Roommates (Soulmates #1) (5 page)

Chapter 8: Ethan

Just
her presence in the city was driving me crazy.

When
she was back in Ohio, it was easy to tell myself there were no feelings there,
that even if there were, she was happy sipping overpriced cappuccinos with a
bunch of men in black turtlenecks, offering encouragement in their latest
attempts at method acting.

But
she hadn’t become the weirdo I’d hoped.

On
the contrary, she was even sweeter and more beautiful than she was the day I
met her.

It
was the first week of my sophomore year of high school. I remember getting on
the bus and making eye contact with her. And she scooted over.

I
don’t know if she wanted me to sit with her or if she was just being polite,
but she obviously didn’t know that I had a seat at the back that my friends
made it their business to protect.

I
never said anything to her about it, never acknowledged the gesture. Instead, I
just made my way to my seat and spent the rest of the week wondering what it
would’ve been like if I’d sat next to the girl with the freckles and the partially
eaten candy necklace.

In
my mind, she smelled like candy, but I never got close enough to know for sure.

I
had other chances, too, moments when I could’ve gotten to know her. But I
chickened out every time. She was too strange, too disinterested in fitting in.

And
that was suspect, especially in the small minded place we grew up.

Forging
any kind of bond with her could’ve been social suicide.

For
both of us, as many of my so called friends back then could be terribly cruel.
And I knew it. But as a teenager, you don’t get to pick your friends. You might
get to pick one or two if you’re lucky, but everyone else comes with the
territory and you make do.

So
I kept my distance, convincing myself that it was the best thing I could do to
protect her- like a scientist who discovers a rare bird in the rainforest and
decides not to tell anyone so no harm will come to it.

And
then our parents got married and protecting her became my job officially. It
was a job she never realized was mine, though it was one I took very seriously.

But
she still had that aloof naivety about her. Somehow she hadn’t lost it, which
was crazy.

I
thought college could’ve beat that willingness to trust people out of anyone.
But not her.

Cause
she was different.

And
here I was again kicking myself for not realizing it when I might’ve actually
been able to do something about it.

Like
kiss her. Just once.

Cause
I’d had years to think about the situation, and as far as I could tell, there
were two options.

Either
I only thought I wanted her cause I couldn’t have her, or I was genuinely
attracted to her soft features and her quirky personality.

Over
the years, I’d picked up tons of women who were easy on the eyes, and I could always
tell as soon as I kissed them if there was anything there, if they were worth
the trouble. And frankly, if I thought I could get Jenny out of my system with
a simple kiss, I probably would’ve made a move a long time ago.

In
fact, it probably would’ve been the best fucking thing to ever happen to me because
then I wouldn’t have had to deal with the heavy, unrequited chemistry that
stuck like a thorn in my side from the moment my dad told me he was going to
marry her mom.

Sure,
my confusing crush on her was only part of why I was horrified at his news. If
anything, the disgust I had for my dad was the overwhelming emotion that came
over me at the time, clogging my throat like black tar.

I
remember it like it was yesterday. He told me in the car.

We
used to do this thing on Sunday mornings where we’d go for pancakes and then drop
flowers off at my mom’s grave.

I
hated everything about it… and not just because it was one more thing my dad
made me do that I didn’t want to do.

I
didn’t even like pancakes. What’s more, knowing I was about to go visit my
mom’s grave didn’t exactly do wonders for my appetite.

Of
course, he and I never had much in common. In fact, he was genuinely ashamed of
some of the things I liked to do- namely drawing- whereas my mom always
encouraged me and made a big fuss about the pictures I made for her growing up.

After
she died, he took all my pictures down and would flip out if he caught me
sketching. He’d say “Who are you fucking drawing those pictures for?! Your
mom’s dead. What are you stupid?”

It
was pretty shit. And yeah, I understood that he was hurting, but I was hurting,
too.

Anyway,
we were on the way home from one of our Sunday visits to her grave. We gave her
daisies that day. My dad let me pick them out. I was so happy that I remembered
what she thought about them, especially since I was terrified of forgetting
things about her.

I
still am.

I
was helping her hang sheets to dry in the backyard. We had a dryer, but when
the weather was nice, she liked the sheets to smell of fresh air. That was the
day she told me she liked daisies because admiring them was the closest she
could get to staring at the sun.

I
didn’t understand why a person would want to stare at the sun, but like any
kid, my mind ran away with the idea.

After
that, I used to bring her yellow daisies whenever I could find them. Not only
because I knew she liked them, but because I was worried that if she didn’t
have some, she might be tempted to look at the sun instead.

Then
she might go blind, and if that happened, she wouldn’t be able to see my
drawings anymore.

The
point is, we were driving back from the graveyard when my dad told me he was
going to marry Jen’s mom.

I
lost it.

After
all, it had only been a year since my mom’s accident. How my dad could even
suggest that he had feelings for another woman was beyond my comprehension…
along with how he could’ve possibly gotten another woman to fall for him. The
fact that he ever wooed my mom seemed miraculous enough.

I
told him right then and there that if he got remarried, I would never forgive
him.

And
I did a good job keeping my promise for a long time.

But
as I got older, I started to understand that my dad was one of those men who
was better off with a woman.

It
softened him.

Not
much, but enough to make a difference.

And
as hard a pill as it was for me to swallow that he was ready to move on with
his life, it beat those sad fucking pancakes.

