Chapter 14
fourteen
ROSIE
But he doesn’t stop. I know he’s doing it on purpose to grind my nerves. It’s working.
“And then they said my qualifications were unlike any they’ve seen from another candidate. Especially not from a Brookstone grad student.”
I know he’s lying. Or, at the very least, exaggerating the truth.
I get distracted anyways. Miswriting the specific detail my professor outlines about liquidity risks, and my skin burns from wiping my eraser violently back-and-forth on the paper.
“Was it the years of mathletes? Or the undergrad trading competitions you won?”
One of his weirdly loyal friends eggs him on, and I bite hard into my tongue.
One trading competition. Singular. He won one of the many trading competitions he joined in his undergraduate years. I know because he told me, back when talking to me was more interesting than talking at me or talking about me.
I know he’s purposefully making a show of what he discussed with the Xion official. That’s bad enough.
What’s worse is it’s not his egotistical bluff making my temple pulse with frustration.
It’s the fact that he and his friends can sit there, and giggle over their notebooks about a topic that could be saved for their downtime, while I’m rushing to note every important detail of this lesson.
My professor hasn’t told them once to quiet down or pay attention.
And a week from now, when they stumble over their words during review, they’ll get an easy out.
He’ll say they must be tired from their difficult classes and stressed from Xion’s grueling internship process.
But if it were me, and I spoke too loud or too out-of-place during this lecture, I’d be ridiculed by the seventy-something year old behind the desk.
I grit my teeth and I rub my wrist raw against the paper again. Erasing another thing I got wrong during this lesson and will the frustration away.
Jeremiah laughs for what feels like the millionth time. My professor looks up from his own writing, blinks, and turns away.
It burns.
“I don’t want to get cocky,” Jeremiah starts, and if I could laugh without being reprimanded, I would. “But I don’t see any competition for this internship. Especially not in this program.”
“Especially not in this cohort.”
They cackle. Louder. It gets too much to bear.
Whipping my head around, I murmur, “Will you shut up? I’m trying to pay attention.”
“Ms. Mendoza.” My professor finally decides to say something. To me, of all people. “Stop distracting the boys and keep your eyes on the board. You need to know this information if you want a career in trading one day.”
The boys in question laugh. Jeremiah leans over to tap his unused pencil against my notebook and whispers, “Yeah, princess. You need to get serious if you think you have a chance in this industry. Stop distracting us.”
They laugh louder. I feel red. I see red.
My professor doesn’t say anything else.
When I’m walking out of class later, and Jeremiah bumps into me just to mumble, “Good luck. You need it.” I’m halfway to giving up. On myself, and on the attempt I’m making not to cry.
I should finish re-reading the quantitative finance interviewing guide tonight. Knowing I need to work ten times harder than other people in my program, the last thing I have to lose is time. I should dedicate every ounce of who I am to getting this internship and proving myself.
But I can’t function right now. I’m barely holding everything together, and the first thing I smell when walking into the dorm is fresh fettuccine alfredo and poured apple cider.
Locke is standing at the kitchen sink. He’s not supposed to be—he should be in class. His Tuesday lectures run late into the night, and I leave dinner for him on the counter sometimes. I don’t know if I’ve seen him cook a full meal before today.
He turns when he sees me, wiping his hands on the orange towel we just switched out for the season, and smiles. A deep indentation on his left cheek appearing when he says, “Welcome home.”
It’s two words. I’ve heard them before. But something about having him immediately be there, with two plates of dinner on the dining table, right when every part of me feels like it’s going to collapse, is too much.
I don’t even get one shoe off before my backpack thuds on the floor, and my hands come over my face. I don’t last two seconds before the burst of sobs wrack through my chest and the door closes behind me.
“Rosalie?” A deep voice calls out from the kitchen. I don’t hear his steps against the carpeted floor, but I feel his hands. They hold onto my shoulders and start rubbing shapes into my sweater. “What happened? Are you okay?”
I cry harder. The sounds leaving my throat are more chopped, less controlled, and I shout a mantra in my head.
Girls like me don’t cry.
The industry I love hasn’t shown me much kindness. It gets worse when emotions come to play. Even if it’s just a response; Even if it’s beyond my control.
