Soldier On (9 page)

“You’re an idiot.”

Leave it to my best friend to confirm my worst fears. We’re spending the afternoon on Tessa’s bedroom floor, wrapping her breakables in bubble wrap and trying not to think about the fact that this weekend is the last we’ll spend together under the same roof.

“He drives me crazy, Tessa.”

“And this is a bad thing?”

“It’s a bad thing when I need to—”

“If you say ‘keep my focus’ I swear I’ll scream.”

I snap my mouth closed.

“Steph, you’ve spent your entire college career focused on one thing and one thing only—graduating with honors. You don’t socialize. You don’t party. You never date. You don’t do anything fun or adventurous. And that’s fine if it makes you happy. But I can’t help but wonder if you’re going to graduate and not really know yourself at all. We are supposed to use these years to be creative, to be daring, and you’ve spent four years with your nose stuck in a book.”

“And your idea of being daring is for me to live with a guy I barely know?”

Tessa smirks.

“Okay. For a moment, let’s pretend that’s the issue here. What’s the difference in living with Brandon and living with a complete stranger you met on the internet?”

I stare down at my fingers. Tessa knows me better than anyone, and she’s always willing to call me on my bullshit excuses.

“There’s no difference.”

“Exactly. Inviting him to live here is actually the perfect solution. You know him. You like him. He’s a nice guy. I know I’ll feel better about moving out if I know he’s your roommate, and I bet your mom will feel the same way. I mean, have you seen his biceps? He could do some serious damage to anyone who tried to hurt you.”

I laugh. “Sure, let’s ask my mom how she feels about me moving in with my muscular boyfriend.”

Tessa pops one of the bubbles on the wrap, making me jump.

“Boyfriend?”

“Figuratively speaking,” I mumble.

She laughs gently and places the last of her picture frames into the cardboard box. With a sigh, she turns toward me and reaches for my hand.

“Do you know what I think? I think you’re afraid. You’re afraid of the way he makes you feel, and if you’re forced to live with him, you’ll have to face it head-on. Do I think you should share a bedroom? Of course not. This is new. Boundaries should be set. Rules should be established. And then
you
can decide when and if you want to break them. And then you must call me immediately after because I will want
all
of the details.”

We laugh and get back to work. By the end of the afternoon, the only thing that remains is the small dresser and bed—a gift for the new roommate. A lump forms in my throat as I look around at the bare bedroom walls.

I’m not sure what I was expecting when she announced she was moving, but I don’t think I imagined it happening so soon.

The two of us spend the rest of the day on the couch with the remote and an 80s movie marathon. As soon as Kevin Bacon stops dancing at the end of
Footloose
, she heads to the kitchen to start dinner.

Our last supper. In this apartment, anyway.

It’s bittersweet, for sure. Tessa and I have been joined at the hip since our freshman year in the dorms. Even when Xavier came into the picture, nothing really changed. I know, deep down, that she and I will always be best friends, but I think we both realize that things are going to be very different from now on.

Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

While Tessa thinks college is supposed to be daring and fun, I’ve always believed these years are about growing up and finding your place in the world. Tessa’s place is with Xavier . . . in their kitchen, and in their apartment.

My place is here, for now.

For dinner, she breaks out her grandmother’s cookbook to make Red Chile Chicken Enchiladas. Together, we bake peanut butter cookies, which are two dishes that normally wouldn’t go together, but she is determined to make all my favorites, one last time.

“I’m a terrible best friend,” she says over dinner.

“Why would you say that?”

“You’re going to starve when I’m gone.”

I laugh and take the last bite of my enchilada. “Yes, you should be completely ashamed of yourself. Whatever will I do?”

Her face brightens. “I could leave you my
Abuela’s
cookbook! You could practice cooking for Brandon—”

“No, Tessa.”

“I’m just saying.”

We eat, laugh, and talk until the wee hours of the morning, and when it’s finally time to sleep, we hug as if our lives depend on it.

I manage not to cry until I reach the sanctuary of my room.

Hours pass. I try to sleep, but it’s useless. My mind is spinning with doubts, and a little nagging voice keeps telling me I’m an idiot.

Tomorrow night, it’ll just be me and Bangle in our little apartment.

In the quiet darkness of my bedroom, the reality of that hits me hard, to the point I’m half-tempted to call my mom. But it’s far too late—or early—depending on your perspective.

I’ll call her tomorrow, when I can actually carry on a conversation without crying.

What are you so afraid of?

The question echoes in my head, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t come up with an answer. Maybe Tessa’s right. Could I really be so afraid of my feelings for Brandon that I don’t trust us to share an apartment? Will having him this close be too much—for both of us?

Desperate for a sign, I climb out of bed and reach for my laptop. Bangle joins me back under the covers as I log on to Peyton Central.

No new messages.

With a disgusted sigh, I place the computer back on the floor.