Chapter 9: Jenny

Initially, I was over the moon. In fact, I can’t be sure, but I
might’ve skipped all the way home. That is, if my feet even touched the ground.

I couldn’t recall any hostility on my way back to Ethan’s,
couldn’t recall getting honked at.

Sure, one guy flipped me the bird, but I flipped it right back
with a big smile on my face so he’d know that his attempt to drag me down had
been fruitless.

After all, the part of Marilyn was one of the only speaking
female roles in the show. It was a big enough role that the program would have
my headshot in it next to a little bio about me that described the show as my
“debut.”

To say the prospect of that excited me was a huge
understatement.

Of course, that all changed when I started rereading Marilyn’s
lines. Not that the lines put me off. Rather, it was the stage direction,
namely the stage direction in Act One, Scene 7 when she’s supposed to kiss Brian
Wilson for the first time.

My heart sank in my chest as I pulled my feet up onto the couch.

What if I had to do the kissing scene in the audition itself?

I mean, it was one thing to get lines right when they were my
responsibility, but a kiss was a totally different animal. It involved another
person, and not only could another person’s awkwardness ruin my audition, but
what if they had a cold sore or something?

Could I point it out?

That probably wouldn’t be professional, but I didn’t really want
to be the kind of person that had to suck on cold sores to get work.

I guess it was a matter of how far I was willing to go to get
the role.

Logically, I knew I’d probably have to kiss someone in my career
eventually. I just didn’t think it would be so soon.

And when the time came, I’d hoped it would at least be someone
gorgeous… like one of the Hemsworth brothers or someone hilarious like Paul
Rudd, preferably in a tragic romantic comedy that would really showcase my
range.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t sure my range extended to acting like I
wanted to kiss someone I wasn’t attracted to.

I guess I’d just have to picture someone I was attracted to and
hope my costar had the decency to keep some mints on hand.

I sighed and reread the stage directions.

It was supposed to be a passionate kiss, a kiss so convincing
the audience wouldn’t be surprised to discover the characters were married in
the very next scene.

Shit.

I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples, trying to recall if I’d
enjoyed any kisses that might inform my performance.

There was Jimmy Watts on Prom Night.

Of course, he ended up moving to Vegas to be a showgirl- or so I
heard enough times that it must be true. And that was a shame really because he
was one of the only guys at my high school who I didn’t find repulsive… and who
actually knew my name.

Then there was Tim Tomlinson freshman year of college, but he
was so busy groping my boobs like an animal I hardly remember if his mouth had
done anything interesting.

If there was anyone I might’ve practiced with more, it might’ve
been him, but when I wouldn’t sleep with him the third time we hung out, he
told me I was “a self-impressed prude that wasn’t good enough to suck his cock,
much less sit on it.”

I liked to think I dodged a bullet there.

Then there was my T.A. in Foreign Relations who told me that-
while he really enjoyed my company and would be happy to take our relationship
to a physical level if it was important to me- he identified as asexual.

Needless to say, that didn’t exactly make me want to get naked
and jump his bones.

After that, I wouldn’t say I lost hope or anything. I just sort
of threw myself into areas where I’d had significantly more success- like
acting, fundraising, and my studies.

And to be honest, I never really had any fear of missing out
because I knew exactly what I was missing out on from having roommates, and I
was fine with it.

In fact, never once did I have a roommate describe a one night
stand without disdain, regret, disappointment, or distinctly boozy morning
after breath.

And it was just as well that sexual adventures weren’t something
I was in a hurry to have because most of my male friends were gay, and nothing destroyed
the prospect of sex with straight men like being surrounded by gay ones.

In my experience anyway.

So perhaps the truth of it was that I was less worried about
kissing a stranger in the audition than I was about being found out for my
total lack of experience. 

But how hard could it be?

Assuming the guy playing Brian and I both had normal lips,
decent breath, and didn’t try anything unconventional with our tongues- like
Jimmy the Showgirl did- then it would probably be fine.

Still, the prospect of losing a part for being a bad kisser was
a potential career obstacle that had never occurred to me before.

Worst of all, there was no one I could talk to about it.

Brandi would only make a joke out of it. I could practically
hear her telling me to go get my tongue pierced and not be afraid to use my
teeth.

My mom had no idea how inexperienced I was. In fact, she was so
concerned that my stepdad’s strictness stifled my willingness to be open with
her that she’d hidden packs of birth control pills in my room at college every
time she visited.

And my friends at school all thought I had a long distance
boyfriend because that’s what I told them so they would leave me alone.

So it looked like I’d finally stumbled upon my acting
kryptonite.

Crying I could do. I had loads of experience with that. However,
swapping crying for kissing would probably do the opposite of impress the
director.

Screaming, dancing, singing, laughing, and seizuring were some
of the other things I was confident doing on cue.

But kissing, well, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little
panicked.

After all, having my picture in that program next to my bio was
as close as I was going to get anytime soon to seeing my name in lights.

So I either had to spend the rest of the day watching kissing
montages, which seemed unnecessary considering how many times I’d seen The Notebook.

Or I had to practice, and I was a little too old to make out
with my own hand.

I rolled onto my side on the couch, figuring the best I could do
was get really attached to the idea of kissing someone specific so that when
the time came, at least my acting- if not my kissing- would be convincing.

A moment later, I heard the key in the door.

And when I looked up, the first person I ever wanted to kiss
walked through it.