Jock Romeo Page 10

“If you’re still hungry, you should eat—it’s not that late, and you’ll probably go home and wind up eating junk food.”

  “We don’t have junk food.”

  Of course they don’t. “You know what I mean.” I set the containers back on the counter and wait patiently for her to decide whether she wants me to put them in the fridge or crack them open so she can eat. I nudge the sauce container forward. “It was good.”

  “I love spaghetti.”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “It was my favorite school lunch growing up.”

  I laugh. “Mine was the square pieces of pizza. I would fold mine in half and dip it in ranch dressing.”

  Lilly pulls a face. “Ranch dressing—blech.”

  I go to the cabinet and grab a plate, begin to build her a meal, noodles first. Her eyes watch my every movement intently, tongue licking along her bottom lip.

  “Don’t ever do that again,” I warn her. “That was so weird.”

  Her elbows rest on the counter as she takes a seat in a chair, leaning forward with a grin. “You think everything is weird.”

  She’s not wrong. “True. But licking your lips is super weird.”

  “I’m hungry! I was showing my enthusiasm.”

  “Yeah—maybe don’t do that.” I crack open the sauce after tracking down a ladle, spooning a heap onto the delicious pile of noodles. It’s a meat sauce with chopped up herbs and spices, chunks of tomato—and meatballs. They’re my favorite, so Mom loaded my container.

  “Um, more sauce please?” Lilly blushes prettily when she asks, and I duck my head so she can’t see the blush on mine.

  Gosh she’s cute.

  So pretty.

  Bet she could light up a room on a miserable, dreary day.

  I put more sauce on her plate and set a piece of cheesy garlic bread on the side.

  She eyeballs it. “I better not eat that.”

  “Why? Because it’s carbs?”

  “No, because when I eat garlic or onions, I stink.” Lilly slaps a hand over her mouth and giggles. “I can’t believe I just said that.”

  “Come on—I don’t stink after I eat garlic.” I don’t think…?

  “I do.” She claps her hands when I slide the plate toward her across the counter. “You know how some people eat asparagus and their pee smells, and some people eat it and their pee doesn’t? I think it must be the same with garlic and onion.” With that pronouncement, she lifts the bread and takes a healthy bite out of one end.

  Moans.

  A string of cheese hangs between her mouth and the loaf as she groans, “Oh my god, this is so good.”

  I know it’s not polite to stare while someone is eating, but she’s doing it in a way I can’t help but observe. It’s completely impossible not to watch her inhale the pasta noodles and the meat sauce, cutting up the meatballs with her fork like she’s in a race against time and hasn’t eaten in days.

  Or like she’s in a spaghetti-eating competition and must beat an opponent.

  She has no shame.

  Or, she just does not give a shit about my opinion or what I think of her—because I’m not someone she finds attractive? Not someone who is a potential boyfriend? Wouldn’t she be more conscious of her behavior if she thought I was cute? She probably remembers what a dork I was when I was a freshman and thinks I’m a dork today. Lilly was up in my bedroom; she saw all my nerdy awards, trophies, and ribbons.

  Whatever, I’m never going to be her boyfriend, let alone date her, so what do I care what she thinks of me.

  I’m cool being her friend.

  Besides, she just broke up with some douchey football player; clearly that’s her type.

  Plus, she’s sworn off men, and I fall into that category, don’t I?

  I glance away to give her privacy.

  “Oh my god.” She moans, sucking a long noodle back into her mouth. “This must have tasted so much better coming off the stove.”

  “It was fantastic.”

  “I should have gone with you tonight. What are you having next week?” She laughs, wiping the corner of her mouth on a napkin she’s plucked from the nearby napkin holder.

  “Er, spaghetti usually, unless I ask for something different.”

  She nods. “Heaven.”

