2. In Which Aiden Lays Down the Rules #2
Maybe if there weren’t such a teacher shortage here, they wouldn’t have made me teach along with my job as a guidance counselor—but there is, and they did.
So now I teach three hours of college prep literature every day to a bunch of kids who couldn’t care less, listening to them hate on the books I love.
Stories have always been sacred to me, and the classics most of all.
I’d rather just stick to my job as a counselor.
Helping these kids figure things out is what I signed up for; high school is such a vulnerable time.
Of course, more often than not what I end up doing is telling them what extracurriculars will help them get into college, but still. At least I’m doing something .
I pull into Grind and Brew with exactly one minute to spare, next to a crookedly parked yellow Volkswagen that looks like it will fall apart if I stare at it for too long.
I’m going to assume that’s the car that belongs to my new roommate.
The universe seems to be heading in an unfortunate direction today; it would just make sense that this clunker is going to be my garage companion for the foreseeable future.
I just stand there for a second after I get out of my car, staring at the Volkswagen.
There are a few layers of duct tape surrounding the handle of the passenger door, and several cracks have spidered their way across the windshield.
I shake my head and start walking, though I give the front tire a little nudge with my foot as I pass by, just to see what happens.
The bumper falls off.? *
“Crap.” I jump at the sound of plastic hitting pavement, unreasonably startled considering I was the one who made it happen.
Right? Was that my fault?
I round the car, frowning down at the front bumper and trying to ignore the brisk wind that has me regretting my lack of jacket.
As of now I am officially late, but I can’t just leave things like this.
Especially since this car might belong to my new roommate.
Stupid name aside—who names their kid after a tree?
—it will benefit all parties involved to maintain a positive relationship.
So I kneel down, picking up the bumper and examining it.
I’m not an automotive expert, but it’s hard to imagine this hunk of plastic staying on this car without some serious help. I guess if I can fit it in place?—
“Did you break my car?”
I freeze in place at the sound of a woman’s voice coming from behind me. My current position couldn’t look more suspicious.
“I think I might have,” I say, not moving. My head is pounding now, but I make myself go on. “I nudged your tire with my foot and the whole bumper just—” But I break off when the woman behind me starts to laugh.
“I’m just kidding,” she says, her voice full of amusement. “It falls off all the time. I have some super glue in my trunk.” Then she laughs again.
A strange feeling washes over me at that sound, almost like déjà vu. Her laugh is warm. Husky.
And somehow…familiar.
I let the bumper fall out of my hands and back to the ground. I couldn’t describe the feeling that comes over me then even if I tried—a surreal sense of anticipation, an almost dreamlike inevitability that sends chills up and down my spine.
I stand up slowly. And I know, without knowing how I know, that when I turn around, everything is going to change.
I turn around anyway.
Her pink hair is the first thing I notice—cut short, falling a few inches below her chin.
It wasn’t pink the last time I saw her.
The next thing that registers is her clothing—short, black combat boots; jeans with holes in the knees, not the artistic kind; and an oversized, shapeless yellow sweater that shouldn’t hang from her frame as well as it does.
It’s a mix of conscious and subconscious, the way I look at everything but her face.
I take in the chipped black nails, the silver thumb ring.
But I finally run out of options, and it’s getting weird, the way we’re standing here staring at each other.
So I drag my gaze up her body until I reach the pink lips, the pert nose, and finally her wide, expressive eyes.
“You,” I say to Juniper Bean.
“You,” she echoes faintly. And then, slowly, she smiles.
I do not smile.
The first time I laid eyes on Juniper Bean, I knew exactly what kind of woman she would grow up to be.
I tutored Juniper as part of my pedagogy class that I took while getting my undergrad in social work.
I was sent to the high school to tutor an underprivileged student who was struggling, and that student ended up being a seventeen-year-old girl with scuffed boots propped on the table in the Grove High library.
Her head was bobbing along to the beat of whatever music was playing through her headphones.
As I rounded the table and looked down at her, she turned and looked at me too.
For a brief moment she seemed startled, but then she smiled at me.
It was friendly, cheerful, but also tinged with mischief.
She didn’t even take off her headphones; she just leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest and watching me, smiling the whole time.
That smile made me nervous. And over the next four months, as I continued to tutor her in English, I learned that that was the kind of girl Juniper was: the kind of girl whose smile made you nervous, because you never knew what it meant.
That much, at least, hasn’t changed. The way she’s smiling at me now, here in front of Grind and Brew some twelve or thirteen years later, still has nerves stirring in my chest as I try to figure out what’s going on.
Is she the new tenant? Am I going to be living with her? Does she really super glue her bumper on?
“Aiden Milano,” she says, her smile growing. “It’s been a while. Last time I saw you…” But she breaks off, her cheeks turning pink as her smile fades.
Yeah. Last time she saw me, she tried to kiss me—her tutor —and I rejected her with a fury.
We don’t need to relive that. So I just nod stiffly at her. “Juniper,” I say by way of greeting. Then I sigh. “What are you doing here?”
She tilts her head and steps closer to me. “I’m meeting someone.”
All right—that doesn’t necessarily mean she’s meeting me. There might be another woman here with pink hair and a yellow car and a tree name. Juniper might be here on a date. Or maybe she’s getting together with a friend. There’s no need to jump to conclusions when I don’t have all the facts?—
“My new roommate,” she says, and what tiny little hope I had left dies swiftly.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “This isn’t going to work.”