I close my eyes, begging for sleep to take me. I’ve nearly drifted off when my phone vibrates on the nightstand. I reach for it, and the message on the screen makes my heart skip a beat.

Brandon has actually typed out the lyrics to “In Your Room” by The Bangles, which is both amazingly awesome and disturbingly appropriate.

And now, I’m wide awake again.

Still, it isn’t until the Indiana dawn begins to peek through my window that I finally find the courage to send him a reply.

Excellent song choice.

Did I wake you?

No. Can’t sleep.

I’m getting ready to go for a run. Want to join me?

Not on your life.

He replies with a smiley emoticon. I take a deep breath, and my fingers tremble as I type out what could quite possibly be the most important text of my life.

Move in with me?

It takes more than an hour to get a reply, but it’s well worth the wait. With three little words, Brandon gives me the only sign I need.

As you wish.

“Who can tell me some of the underlying themes in our excerpt from
Silence of the Lambs
?”

Today’s class has been torture. Not because I didn’t do my homework or because I’m unprepared to answer the professor’s questions about theme and symbolism. It’s torture because of the cute guy sitting next to me. The same guy who hasn’t stopped touching me since class began.

My new roommate.

He’s subtle about it. A simple brush of his fingers against mine. A gentle massage along the nape of my neck. Sweet, innocent touches that make it impossible to concentrate on anything except the fact that his hands are on me.

When did I become such a girl?

I look over to find his eyes fixed on the professor, but the little smirk on his face assures me that he knows exactly what he’s doing.

After another hour of torturous touches, the professor assigns next week’s reading assignment and dismisses the class. We practically bolt out the door.

“Follow me.”

I nod, and Brandon takes my hand. I don’t even ask where we’re going. We head down the hallway and through a corridor that leads to more classrooms—all of which seem to be empty. He quickly pulls me into one of the dim rooms and kicks the door closed behind us before leading me to the teacher’s desk. Lifting me up, he gently places me on top and steps between my legs. We’re laughing until he lowers his head, trailing his lips down my neck and along my jaw. I groan, which makes him do the same.

We kiss until we’re breathless.

“What’s this?” Brandon whispers, and I feel his fingers trail along the chain around my neck. Reaching down into my shirt, I pull out my dad’s silver tags.

“I’ve never noticed these before.”

“I don’t wear them all the time.”

He carefully examines the inscription. “William James.”

“Mom called him Billy. Besides some old pictures and a framed flag, it’s really the only connection I have to my dad. I like to wear it when I’m stressed out or worried. It . . . makes me feel better.”

Brandon smiles and runs his fingers along the silver metal before slipping the chain down my shirt, letting it fall back into place.

“I’m impressed. You didn’t even sneak a peek.”

“Thought about it. It just didn’t seem appropriate.” He grins and laces his fingers with mine. “Since you’re wearing the tags today, I’m assuming you’re worried, and I bet it has something to do with our living arrangement.”

I sigh deeply. “A little, yes.”

“Why?”

I decide to prove my point.

“What’s our reading assignment for next week in Women’s Lit?”

His blank stare is my answer.

“See! I don’t know, either. We literally just left class, and I can’t remember one thing the teacher said because your hands were very, very distracting.
You
are very, very distracting.”

Brandon leans down and kisses just below my ear.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

“No, you’re not.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’m not sorry, either.”

He chuckles and helps me down. Taking my hand, he leads me out of the building and into the chilly afternoon. About three inches of snow is on the ground, but thankfully, the sidewalks are clear.

“We can make this work,” Brandon says as we walk. “I know we can. We just have to set some boundaries, that’s all.”

“That’s what Tessa said, too.”

“She’s right.” He looks down at his watch. “She’s moving her stuff this afternoon?”

“Yeah, Xavier and some guys from the team were loading her boxes as I left for class.”

He nods. “I should probably start packing, too. I don’t have much. It’ll probably take just a few boxes.”

“And you don’t need a dresser or bed. Tessa left hers.”

“Sweet. What size bed?”

“It’s a queen, I think. That okay?”

Brandon laughs. “I’ve been sleeping on a twin, so anything is better than that.”

It’s become a habit, him walking me to my apartment.
Our
apartment, now, I guess. So I’m not surprised when we find ourselves standing in front of it.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks as we step inside.

“Thinking it’s sort of scary how I just blindly follow you anywhere.”

A thoughtful expression crosses his face, and he steps closer, taking my hands in his.

“I’m glad you trust me enough to do that,” he says, his voice soft and deep. “I can’t lie, though. This is new territory for me, and I could really mess it up. But I care a lot about you, and I can’t promise I’ll make the most rational decisions, so when it comes to us—not as roommates, but as
us
, I’m following your lead.”

There’s no need to read between the lines. He’s telling me, right here in the entryway of my apartment—of
our
apartment—that when it comes to our relationship, I’m calling the shots.