  As someone whose mother was home most days after school and cooked up a storm every weekend, I suppose I may take for granted the fact that my mom is such a good cook. I can’t remember the last time we didn’t have family night on Sunday or the last time she didn’t make something homemade; I don’t have to ask Lilly to know that certainly wasn’t the case in her house growing up.

  Lilly continues to eat, eventually finishing the entire meal while I stand there awkwardly. She finally puts down the napkin, resting it on the countertop to signal that she’s done eating, and smiles at me.

  “You’re going to have plenty for yourself, I hope.”

  “Oh for sure, don’t you worry about me. Plus, there’s more where that came from.” I gesture around at the containers. “This is way more than I can eat myself, and I don’t exactly love the idea of having spaghetti from now until next weekend.”

  “So you have the same thing every single weekend?”

  I remove her plate while she sits there, rinse it in the sink, and put it neatly inside the dishwasher for the next load.

  “Yeah, it’s kind of a thing. I should probably cut the umbilical cord, but it doesn’t suck having food prepared, does it?”

  “What do you mean, cut the umbilical cord?” she asks as I wipe my hands off on a dishtowel then fold it over the edge of the sink.

  “Just that…” Let’s see, how do I put this without making myself sound like a gigantic pussy? “Um. My mom is…”

  “Controlling?”

  “No. She just…” I wave my hand, in search of the right words. “I don’t know, she’s a stay-at-home mom, and I suppose she’s attached to my brother and me. Even though she has Aunt Myrtle there giving her grief and causing trouble, Mom acts like she’s lost a limb with me gone.” I shrug. “It won’t kill me to go home every now and again for dinner, you know?”

  Lilly nods. “That sounds nice. I don’t know if you remember me describing what my mom is like, but it’s almost the exact opposite. If I went home, she’d feed me a carrot and make me practice backflips on the lawn for dessert.” She sighs loudly, tapping on the water glass with a fingernail. “Guess we can’t all win.”

  I do remember her describing her mom even though it’s been a few years, basically a momager who tries to control every aspect of her daughter’s life. I also remember Lilly telling me she came to a school as far as she could possibly get to escape her mother’s constant meddling.

  I have meddling family members too, but in an entirely different way.

  She pushes her chair back from the counter and stands. “Do you need me to do anything? The dishes? I feel bad that you fed me after finding me asleep in your bed.”

  That’s right; I’d almost forgotten about that. About her finding the bracelet and my embarrassment about it.

  “No. Gosh, don’t worry about it. The dishes are already in the dishwasher and there’s nothing to clean up, so we’re good.” I glance out the side door through the glass at the dark night and check the time. “It’s well after nine…you should probably get going.”

  “Are you trying to imply I need a good night’s rest?”

  “Maybe. Sleeping is my favorite.”

  “I thought math and science were your favorite.”

  “Sleeping is my third favorite.”

  We both laugh and I walk her to the front door, pulling it open and leaning on the frame.

  “Thanks again.” She’s looking down at her feet, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say she’s feeling shy. Feeling as awkward in this moment as I feel because it’s almost like we were on a date and aren’t sure how to end it.

  Which is ridiculous, obviously.

  “No worries.” I remember myself an
d the reason she came by in the first place. “Thanks for putting Humpty Dumpty together again.”

  “Huh?”

  Has she forgotten her joke already? “Uh, the award?”

  “Oh! Duh.” She puts a hand to her forehead and taps it.

  After she’s gone, I still stand in the doorway watching until her red taillights disappear down the street, her blinker indicating a right-hand turn. Slowly close the door and lock it, returning to the kitchen to continue tidying up so that when my roommates return, my leftover containers aren’t still sitting out. I don’t doubt for a second that Jack would plow through the remaining spaghetti—and I wouldn’t blame him if he did. That shit is delicious.

  * * *

  LILLY

  What a strange night.

  I can’t say it was the most fun I’ve had since school began, but it came pretty darn close. We didn’t do anything—I spent most of the evening by myself, sleeping in Roman’s bed, of course. But the talking in the kitchen and eating while he stood by…

  Was different.

