For the next week, I go to class, come home, and sleep on a blow-up mattress on top of the provided mattress, because even though the ad on Craigslist said the place was fully furnished, it didn’t state that our absent roommate did porn for a living, and I sure as hell wasn’t willing to risk it.

My room is huge, almost as big as the entire downstairs, having its own bathroom and a kitchen-type counter against the wall dividing the two rooms. I have my own balcony looking out to the yard, a staircase joining them.

I’d given myself a budget to buy things I might need once I’d moved in. A mattress, microwave, bar fridge and coffee machine were at the top of the list so that technically, I could close my bedroom door, survive off what was in my room, and come and go without anyone knowing.

My old dorm mate said I was a recluse, a shut-in. He wasn’t the first to think it. Bradley had mentioned it, too, but instead, he used the word introvert. Which, I guess, is why when Andromeda had offered to help me with my boxes the day we moved in, I’d simply shaken my head, regathered my stuff that had fallen from the box when I dropped it and walked around her. “Idiot,” I murmur to myself, flipping open my laptop and connecting it to the Wi-Fi using the password Miles had emailed me. Seven days have passed, and I haven’t seen either of those girls, yet I’m still thinking about those few seconds of interaction.

“Her name’s Milky,” Bradley says, entering my room and then shutting my door with the heel of his sneaker.

I need to buy a lock.

Glancing up at him from my spot on the floor, I ask, “Who?” Then add desk and chair to the list of things I need to buy.

Bradley rubs his face, his cheeks red, neck and shoulders drenched with sweat. I assume he’s been out for a run. “That hot chick next door. I just ran into her. Her name’s Milky, but I assume it’s a stage name.”

He’s smirking, and I don’t know why, but my interest is piqued, so I ask, “As in Broadway?”

After a snort, he jumps up on both my mattresses and gets comfortable. I remind myself to change the sheets and add lock to my list. “It’s her stripper name.”

I face him quickly, eyes wide. “Shut up.”

“Swear it. She just told me.”

I shake my head. “She’s fucking with you.”

“I don’t think she is, man. Besides, have you seen her body?”

I’m less interested in her than I am with her friend or sister or whatever. But right now, I don’t want to be interested in anyone, let alone a girl who lives on the other side of the wall I’m leaning against.

Bradley chuckles. “That other girl’s her twin sister.” His eyes are huge. “And Milky—she said it suggestively, you know? Like she was down for a three-way with her fucking twin.”

I shake my head. “You’re fucked, dude.”

“I will be,” he declares.

“You’re an idiot.”

He makes a show of jumping off the bed and stops at my door, facing me. His mouth opens, shuts, opens again, but nothing comes out.

I ask, “What’s up?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit, what’s going on?”

He shakes his head, drops his hands in his pockets. “Nothing, man. Never mind.”

“No.” I push off the wall. “What were you going to say?”

“Do you, uh… do you need anything from the hardware store?”

I fall back against the wall. “Why are you going to the hardware store? You suck at DIY, and if there’s anything that needs fixing, just call the landlord.” I put pen to paper again, try to regain my train of thought before he walked in. When I glance up, he’s still standing at the door, his hands still in his pockets, and he’s still hesitating.

“What’s going on, dude?”

“Well…” He exhales loudly, rubs the back of his neck. A nervous habit. “The lights in the kitchen, hallway, and bathroom downstairs—they’re fluorescent. So… I was going to change them to L.E.D. for you… you know… with the whole Christa—”

“Thanks,” I cut in. “I appreciate it, man.”

I cross out lock on my list of things to buy, and he leaves without another word. Then I order the shit I need online and pull out the books I need to study. But Bradley’s words, his actions, repeat in my mind, haunting me out of my focus until I’m pacing the floor and chewing my lip so hard I taste blood. I grab my keys and wallet, slip on my shoes, and make my way outside via the balcony.

One side of the house has a gate with a padlock and no key that I know of, so the only way to get to my car is through a narrow path on the side of the garage. From the few times I’ve been in the yard, I know there are large sliding doors that lead into where the girls live, but the curtains have always been drawn, and there doesn’t seem to be much activity behind them. I hope it’s the same now because I’m not in the mood to stop and talk to anyone, even for a friendly, neighborly hello. But I don’t get my wish. The curtains are pulled aside, and I have a clear view of the girl sitting on the couch, her wild coffee-colored curls adding an extra couple of inches to her height. She’s got a bowl of popcorn on her lap, her bare legs crossed in front of her. I start to move faster, hoping she doesn’t see me. But she does. She offers a wave, her hand raised but unmoving. I falter, just for a moment, and return her greeting with what I hope looks like a smile and not a cringe. And then I practically sprint to my car, my heart pounding, my anxiety high.

A recluse.

A shut-in.

An introvert.

All those words run through my mind, but I don’t think I’m any of them. The truth? I’m just extremely fucking shy.