head, grabs the popcorn bowl and heads towards the kitchen. “How a guy like that got a chance with a girl like you.”
His voice tapers off, and if this dorm wasn’t so cramped, I could attribute it to him walking to the kitchen. I wait until another bag of popcorn is heating up in our microwave to reply.
“I never learn, I guess.” I try to make a joke out of it, and stare at the back of Locke’s head waiting for him to laugh. He doesn’t.
“What do you mean?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I have a type. Put together, passionate about the future, usually a guy in STEM…”
Glasses.
Jeremiah doesn’t wear glasses. It’s not a deal breaker. Mentioning it now would make it seem like I just want my roommate to know I find it attractive.
I keep it to myself.
“I meet guys like that, and they’re usually nice in the beginning, so I give it a shot,” I say before sighing. “And then, a few months in, they decide they don’t want me. For whatever reason.”
The tips of my ears are on fire. Liliana is the only person I’ve ever shared this with, without alcohol fueling it or some self-deprecating joke to follow.
Maybe it’s the drizzle starting to cascade down our windows, or the familiar smell of microwaved butter, but I feel comfortable enough to share this with Locke.
A burst of smoke escapes the bag as Locke rips it open, and he glances back at me. “I don’t like that. Saying it’s because you don’t learn. You don’t have to learn anything. They should learn how to respect people.”
“I get what you’re saying. But I think some of it has to do with the fact that little Rosie still exists in my head and stupidly thinks she’ll get that kiss in the rain.”
“So?” He throws a kernel into his mouth on the walk back to the couch, before setting the bowl on the middle cushion. “You’re a hopeless romantic. Good. Keep it that way.”
I shove popcorn into my mouth and shake my head. “Don’t enable me. I’m trying to have more realistic expectations for the men in our city and what my dating standards should be.”
He grunts. Grabs the remote, scrolls through my flagged list of romcoms on this streaming service, and chooses one of my favorites.
“Don’t drop your standards. You deserve the best. You’ll get it one day.”
“How do you know?”
The introduction I’ve watched a million times starts, but it feels different. More cozy with the first rainfall of the year going on outside our apartment, and new, with Locke here to watch it with me.
His hand reaches up towards his face and moves past his glasses to push the blonde hair out of his eyes.
“I just do. You’ll get your prince charming. Promise.”