  Nice.

  Dare I say…pleasant?

  No pressure, no hassle, no expectations.

  That doesn’t happen often when I’m with a guy; then again, I don’t often come in contact with young men who are like Roman.

  Polite.

  Respectful.

  Sure, not all guys my age are idiots. Plenty of the athletes on the football team have their shit together—they have to. But there is an arrogance that comes along with being a football player on a team whose games are televised every week with millions of people watching from around the world.

  It creates guys who sometimes expect to be the center of attention. Guys who assume the dominant role in the relationship. Guys who think they can do no wrong.

  At least—that was Kyle.

  It was all about him, all the time, and many of his teammates were the same way. The trouble is, I’m surrounded by them. The cheerleaders train in the same facility, go to the same physical trainers, see the same doctors, eat in the same cafeteria as all the other athletes.

  It makes sense that I would date someone in that circle.

  Well.

  How is that working out for me?

  It isn’t awfully late when I return home, but my roommate is not home—I don’t know where she could possibly be on a Sunday night given that we have an early morning, but I’m sure there is a guy involved. There is always a guy involved. If I thought I was bad when it comes to going from one relationship to the next, Kaylee is even worse.

  I am wrapped in a bathrobe when I climb into bed, terry cloth turban coiled around my wet hair, having gotten out of the shower just a little bit ago. Freezing cold, I just want to snuggle for a little while before putting my pajamas on.

  Yawning, I pull the fuzzy blanket up higher over my torso so it covers my chest, hunkering down.

  Just a few minutes and I’ll get dressed.

  I stare up at the ceiling, blinking.

  Is it odd that I find Roman attractive? He’s not at all my type, but maybe he could be.

  What are you talking about, Lilly? You’ve sworn off men. You’re on a cleanse. You’re on a journey to be alone.

  I never said I was going to marry the guy, but I can wonder what it would be like to date him. Jeez, get off my back.

  Great. Now you’re talking to yourself.

  So? Who said talking to yourself isn’t healthy? It’s good to work through problems, no matter how you have to do it.

  Journaling would be easier, moron.

  Yes, true—but Kaylee can find a journal, and we don’t actually trust her, DO we?

  Not even a little.

  I slap a hand over my mouth.

  I’ve never admitted that to anyone, never even admitted it to myself: I do not trust my roommate. Not after that stunt she pulled with Eliza, kicking her out without telling me then giving me half the blame.

  Ruthless.

  She would toss me over in a heartbeat.

  Friends? Ha!

  With friends like her, who needs enemies?

  And so, dear mental diary, I keep things to myself and won’t share them with her or with anyone—except maybe Eliza. I can definitely trust her to keep my secrets.

  If I had any.

  Lies. I have one: I’m developing a crush on the nerdy guy.

  I roll to the side and look at the wall where I have motivational quotes taped up where I can see them. I love being inspired as soon as I wake up in the morning and when I lay my head down for bed at night.

  Be enough for yourself first. The rest of the world can wait.

  It certainly can.

  As I move to the side, my robe slides open, the belt loose at my waist. It’s a pink satin robe an aunt—my dad’s sister—gave me for my eighteenth birthday, and I never leave home without it. I feel sexy in it, mature.

  Roman’s bedroom smelled like freshly washed sheets, so good I closed my eyes, imagining what kind of cologne he wears. I wasn’t brave enough to sniff him, though, to see if he was wearing it tonight, but I bet he was.

  He wore a polo to dinner, for Pete’s sake.

  On a Sunday.

  How formal are his parents?

  Mine aren’t formal, but they were strict, and I would guess—judging by the fastidious way Roman studies—his are strict, too. At least when it comes to school work.

  My mother, on the other hand? She couldn’t have cared less what my grades were as long as they were good enough to:

  Keep me on the cheer team.

  Get me into a decent college where I could be on the cheer team.

