Chapter 17
seventeen
ROSIE
Baking cookies is my favorite part of fall.
I’m not sure how much I spent at the grocery store grabbing the supplies needed to bake more sweet treats than either I or Locke will ever be able to finish, but I couldn’t stop myself.
There’s nothing like cookies during fall time, even if it results in streaks of flour across the counters and consuming way too much cinnamon.
Dealing with the mess afterwards is a problem for future Rosie. Present Rosie is having too much fun in her orange gingham apron to care.
“Where do you want the apples?” Locke holds up the bowl of fruit, chopped into uneven cubes, and I smile.
He’s not the best in the kitchen. He awkwardly told me once it’s because he didn’t think to start learning until he was older—much older, as in only a few years ago—but he wants to learn. He’s been practicing. Dinner here, lunch there.
The misshaped apple cubes aren’t perfect, but I appreciate his enthusiasm.
“You can just put them to the side for now. Thank you.”
Locke shuffles around me, his solid abdomen brushing against my back in a way that lingers after he’s passed, and places the bowl on the counter.
I overpour the brown sugar and curse under my breath.
“Do you need me to do anything else?”
I glance away from the mixture to see a patch of flour covering part of his gray sweater.
Laughing, I shake my head. “No, that’s okay.
I’m almost done.” I’m not almost done. The apple chunks and walnuts still need to be folded in, but I won’t tell Locke that.
He’s staring down at me, patiently waiting to help, and it’s getting harder to focus by the second. “You could set up the movie, maybe?”
That’s enough for him. He nods, painstakingly brushes against my back again, and takes the few steps to our living room.
As if he was waiting for it, too, Ghost comes tapping down the hallway. I don’t have to glance behind me to know he’s hopped onto the couch—either lounging along the expanse of the backrest or on Locke’s lap.
“What do you want to watch?”
I’m reaching into the cabinets for my well-loved hand mixer while answering, “I don’t know. You choose. I chose last time.”
“Not true. We both wanted to watch that.”
He’s right. Our tastes are starting to overlap. When these watch parties started, it was sharing unknown medias with one another. First, movies Locke had never heard of, then anime I didn’t know existed.
Now my social media feeds are filled with anime recommendations. Sometimes he comes home with a list of films he’s interested in. There are video game articles scattered through my search history, and occasionally Locke will ask for help with his math problems. Slowly, our interests have mixed.
Telling him to choose the movie is just courtesy.
“How about, you pick the genre, and I’ll pick the film?” He suggests.
Sweater weather, apple crisp wafting through the air, and autumn vibes. There’s really only one kind of movie suited for tonight.
“Romcom. Preferably set during fall or winter. Even better if it released before 2010.”
“Got it.”
Locke leans back into the couch and starts clicking away. I have a specific film in mind. There’s a chance he’s never seen it before. But in the depths of my chest, I have confidence he’ll end up choosing it anyways.
I busy myself with finishing the cookie mix and trying not to stare at my roommate. In the forty-eight hours since our night at the board game café, I must have replayed every interaction a million times.
Liliana made herself extremely clear when we sneaked off into the bathroom: She has no doubt there’s something between me and Locke. How we interacted with each other, according to her view from the other side of the table, was too close to be platonic. Too charged.
My face burned the most when she revealed that, when we thought no one was looking, we kept sneaking glances at each other. I thought I was sly.
Liliana also told me that despite her time with Locke being limited, she thought she knew him and his character. But with me, he felt different. Acted different, in the best way.
It felt good to hear the excited tone of her voice. She’s one of the most important people in my life. If she had an issue with the so-called un-platonic energy between me and her boyfriend’s brother, I would accept it. The thought makes my chest want to collapse, but for her, I would do it.
It was the exact opposite, though. Lil cheered when I admitted Locke’s kindness scares me, because he never expects anything in return. It makes my heart swell in a way I’ve never experienced. I’m not used to it—or how my breath picks up whenever he moves in a little too close.
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 of us becomes 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.”