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It’s official. He’s adorable. On top of the low roar of his voice, the upper body of ink (and incredible definition—let’s not forget that), there’s a guy who gets excited about meerkats. Who is also my roommate.
This is my life now.
“I did like the one about the mountain goats, but I don’t think I’ve ever watched a whole episode. His voice always sends me to sleep before the end.” It turns out a rolling British accent is as good as a white noise machine. Who knew?
“Do you? Have a problem relaxing?” I ask later.
“Sometimes.” Succinct.
Sebastian’s always struck me as a man unto himself. Like the hip new restaurant that’s booked up months in advance, exclusive and out of reach. My FOMO pings when he’s nearby. If I wasn’t Aiden’s baby sister, I doubt he’d have ever given me a second look.
Later, there’s an awkward moment when I leave the kitchen with my hastily thrown together dinner of cheese and crackers, only to stall, unsure of where to eat it. Shit. I’m en route to the couch, but Sebastian is alreadysprawled on one side watching television. Should I go to my room?
It occurs to me that we haven’t talked about how we’re going to live together. I don’t know what the rules are.
He turns as I start to leave. “Where are you going?”
“Um, to my room.”
“Or you could stay.”
I want to. I can see myself curling up next to him on the lumpy gray couch, falling asleep to the soothing sounds of the narrator somewhere between a meerkat family finding shelter and a bird dancing for its mate.
Back in my studio apartment, I would settle on the couch with a book, but I don’t like reading in the dark, and the overhead lights will end up straining my eyes.
Sebastian waits, and I’m caught up in his expression. He’s got fine crow’s feet that fan out from his brow to his cheekbones. I’m not even ashamed to say that I’m a little obsessed with them. So much of the time, he’s wearing his concern: flat mouth, narrowed eyes. There’s a crease between his brows that makes it look like they’re holding a secret meeting. Passing notes while he’s not looking.
Then I realize I’ve been staring for too long.
“That’s okay. I’ll leave you to it.”
It’s not until I’ve shut my bedroom door that I calm down.
He intimidates me. Simple as that. Not because he’s imposing or intense, although I’ve definitely seen him be both, but because when I’m with him, I desperately want him to see me. The real me. But the very idea of being unguarded, of letting anyone know that much of me, is terrifying.
I’m the quiet, cute homebody. The kind of girl who spends summer and winter the same way: prone on a couch, watching what could be reruns or new episodes of a daytime soap. It doesn’t matter because the same three actors have been playing this storyline since the late ’90s.
Short. Cute. Those are the labels I’m given most of the time, and I’m happy for it. By the time I was conceived, it was a shock to my parents. While I wasn’t a “miracle baby,” it was a little touch and go at the finish line. Mom said they maybe overcompensated with feeding me because I was so ridiculously tiny at birth. And maybe my body followed suit, filling in my cheeks and stubbornly holding on to them until I turned twenty-one. It still refuses to give up the little pocket of softness below my belly button.
The rest of me is nice enough. I’m built like a ruler, but I like my legs and my eyes. My hair is back to its original brown after I spent the majority of my high school years trying to dye it every other color imaginable. These days I’m all about comfort.
The joy of my job means that I can work anywhere and look like anything, and I frequently take advantage of that. Unlike the authors I ghostwrite for, I never have to worry about marketing or publicity. The whole point of my work is to not exist.
Of course, if—scratch that;when—I publish my own book under my own name, I’ll need to start putting myself out there.
There’s a reason I’m dawdling.
I’m not Sebastian’s kind of girl. He should be withsomeone bold and interesting. Someone who walks into a room and commands attention. Like Morgan.
But that’s okay. I’m just me. I like listening to people’s stories and window shopping. My legs get hot but my feet get cold, so I’ll wear socks and shorts and can spend an entire day in my pjs. I’d rather dance in my bedroom than at a club, and when I do, the DJ doesn’t ever skip my favorite part of a song.
When I told Sebastian I needed help with my confidence, it wasn’t because I want to become someone else. I think I like who I am. But I’m not sure anyone else will understand me.
Exploring the bruises on my legs isn’t quite the same when it’s not Sebastian’s hands heating up my skin.
I’ve never had anyone react so viscerally on my behalf before. I didn’t even know Sebastian cared about me enough to get upset on my behalf.
Or perhaps he’s seen enough working behind bars for the last decade to be a little protective. Well, the only thing he has to worry about when it comes to me is my habit of not paying attention to where I’m going.