  Maybe in the spring, when I’m done competing, I should leverage the positions and try to get a job at a dance studio teaching little kids. That would be fun, wouldn’t it? Perhaps I’d learn to love it again seeing it through the eyes of younger children.

  That thought warms me the way this silk robe doesn’t, and I pull the blankets tighter against me.

  You don’t have a crush on Roman, you’re just lonely.

  I am not lonely.

  Yes you are—Kyle sucked balls, and you miss the potential he had to be a good boyfriend.

  Too damn bad I can’t be in a relationship with potential. Ha!

  Exactly.

  Yanking the covers up over my head, I scowl, wishing I’d at least flipped the light off before climbing into bed. Also wish I didn’t have to climb out of bed to put my pajamas on, because if I sleep in this robe, I’ll freeze. And if I don’t take this turban off my head and blow-dry my hair, it’ll look so ridiculously shitty in the morning it will be impossible to do without wetting it again.

  My bedhead game is strong, and no that is not me bragging.

  I have to blow-dry my hair any time I take a shower or get it wet, because yikesss…

  Yawning, I feel my eyelids get heavy.

  I really do need to climb out of bed…

  Yawn again, mind drifting sleepily.

  You don’t have a crush on Roman, you don’t.

  He’s the last thing I think about as I fall asleep.

  6

  LILLY

  I don’t usually partake in the food in the student union, but today, for some reason, I’m too lazy to hoof it all the way to the athletic building. The meals are completely different there, way more diverse and definitely more delicious.

  Shrimp. A salad bar spread fit for a king.

  Pasta. Soup. Fresh vegetables and proteins.

  Grabbing a pre-packaged Froot Loop marshmallow bar and a banana, I weave through the small crowd to find an empty table, seating myself so I face the large, panoramic view of the quad. I can see everything outside from this spot, watching aimlessly as I peel back the layer of my midday snack.

  I hate bananas.

  Don’t know why I’m bothering other than it’s quick and easy.

  Chewing, my eyes never leave the yard, students from various backgrounds going about their business—some speed walking, some strolling, a few jog
gers. One dude on a vintage ten-speed bike. I watch as sorority girls huddle in a group while nearby, three guys in long dusters appear to be acting out a scene from Dungeons and Dragons.

  After I’m done with my banana, I tear open the package on the Froot Loop and marshmallow cereal bar, sinking my teeth into its ooey-gooey goodness, chewing thoughtfully as I look out the window. A few people walking by I recognize, but that’s nothing new—as a member of the cheerleading squad, I get introduced to a lot of people during the school year.

  It’s a miracle that I’m being left alone right now, seated in the center of the student union where students typically come to socialize. It’s loud and definitely not somewhere you’d want to be if you were trying to study or do homework. The library is much better suited for that, and I haven’t set foot in the library in a very, very long time.

  I nibble the corner of the cereal bar, marveling at its overly sugary sweetness. I’m thinking to myself, Self, you should make these one night. How hard could this be?

  Not sure who would eat them in my house; both Kaylee and I tend not to eat a bunch of sugary sweets. Perhaps a houseguest?

  You are swearing off men, remember? You won’t be having any houseguests, and they won’t be eating your sugary sweetness.

  Ha!

  Pervert.

  My gaze wanders, settling on the science building in the near distance, its double doors at the top of a set of concrete steps, not many students flowing in and out.

  I contemplate what must go on inside that building, having never set foot inside, never having the need to. I tested out of science and didn’t need any of those classes to fulfill core curriculum requirements. THANK FREAKING GOODNESS.

  The science building is one of the most outdated buildings on campus, although I heard through the grapevine the university has plans to build an entirely new one with a five-million-dollar budget.

  Is Roman in there now? Hunched over some beaker and experimental equipment, lighting things on fire? Or would he be in the math building crunching out equations to solve the world’s problems? Why am I even thinking about him right now?

  It makes no sense.