Selma still sits quietly to the left of me, taking in the conversation. I lift my hand from her thigh and put my arm around her. I pull her in closer next to me, kissing her on the top of her curly hair.
“I’ll tell you about her,” Aspen says, looking over at Lily. “She reminds me of an ice queen. Her hair is so blonde, and it takes up half her body. She’s filled with venom and ice. She even did this to me.” He lifts the sleeve of his sweatshirt to show a forming bruise.
Dang, she actually did get him good.
“Keep going,” Lily instructs, leaning in closer to Aspen, holding on to every word.
“I think she might hate me, but that’s okay, I’ll defrost her,” Aspen says.
I can see where Aspen gets the ice queen reference for Veronica. At first glance she is all stone and ice, seemingly content in keeping everyone away from her. I wonder if she’s always been so cold to people, or if something made her like this. Either way, it’s not my concern, as long as she pays her rent.
“Maybe take the hint,” Lily retorts, letting out a huff I can hear even in the loud bar.
“Never,” Aspen responds. “I am going to figure the ice queen out.” There’s determination in his voice.
“Good luck with that,” I scoff, stretching my legs out underneath the table.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Aspen asks.
"It means that girl has walls built so high it’ll be impossible to climb them. Even for someone as persistent as you,” I tell him.
“You say that like it’s bad to build walls,” my best friend responds, sitting taller in the booth.
Aspen would decide to become philosophical when it comes to her.
I open my mouth to respond, but Aspen adds, “Look, we don’t know her story so before you go and write her off as some bitch, maybe consider there’s more to it. Maybe she’s just hard to get to know.”
My mouth hangs agape as my best friend glares at me from across the table. I want to ask him if we’re talking about the same girl—because I have a distinct memory of her thwarting him with a shoe only hours ago. I keep my words in, however, because his catch me off guard. I hadn’t given much thought to why she acts the way she does—and I’m not going to start now.
“Can’t wait to meet her,” Lily quips in a dull tone.
I stifle the urge to tell my sister she’s not missing much.
7
Veronica
“Jesus Christ, Veronica,” Aspen wheezes as he sets my last box of belongings next to my bed. “How the hell are you going to fit all that shit into this tiny room?” He looks around the room, where boxes are scattered all over, making it hard to walk anywhere.
I shrug and say, “Simple. I’ll make it fit.” The box cutter makes a ripping noise as it cuts through the tape on the box I open. When I lift the two flaps, I find it’s my last box of shoes. One by one, I pull them out and walk them to the closet.
Aspen’s right; it will be a tight squeeze, but I’ll make it work. Everything I brought with me is a necessity—at least to me.
From the closet, I can hear Aspen’s cell phone ring. He answers, engaging in a quick conversation with the person on the other end before hanging up. As I continue to neatly line my shoes on the closet shelf, Aspen fills the doorway.
“That was Selma,” he says. “Someone called out of work today and they’re short a waiter. I told her I’d come in, but I need to head out in ten minutes. You good in here?” His eyes catch on my sheer body suits hanging in the closet.
I give him a light shove on the shoulder. “Don’t get any ideas, playboy. And I’ll be fine here. I don’t want anyone else unpacking my things anyway.”
Aspen’s gaze roams over my face, before he nods and leaves me to the peace and quiet of my new room.
Finally, I’m alone.
Even though I hate to admit it, Aspen is kind of growing on me. I don’t want to send him any mixed signals on what he and I could be, though. He seems like a guy that could get attached very easily—and I don’t do attachments.
Not anymore.
Not ever again.
I shake my head, trying to not let my mind wander in the direction it wants to go. It’s already a drag being stuck in my head twenty-four/seven. All I do is hate myself. If anyone were to look into my thoughts, they’d find way too much self-loathing for a twenty-one-year old to have.
After the heels on my shelf are perfectly aligned, I step out of the closet and continue rifling through my things. The next box I open houses more clothes, which is great except I can’t remember where Aspen put the box with all my hangers.
I look around my room, trying to find it. I zone in on the pile of boxes—almost as high as the ceiling—stacked against the wall by the window. A long sigh escapes me. Even though Aspen is easily six feet tall, my five foot seven is not near enough of a match to reach the boxes on the top.
Just as I consider moving on to a different task, footsteps sound from the stairs. Both Selma and Aspen are at work for the next five hours, which tells me the person coming down the stairs has to be Maverick.
He knocks on the trim of my door and says, “How’s it going in here?”
Speak of the devil.
I turn around and take in his appearance—a black hoodie with navy blue basketball shorts. His cheeks are tinted pink from the cold front we’re having in October here in Kansas. The dark strands of his hair fall over his forehead lazily and without effort.
“It’s going fine,” I say, “except I need hangers and I’m pretty sure they’re in the box on top of this stupidly high pile Aspen created.” I point to the stack of boxes going up the wall.
Since I stand directly in front of them, I’m sure Maverick can obviously pinpoint my dilemma. Even if I stand on my tiptoes with my arms outstretched, it would be nearly impossible to pull the box down without causing them all to tumble.
“I swear he did it on purpose so I would ask him to come back and help me,” I grumble, twisting my hair from my ponytail around my finger. My bottom lip is caught between my teeth as I ponder what way I will torture Aspen for this later.
Maverick laughs as he crosses the distance to my side of the room. His shoulder brushes mine as he lands next to me, looking up at the pile Aspen created. “Aspen definitely did this to be able to have an excuse to come back in here.” His long arms reach up and easily pull the box from the top. He sets it on the top of my bed before going back for the next one.
With those two boxes down, I can easily reach the rest of the stack. “Thank you,” I mutter. I take the box cutter and open both boxes, pleased to see one of them in fact holds the hangers I need. Dropping the other box on the ground, I climb onto my bed and pour the hangers out, throwing the empty box in my discarded pile of other empty boxes.
As I begin to hang all my clothes on the hangers and start a pile of them, Maverick grabs the box cutter and starts breaking down the boxes. We work in a comfortable silence—and it weirds me out. I’m not used to men who are this comfortable in silence. Usually, they try to fill it, and unfortunately, it’s normally with things they think I want to hear. But in the little time I’ve spent with Maverick, I’m starting to realize he isn’t like most men. He’s calmer, like he’s at peace with himself.