“Oh, is it you?” she says. She looks delighted; her smile stretches across her face once more, her blue eyes sparkling.
“No,” I say again. “I can’t live in the same house as you.” For so many reasons, but two in particular stand out above all the rest.
“Oh, sure you can,” she says, waving one hand. “I don’t bite. In fact…” She takes yet another step toward me; her smile tu rns wicked. “Is this fate? Do you think this is my second chance to win you over?”
Aaand she went there—reason number one why we can’t live together.Because there was a time, back when she was still just a kid, that she had feelings for me.
“Absolutely not,” I say. “No.”
“Hmm,” she says. “You had that answer all ready to go. Are you sure? I bet we’d be cute together. You’re positive you don’t want to date me?”
“I’m positive,” I say dryly, sitting on the hood of her car.
“Because you’re missing a real opportunity here,” she goes on as though I haven’t spoken. “Our couple name would be Aidiper.”
“Why Aidiper?” I say, cocking one brow at her. “Why not Junipaide?”
“Because Junipaide sounds like the kind of all-purpose cleaning solution they use in nursing homes.” Her answer is immediate and matter-of-fact, like she’s given this a lot of thought already. “Do you want our legacy to sound like a cleaning solution, Aiden?”
I sigh. I’m almost positive she’s teasing right now, based on the mischievous smile and the laughing eyes.
But my head is pounding at previously undiscovered levels of pain, and I’m very certain this woman is the cause.
In fact, I would bet that something deep in my bones could sense her presence in town before I even knew she was here, and that’s why this headache has been brewing like a storm.
Yes. That sounds scientifically plausible.
“We can’t live together,” I say, trying to be patient. “I was your tutor, Juniper.”
She snorts. “That was years ago, and it doesn’t mean anything. More to the point,” she goes on, narrowing her eyes, “I already signed the contract. The landlady?—”
“My sister.”
“Oh, your sister? Well, she was very nice,” she says with a shrug.
“I told her I didn’t care if the current tenant was male or female just as long as he or she wasn’t psycho or anything.
Hey, get off my car,” she adds suddenly, gesturing to where I’m half sitting, half leaning against the hood of her VW Beetle. “You’re going to break it again.”
I stand up slowly, turning and looking down at the ground where the bumper still lies on the pavement. “So this is the piece of junk you trust on the highway, huh?” I say, looking it over again.
Juniper rolls her eyes and puts her hands on her hips. “Might want to get off that high horse before you fall and break something.”
“I think my high horse might be the safer option,” I say, still eyeing the car skeptically.
“Could you reliably live out of your high horse for the better part of a week?” she says, pointing to the back of her car. I walk around the passenger side and lean down, cupping my hand over my eyes and peering into the backseat.
Sure enough, it has all the signs of having been a temporary home—a pillow, a freezer bag of toiletries, a neatly folded blanket.
Good grief. She’s been living out of her car. How am I supposed to tell her no? She must have had to cram herself in that little space. Besides, as much as I don’t like it, she’s right; she already signed the contract.
I rub my chest against the twinge of guilt I feel, memories plucking at the emotion like the strings of a guitar. There’s another reason I don’t want to live with this woman, but it looks like that’s a moot point now. My breath whooshes out of me as I sigh.
“All right,” I say. “Let’s go, I guess. But I have some conditions.”
Juniper nods, standing up straighter and looking suddenly serious. “Shoot.”
Huh. That was easier than I expected.
“Why do you look so surprised?” she says to me, and I start. “I’m not unreasonable. If we’re going to live together, it makes perfect sense that we both lay down and abide by some rules.”
“Rule number one,” I say. “We’re not going to be romantically involved.”
“With anyone, or with each other?” she asks, her lips curving into a little smile.
“Each other,” I say. “But also,” I hurry to add, “any—uh— private activities between you and another party should remain…well, private.”
“Is that code for Don’t make out with someone in the middle of the living room ?”
“Yes,” I say firmly. “Second rule: quiet hours are between ten in the evening and eight in the morning.”
She nods. “Agreed.”
“Third rule?—”
“Should I be writing these down?” she cuts me off. “Or do you already have them somewhere? On the fridge, maybe? Is there a copy of the rules on the fridge?”
“I—no,” I say, rubbing my temples. It feels like someone is gouging my brain out with a dull knife. “You don’t need to write them down.”
“How about this,” she says. She’s watching me with a serious expression on her face, her eyes fixed on where I’m massaging my temples.
“I will do my best to follow the rules of common courtesy and consideration. You will do the same. If we have any questions or problems, we can talk about it calmly. Deal?”
I hesitate for only a moment. “Deal,” I say. I would really prefer to nail down some specifics, but that’s not going to work right now; I need to take some ibuprofen and lie down in a dark room before I can regain functionality.
She nods, her face splitting into a wide grin. “And I’ll just ask you this one last time—you’re positive this isn’t fate?”
“I’m positive.”
She sighs, a theatrical sound that causes a few pieces of hair to fly out of her face. “All right, then. If you insist. Let me get my food, and then you can give me my key.”
* ? I adore Aiden Milano. And to this day, he is one of my characters I know best. He walked into my head fully formed, and from day one, I understood him completely. The only other character this has happened with is Juliet Marigold from my book “All’s Well that Friends Well.”
* ? I cannot describe how hard I laughed writing this. My husband asked if I was okay. It just tickled my weird sense of humor.