Chapter 2
I don’t know what I was expecting when I decided to come here.
Maybe an apartment complex with thin walls and dirty carpet, full of college students. Not an actual house on a normal street with a concrete path leading up to the front door and a plant on the porch that someone clearly takes the time to water.
I check the address.
Numbers match the ones on the mailbox.
This has to be it.
I don’t knock right away, Ryan’s warning replaying over in my head. Master’s program, so older. Throws parties. Sleeps with anyone.
So he’s probably normal. Probably won’t ignore me if I talk to him. Probably won’t feel the need to steal my notebooks or my hoodies for reasons I don’t want to think about.
The parties aren’t a deal breaker. I can stay in my room.
It’ll be fine.
There’s a stretch of silence after I knock, long enough that I begin to question again if I got the right address. Anxiety sits under my skin, threatening to bubble up over the surface. I clench my fists at my side out of habit, but unclench them when my left hand sends a shooting pain up my wrist.
And then the door swings open.
I completely forget what I came here for.
What’s my name again?
Mike Pierce is not what I expected, and looking back, that was my first mistake.
He’s not wearing a shirt. The single article of clothing on his body is a pair of thin black pajama pants that hang way too low on his hips. He’s all pale skin and lean muscle, and his hair is long and black, obviously dyed, messy in a way that suggests he just woke up.
And his eyes. When his eyes meet mine, they are so blue.
Not blue like mine, average, nothing to write home about. A pale, crystal blue I could stare at forever and never get tired of—
I think I’m gonna be sick.
“Hey,” he says, his voice still scratchy with sleep. He leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed and looks up at me. Actually up. Because he’s not very tall, and that’s the only thing making me feel slightly okay right now.
No danger here, only the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen in my life, looking up at me expectantly.
In thin pajama pants.
And blue eyes.
“You must be the roommate guy. I’m Mike.”
“Alex,” I force out with a nod.
He steps back from the door, pulling it open wider. “Well, come on in.”
The inside of the house looks like there was a party. And then a tornado. And maybe another party after it.
But there’s a flat screen TV across from a couch that has seen better days, an Xbox on the floor beneath it with controllers scattered around.
Beer cans crowd the coffee table, some half full, most empty.
And there’s a half-eaten bag of chips on the floor next to the couch, chips falling out into the carpet.
I have a feeling nobody’s going to do anything about that today.
And then there’s the guitars.
They’re everywhere. Leaning against the wall by the closet, propped up in the corner behind the TV, a case open on the floor. An acoustic laying across the couch. Nice guitars.
I avert my eyes.
“Sorry about the mess,” Mike says, even though he doesn’t sound particularly sorry, lighting a joint that appears out of nowhere before gesturing at the room. “Had a little get together last night.”
He takes a drag, exhaling toward the ceiling, not a window open in sight.
“Slept through my alarm this morning.” He pauses, tilting his head, pursing those perfect pink lips. “Or forgot to set one. I’m not totally sure, now that I think about it.”
I nod, my tongue heavy against the roof of my mouth.
“Either way.” He waves a hand. “It’s usually cleaner than this. Not clean, but don’t let the mess dissuade you. Oh! You want something to drink? I think I have soda.”
He’s already moving toward the kitchen without waiting for an answer, and I follow him because I don’t know what else to do.
He talks the entire time. Tells me about his old roommate Joel, who moved out last month when he got engaged, and the get together, and how the dishwasher makes a scary noise but it still works, and do I go to Jeff’s bar because he thinks he’s seen me somewhere, and what’s my major.
I register some of it, for sure.
But most of my processing power is still busy with the fact that he’s not wearing a shirt and he has little stars tattooed on his hips, and I’m in a kitchen with him and the kitchen is not very big and—
“Still undeclared,” I say, the answer to the last question. I think.
He nods. “Well, that’s okay. You’re still young, aren’t you?”
I shrug, suddenly embarrassed about that fact for an unknown reason. “I guess.”
“I’m doing my master’s in music theory,” he continues, pulling open the fridge. “Which, yeah, I know. But it’s what I like, so.” He lifts one pale shoulder, his hair bouncing with the movement.
“There’s no soda, actually. Sorry. Want a beer?”
“Um. No. I’m fine.”
“Okay, suit yourself.” He lets the fridge close and turns around, leaning back against the counter, joint still between his fingers, studying me like he’s trying to figure something out.
I wait, fighting the urge to shrink.
“You seem normal,” he says finally.
“Oh. Um. Thanks.”
“That’s a compliment, by the way. The last three people who came to see the room were not normal.”
He doesn’t elaborate.
