“I can think of a few things,” Ryan says, raising his eyebrows, insinuating something that would make my stomach twist if it wasn’t so absurd.
“Genuinely, what?”
He shrugs it off, unbothered, the way he is about everything. Like it wouldn’t bother him one bit to have a roommate stealing his things. And it probably wouldn’t.
Because he’s normal.
I wonder what that feels like.
“You talk to the RA?”
“And say what? My roommate is creepy?”
He shrugs again, leaning back on his hands. “So what are you gonna do?”
I don’t have any idea, so I stand up and move to the leg press. Ryan follows, because that’s what we do. We’ve been working out together three times a week since freshman year, when he came over to spot me, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him I would rather be alone.
And we’ve actually become friends. Which is a little weird, if I’m being honest.
Ryan isn’t the usual type of person I would hang out with. He looks like he would’ve considered stealing my lunch money back in high school. But underneath all the muscles, he’s actually a good guy.
And I guess I look like that, too.
Weird.
Anyway, somehow, it works. It’s even nice having a friend sometimes, always talking. It keeps me out of my head.
“You could transfer to my room,” he offers.
“Nah, RA wouldn’t go for that.”
“True.” He watches me adjust the weight on the cable machine, then adds, “You could always find your own place.”
“I don’t have that kind of money. I could barely afford my textbooks.” I start the first rep and feel the familiar burn settle into my legs.
I used to hate this, back when I was a kid and wanted to be like Nate.
He’d get me set up on the weights, and I’d last five seconds.Who would do this for fun, I would say. And I stand by it. It sure as hell isn’tfun, but now, every rep I do, every miserable second I spend in the gym building muscles I don’t even want, is another step closer to safety.
To no one ever being able to hurt me again.
“I want him to leave me alone,” I say, almost to myself.
“I get it, man.” Ryan shrugs. “But some people are messed up. Nothing you can do about it.”
I don’t say that I’m aware, probably more than most, that some people are messed up.
Some people are worse than.
The leg machine faces the mirror, but I keep my eyes on my form instead of my face, pretending it’s someone else.
I stopped recognizing myself in mirrors sometime before freshman year. Not in some kind of insecure way. It’s not even a big deal.
It’s just that the person looking back at me isn’t who I thought I’d end up being. He’s big, and he frowns a lot, and he’s not very interesting to look at. He fits in. Nobody thinks twice about him.
But isn’t that the point?
A group of guys pour into the gym, loud enough that I can hear them before they’re even fully inside. I know their type. Guys who make it their life mission to take up as much space as possible. Never stopped to think that maybe someone else is trying to exist too, and doesn’t want to listen to whatever is soimportantthat they have to shout over each other.
