This is going to be one of those defining moments that would change the course of my life. I could feel it as if it were bubbling up within me. What I did next would really define the rest of the semester.

After grabbing a few bites to eat in the cafeteria, I clear my tray and went back upstairs. I had promised Dylan something that I had no right to promise, something that I don’t want to do. I’d promised him that I would come into the living room tonight and hang out with them. All of them. It doesn’t sound like much on the surface. They’re my roommates. All are nice and friendly people. None of them are going to bite my head off. Least of all, the person that I’m most worried about.

Tristan. He’s going to be quiet and reserved about the whole thing. Just like before. I know this because I know Tristan. But that’s the thing that scares me. That’s not really who Tristan is. And when he’s acting that way, when he’s pretending to be this quiet, unassuming person who keeps to himself, well, that’s when I know that he’s being insincere. A fake. A stranger.

But then again, who am I kidding? He’s pretty much a stranger anyway.

I look at myself in the mirror. A timid, frail girl looks back. My eyes seem hallow, vapid even, and I have dark circles under them already. For Christ’s sake! I haven’t been in school for a week yet and I’m already a hot mess.

I put on a substantial layer of foundation. Line my eyes with black eyeliner. A dash of dark eyeshadow. Color in my wispy eyebrows a bit and flip my hair over to give it a bit of volume. How the hell was I walking around like this all day? Did I forget to wear makeup this morning? Really?

I look in the mirror again. Much better. But something’s missing. Oh yes, of course. Lipstick. Bombay Funk is a dark matte red lip color, which completes the look. Now I’m ready. At least, as ready as I’m going to be. Makeup is my cover. It gives me strength. Something to hide behind. It’s my war paint.

I take a deep breath and step onto the battlefield.

* * *

Dylan’s lounging on the couch in a pair of flannel pants and a white t-shirt, which accentuates his toned physique. He’s really hot. Just focus on that, I say to myself. Juliet is standing next to the hot plate with a guy I’ve never seen before. She introduces him as Brandon from her acting class. Tristan is sitting at the dining room table, eating cereal with one hand and scrolling through his phone with another. When I come in, he gives me a brief nod and quickly gets back to his phone.

“So, in acting class, they have us do these breathing exercises,” Juliet starts talking. What I’ve learned about Juliet in our brief time of being roommates is that she does not believe in preambles. Juliet simply starts in the middle of a conversation betting on the fact that everyone else will catch up to her train of thought. In this case, I do.

“They’re so strange, aren’t they Brandon?”

Brandon’s arms are wrapped tightly around her torso. His lips slide up and down her neck. How long have they known each other?

“Brandon?” Juliet pushes him aside jokingly. “Did you hear what I said?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says pulling her closer. He has a quiet, smoldering voice. Very sexy. “They are strange. Makes me feel like I’m going through labor.”

“Oh yeah, and how would you know what that’s like?”

Brandon shrugs and buries himself in her chest. Juliet tilts her head back from pleasure and then flashes me a smile.

“What are you cooking?” I ask.

All throughout this courting display, Juliet continues to stir something on the skillet on the hotplate.

“I’m making s’mores for everyone.”

I nod, as if that’s a perfectly normal thing to cook on the stove.

“Oh and you know what else, Alice? Get this. My assignment for next week’s class is to write a thank you note.”

“A thank you note? To whom?”

“To whom?” Brandon lifts up his head from Juliet’s breasts to make fun of my proper grammar.

“To anyone. It’s some sort of gratefulness exercise. The teacher is this real new-agey woman. So we’re supposed to write a thank you card, on an actual card and everything, for something we’re thankful for. A person or a thing. It’s supposed to make us more present in real life, or some shit like that.”

I look around the room and wonder what Juliet’s teacher would think of how un-present we all were in this moment. There’s Dylan’s on the couch, glued to Sports Center and their analysis of what had already happened in the world of professional sports. There’s Tristan who missed bringing the spoon of cereal into his mouth on a couple of occasions because he’s too busy looking at something online. Then there’s Juliet, who’s taking multi-tasking to a whole new level. She’s got a guy kissing her neck and feeling her up while she’s making s’mores and talking to me about her teacher. And then there’s me. I’m not really doing anything, but I’m also not present. I’m an observer who’s not really in the moment any more than any of the rest of them.

The s’mores are finally ready. Juliet had melted the marshmallows in between the crackers and the chocolate already. Tristan’s done with his cereal and puts the dish in the kitchen sink.

“Want one?” she asks. He nods. She hands him two.

“Give this one to Alice,” she says.

I look over from the couch when I hear my name and watch Tristan take the s’mores into his hands and make his way over. But then something happens.

“Oh shit!” he says. The s’mores are lying on the carpet with their marshmallow chocolate goo spilling over the sides.

“Don’t worry; I’m making more.”

I drop down next to him to help him clean up. Carefully, we pull the crackers with most of the s’more off the floor.

“Wow, they’re hot!” I say.

“Of course, they’re hot,” Juliet yells. “They were just on the skillet, you geniuses!”

Her tone makes me feel like we’re in trouble and she’s about to call our parents for a parent-teacher conference. I look at Tristan. And after a moment, we both crack up laughing.

* * *

Tristan and I were not able to get every last part of the s’more off the carpet. The harder we tried, the more it disintegrated and the stickier the spot got. And when I walk over it the following morning on my way to the kitchen sink, my shoe sticks a little in the spot where the s’more was. But stepping on this spot makes me smile nevertheless. It was here where things between Tristan and I started to feel normal. And it was here that I started to feel like I could really do this: the whole Tristan and I, exes but roommates thing.