And with that, his tall body gets up from the small chair and walks out of the coffee shop, while I’m left staring at his retreating form. My thoughts are all over the place, and I’m unsure which exact part of the last hour to process first.
Why does Aspen look so concerned?
Am I really about to move in with complete strangers?
All these thoughts cross my mind as I type my number into Aspen’s phone. He’s saying words to me, but they aren’t registering.
Finally, I catch a mumbled goodbye from Aspen before he gets up and heads in the direction Maverick just went.
Well, this just got even more interesting.
3
Maverick
“I’ll be there in five minutes,” I tell Selma, hanging up the phone and quickly dodging a person on a bike who almost just trampled me. My tennis shoes scratch against the pavement as I rush toward the fine arts building all the way across campus.
I pass by the message board where just over an hour ago I first met our new roommate—Veronica.
It’s odd to think I was mere seconds away from missing her when I left my last class for the day. She was standing there, staring at the board, and for some reason, that—in combination with her pink floral combat boots—got my attention.
The slightly tense introduction led us to where we are now—me, possibly having a psychopath as a roommate. Judging by her long blonde hair, her know-it-all attitude, and sarcastic quips, something tells me this may have been a mistake. But, we need a roommate.
At least she doesn’t smell.
There is the small matter of Aspen already falling for her just by what she looks like. He’ll learn as quickly as I did that there’s something more behind her pretty face, and I’m not sure it’s exactly pleasant. A small price to pay to have someone chip in on the rent.
I find Selma crying outside the brown brick fine arts building. She’s huddled behind a bush that looks like it’s only days away from completely dying. When I put my hand on the small of her back, she flinches under my touch, a breath of air flying from her lips in a gasp.
Her green eyes connect with mine, and my heart breaks inside me as tears fall down her pale cheeks.
“I didn’t realize it was you,” she says, sniffling. She uses her sweatshirt sleeve to wipe under her eyes, smudging mascara across her cheekbone in the process.
I reach up and gently use the pad of my thumb to wipe it off. When I take in the rest of her body, I notice her other hand is clutching her phone, her already pale fingers turning paler. I gently pry her fingers open and put her phone in my pocket.
“Come here,” I say, pulling her into me as close as possible. I would swallow her whole if it meant I could protect her from the rest of the world.
Her small body molds around mine as she lets out a sob.
My hand gently strokes her short, auburn hair, my fingers tangling through her unruly curls. We’ve been in this same position many times before, and I know there’s nothing I can do for her other than stand here and be her strength.
I’ve been Selma’s rock since we were kids; since her family moved in next door and I witnessed her dad chastise a seven-year-old about the way she was carrying a box. It was a bright sunny Kansas day outside, but her face only reflected darkness—sadness. There aren’t many memories I have of my childhood that don’t include her. For as long as I’ve known Selm, I’ve been her safe place. Her home. Because the actual home she comes from is her own living hell.
“I hate him,” she says against my abdomen. It comes out muffled, and her hot breath against my abs sends shivers down my spine.
“I know, Selm,” I respond. “I do too.”
She’s talking about her sorry excuse of a father. It takes a lot for me to dislike somebody, and I rarely use the word hate, but I hate Tony Matthews with every fiber of my being.
He’s the reason Selma constantly cries, even though I’ve done everything in my power to shift his fury away from her. Since I was a kid, I’ve made it my job to put myself between Selma and her father; and every time I think I’ve succeeded, she somehow still ends up in tears. My armor has taken many blows from him. I was Selma’s knight in shining armor before I even knew what that meant, and I won’t stop being it now.
I continue to play with her hair, clutching her tiny body against mine. We fit together like an odd-shaped puzzle—her petite frame almost too small for my tall one—but somehow, we make it work. That’s the story of us—making it work, despite every obvious thing insisting we shouldn’t.
Finally, her crying subsides, and her heart-shaped face looks up at me. Her green eyes glisten as she whispers, “Take me home?”
“Always,” I respond, bending down to kiss the top of her head. I stay there for a moment, lost in the comfort of her scent. The same scent she’s had since I first kissed her in high school.
We walk in silence at first, both too wrapped up in our own thoughts to create conversation. I have to slow down my steps so her short legs can keep up. Once we’re a few minutes away from our house, I finally get the balls to ask her what happened.
When she doesn’t answer, I run my thumb over her small hand in mine. “Talk to me, Selm.”
She doesn’t respond at first, and I give her the time to work through her thoughts. Just when I think she might not tell me, her soft voice speaks. “He found out I got a B on my comp two paper. He’s pissed.”
I nod, running her words over in my head.
Selma is an only child to a father who runs one of the biggest law firms in the state. His dream was to have a boy who would one day run his company for him. I wouldn’t have wanted to be in the hospital room when he found out the boy he’d been told they were having the whole pregnancy was actually a girl.
He’s resented Selma her whole life. Since the moment she took her first breath, he hated everything about her. Starting with the fact she was a her.
In short, he’s a dick.
Selma’s mother, on the other hand, was the kindest human being I knew—until she changed. As we were growing up, Selma’s mom—Tiffany—radiated kindness. She was constantly in the kitchen, baking anything my five-year-old brain could conjure up and request. She was the icon for local philanthropists. She held charity functions all the time. Selma and I were constantly going through her toys to donate to children who weren’t as fortunate as we were.
Tiffany Matthews had the kindest soul.
But Selma’s dad—Tony—can tarnish anyone he meets.
Now, Tiffany is harsh. Cruel. She might even say worse things to Selma than Tony does, at this point.
I remember the moment I realized Tiffany’s heart went from being soft to harsh. Selma and I were both fifteen, and it was just before our school homecoming dance. I had arrived early, and I sat in Tony’s office for fifteen minutes as he dragged on about his firm. Part of me was interested—by then, my dream of becoming a lawyer had only just surfaced—but a bigger part of me was wondering when Selma would save me from her dad.
Finally, I heard voices in the kitchen. Tony and I both made our way in that direction. Selma and I were positioned in front of their spiraling staircase, my arm draped modestly around her waist. It was the closest she and I had ever been. I could feel her quick intakes of breath where my hand rested above her hip. I was lost in thought—realizing my palm had never rested on a girl like this, let alone my best friend—when Tiffany’s words broke through my thoughts.