“You got a job?” He asks, but doesn’t stop talking long enough to let me answer, and that oddly makes my heart flutter—
“I bartend at Jeff’s. It’s good money. Rent’s not a big problem for me. Pay what you can. But I need someone reliable, you know? Joel was reliable. He was also boring as hell, but that’s fine, boring is fine.”
He takes another drag before looking me directly in the eye. “You’re not boring, are you?”
I think about my life.
Boring would be an overstatement.
“Honestly?” I say. “Kind of.”
My cheeks go warm the second it’s out of my mouth. Great job, Alex. Very cool thing to admit.
But Mike surprises me when he laughs, throwing his head back, giving me a view of his perfect neck— “Honest. I like that.” He pushes away from the counter, stubbing his joint out in an ashtray sitting on the windowsill. “Come see the room.”
He heads for the stairs, and I follow, fixing my eyes to the back of his head on the way up. His hair. The way it hits his shoulders. Anything to avoid looking at his ass in those pants.
I don’t do that anymore.
The second floor is nice.
Mostly unfurnished, with only three rooms. A bathroom, a closed door, I’m assuming is Mike’s room, and another door that he opens and strolls into.
The room is clean, surprising me after the downstairs situation. White walls, a mattress, afternoon light coming through a window. Good-sized closet. Actual room to move around in.
Double the size of the dorm I share now.
It’s damn near peaceful after what I’ve been living in.
“Bed frame’s all yours. I’d probably get your own mattress, though,” Mike says, scrunching up his nose.
“Why?”
“Joel and his girlfriend were, uh.” He tilts his head, searching for the word, chuckling in a way that I do not find endearing. “Very in love.”
I force a laugh because that’s what a normal person does when their potential roommate says something like that. They laugh, and makes a face, and move on.
I am a normal person.
The topic doesn’t remind me of anything. Definitely not an old truck parked somewhere dark. Of going along with things because I thought it was the only way I would ever be loved.
“Noted. I’ll get my own mattress.”
“So, you want it?”
Do I want it?
I look at the room. The window with a view of something that isn’t the building beside it. The actual closet. The bare walls that I could put anything on. A door I could close. A space that would be entirely mine.
But then I look at Mike.
He’s leaning against the hallway wall now.
Half out of it from either the joint or just waking up, completely unbothered by his own existence.
Eyeliner is smudged under his eyes like he wore it last night and didn’t bother to wash it off.
He’s in a band. He’s comfortable in himself. In his sexuality, from what Ryan said.
He’s just—
He’s a lot.
And if I accept the room, he comes with it.
I think about my roommate. The silence. The missing stuff. The way I can’t take a full breath in my own room anymore, and my grades, beginning to suffer because of it.
The unanswered emails.
But I still don’t know if this is worth it.
“Actually,” I say, hoping it comes out casual. “Is it okay if I sleep on it?”
Something flickers across Mike’s face as he looks me up and down in a way that feels like he’s seeing every part of me. “Yeah. Sure.”
I nod, already moving toward the stairs. “Cool. I’ll text you.”
I probably won’t.
The dorm is empty when I get back, for once.
I drop my bag on the bed and stand in the middle of the room for a second, doing the thing I always do. Laptop. Chargers. Notebooks. Money.
All there.
See? I don’t need to move. Everything is fine here. My roommate’s a quiet guy who keeps to himself, and I’ve been building a conspiracy out of nothing because that’s what my brain does. I need to relax.
I grab my laundry basket off the floor, determined to get something done today, and I’m almost out the door when I notice something is wrong.
Shirt, jeans, socks, sweats, more socks. I go through it, and then I go through it again because I know what I’m looking for.
What’s missing.
My Spider-Man boxers are gone.
Nate got them for me for Christmas, a whole pack of superhero boxers. And I acted mad, even though we both know I secretly loved them. I put them in the dirty clothes after the gym. I know I did.
And they’re not there.
I sit on the edge of my bed, and I stare at the wall. He took my underwear. That’s not a pencil. That’s not picking up the wrong notebook. That’s going through my dirty laundry and taking something that touched my body.
Lying back, I stare up at the ceiling, trying to breathe the way my therapist showed me, the one Nate made me see for an entire year after what happened.
It doesn’t work this time.
I pick up my phone, the screen blurry from the steady stream of tears that have been falling since I sat down, and open Mike’s text thread.
Alex: I’ll take the room.
Three seconds after I set my phone down on my chest, it buzzes.
Mike: Yay!
That makes me laugh, even with everything going on. Just once, a short, surprised bubble of laughter than I don’t expect.
Eventually, I manage to fall asleep, my phone cradled tight against my chest.