I try get ahold of myself. Locke has been so kind to me so far. I don’t want him to feel obligated to comfort me. He’s become more relaxed around our apartment, and I don’t want to ruin that with awkward back pats and a half-hearted “I hope you feel better.”
When my choked sobs switch to shaky breaths, Locke speaks.
“What do you need, Rosie? What can I do?” His voice is barely a whisper. Gentle. Kind.
I find enough strength to slowly remove my hands from my face. When I do, I’m met with Locke’s soft green eyes and a careful expression. More tears are at my waterline, threatening to spill over.
“I don’t know.” I answer honestly.
I don’t know how to respond to Locke pressing comforting circles into my shoulders, and Ghost nudging his head against my ankle.
The only thing I can think to do—the only thing that feels right in this moment—is to cry.
I fall into my emotions for once, because being around Locke makes me feel comfortable and safe enough to do that.
Eyelids pressed impossibly tight as I wail over being treated badly by the boys in my cohort, but being treated so well by the man I have at home.
“Rosie, please.” His right hand slowly moves up my neck. He pauses his movements, almost like he’s doubting himself, before threading his fingers into my hair. The silver of his watch presses into my heated skin. “What’s wrong? Tell me I can do something to fix it.”
How do I explain there’s too much for even me to understand?
I don’t know where to start or where it ends, but having Locke look at me so tenderly produces a smile. It’s enough for his own shoulders to loosen and for my crying to calm.
“It’s a lot—too much. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not too much. Don’t apologize.”
I hold a breath while my chest begins to move at a regular cadence. His hand on my nape tightens, just enough to remind me he’s there.
“If you want to share, then I want to listen. If there’s anything I can do to make it better, tell me, please. I want to help.”
Ghost nudges at my ankle again and meows. Almost like he knows what Locke is saying and is acting as his sidekick.
My grin grows just a tad larger. Locke makes everything feel more manageable. Less like something I have to hide and more like something I can share, to help lift the emotional weight of it.
With the corners of my lips upturned, I nod towards the dinner he kindly put out for us. My heart clenches when I see it set up so neatly, and the wave of warmth almost causes another round of tears to fall.
After Locke places my backpack onto the couch and carefully pulls my chair out, he settles across the dining room table, green eyes patient and waiting.
They stay that way through the first ten minutes, while I shovel forkfuls of pasta into my mouth. Through the bites of food I thank him for making me a plate and tell him it’s good. A small smile plays on his own face when I say it.
I want to focus on the lighthearted mood floating around the table, almost in reach, but I’m fighting with myself internally.
I have more flaws than I’d like to admit. Too many to count—although I’m sure there’s someone dying to keep track. Waiting to recite them for anyone who will listen.
The flaw that gets me into the most trouble? The trust I put into people. Mostly men, if we go off track records. I’ve put my faith in them wholeheartedly, telling myself each guy is different than the handful that came before him. They never are.
Or were.
Half of my brain tells me Locke is different.
He wouldn’t meticulously watch over me eating the dinner he made if he didn’t care.
Through our late-night movie marathons and domestic activities, there must be a layer to me he’s gotten to know and appreciate.
He has to be different than the boys who precede him.
This smarter, optimistic half of my brain swears it’s okay to tell my roommate all the details of how horrible this program has been. I’ve skimmed the surface with some issues I’ve had, and he’s responded well to those. That won’t change now. He’ll listen.
He said he wants to listen.
There’s only a few bites of pasta left on my plate when I take a deep breath and set my fork down.
“Thank you again for dinner.”
“This is nothing.” He waves his hand, silver watch reflecting the ceiling light. The phantom memory of its cold metal against my skin is too vivid. I dig my nails into my thigh. “You give me food all the time. I should be cooking for you more.”
I almost moan. He’s too nice not to trust.
“About the…” I gulp. “Crying. I can explain.” I don’t know why I pause, expecting him to say something. He doesn’t. Just places his own silverware down onto his plate, crosses his fingers and nods.
“It’s a lot to explain. I guess the short version is, I’m really emotional.
I mean—I can get really emotional. I have a lot of emotions.
” Embarrassment being one of them. Intense waves of humiliation crash into my conscious as I struggle to speak, but I press on. “Obviously, that’s a really bad thing.”
“No it’s not.”