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In hindsight, the story ends the moment it begins. I park in front of the apartment building, my new roommate, Jerry, comes out to help me bring in my meager belongings, and everything is fine. Then he says, “This is my girlfriend, Aster.”

I look at Aster and I’m done.

So if you think about it, Jerry kind of started it.

From our few text exchanges, I know that Jerry, like me, is a third year student at Holsom College, a reputable-if-not-notable school just outside of Seattle. He’s pre-med, a meticulous recycler, and, if today’s outfit is any indication, a fan of polo shirts and the color purple.

“Hey,” Aster says, sticking out a hand as she props open the door to the building with her hip. I hoist my over-stuffed duffel bag higher onto my shoulder and take her hand, forcing myself to let go after a few seconds.

“Hey. I’m Aidan.”

“I know. Jerry told me all about you. Come on up.” Jerry had a lighter load and took the stairs, but Aster presses the button for the elevator and we get in, making the quick trip to the second floor. “Do you live here, too?” I ask, trying not to sound hopeful.

“No,” Aster says as we step out into a quiet hall with pale gray walls. “I’m on campus. This is it.” She stops at door 211 and holds it for me to pass through.

We enter just as Jerry goes back out for more stuff, and Aster leads me past a tidy living room and down a short hallway. It’s my first time living off-campus, and though I’d only seen the place in pictures, it’s already better than the two years I spent in Holsom College residence. The walls aren’t made of stained concrete, the floors aren’t covered in stained carpet, and, well, there aren’t any stains anywhere. The walls are still clean, the wood floors still shiny, the appliances still functioning.

I got into Holsom as part of a scholarship program that gives troubled kids a second chance, and when it became apparent that my second chance was being jeopardized by the distractions of life on campus, I’d managed to convince the program director to let me use my room and board credit to rent a room in town instead. Now here I am, January third, new year, new home, new blonde distraction.

Jerry’s previous roommate left his furniture behind, and I’ve inherited a queen size bed and a slightly lopsided desk. Combined with my duffel and milk crates, it’s the most I’ve ever owned. “This is nice,” I remark, taking things in as Aster lingers in the doorway. “Way better than residence.”

She smiles. “I know, right? Nothing is stained.”

She has a shoulder-length blond bob and clear, makeup-free skin. Her white T-shirt sets off her natural tan, and her torn jeans and bare feet make her look like she’d be more at home on a surfboard than a college campus. The dip in the V-neck of her T-shirt gives me a glimpse of cleavage I will think about for many nights to come.

I don’t have a type. I like all girls. Short, tall, thin, curvy, light, dark, and everything in between. Aster lands on the naturally pretty part of the spectrum, straight white teeth, clear blue eyes, and, when I pass her on my way to collect more things, a tiny smattering of freckles across her nose.

She smells like laundry detergent.

I’m still smelling it after Jerry and I have carted up the rest of my belongings, and I’m still thinking about it when he offers me a beer and toasts with, “To roommates.”

Jerry seems like a nice guy, but he’s my total opposite. His hair is dark, mine is dirty blond. His arms are tattoo-free; both of mine are etched in ink I started getting when I was fifteen. Jerry’s here because his dad’s a doctor; I’m here because the judge told me if I didn’t go to college I’d be going to jail instead. He said lifting cars and lifting weights weren’t the only things I could do, but that’s all I had to look forward to if I didn’t take the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity he felt strangely compelled to offer me.

I’m not an idiot. I took it. I took the scholarship they probably could have given to some kid who wasn’t faking his gratitude. But hey, I figured I’d made a living taking things that weren’t mine—why stop now?

“How were your holidays?” Aster asks, perching on the arm of Jerry’s chair. The living room has a leather couch and two club chairs, and I’m on the couch opposite the two of them, trying not to eyeball Aster’s cleavage.

“Just fine,” I reply, sipping my beer. “Yours?” To stop myself from staring I turn my attention to the front window. The January sky is gray, its pale expanse carved up by the bare branches of the tree that looms outside. In the summer, when it’s leafy and green, it’s probably pretty. Right now it feels like prison bars. I’d only spent a few nights behind them, but it was enough to convince me I’d taken a wrong turn somewhere right around the time I stole my first car.

Jerry wraps up a story about spending Christmas with family in Portland, and I missed whatever Aster said. Their politeness makes me feel antsy, like more of a black sheep than I already am. They’re the smiling, sweet people you see in catalogues, modeling corduroy and sneakers. I’m...not.

A shrill ring interrupts and Aster gives a little jump. “Shoot!” she exclaims. “Sorry.” She stands and pulls a phone from her back pocket, answering on the third ring. Her voice grows muffled as she disappears down the hall.

“So,” Jerry says. “You back to class tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“The break was nice.”

I nod along, like I didn’t spend it in residence with a kid from Taiwan. He didn’t speak much English but he had some awesome video games, so that helped pass the time.

“You said you, uh, play Frisbee baseball?” Jerry asks when the silence becomes awkward. “I didn’t know that was a thing.”

I try to appear pleasant and conversational, but it’s not easy. I don’t fit in at Holsom, and I definitely don’t fit in with purple polo shirts. “Me either,” I say finally. I hadn’t heard of the sport until I was informed that part of my scholarship requirement was that I have at least one “approved” pastime and a part-time job. Now I play Frisbee baseball at one of the campus gyms every Thursday and pull three shifts a week at the library.

“Aster’s good at sports,” Jerry says when Aster pads back into the room, her bare feet quiet on the hardwood.

“I’m okay,” she says, returning to her spot next to him. “I can run without falling down. What do you play, Aidan?”

Hearing her say my name has an odd effect on me. Most people call me by my last time, Shaw. For some reason it makes me want to sit up a bit straighter, put the beer away, be better. But I don’t.

“Nothing,” I reply. “Not really.”

Her brows pull together in confusion. “Oh.”

“He plays Frisbee baseball,” Jerry offers, suddenly uncertain. “On a rec team?”

I feel bad. I’m not really a dick, I just don’t like small talk. Or a lot of talk.

“On Thursdays,” I make myself say.

Aster scratches her knee through the torn denim, echoing Jerry’s words from earlier. “I didn’t know that was a thing.”

“A lot of people don’t. We’re always short players.”

Jerry perks up a bit, seizing the chance to show me what a good roommate he is. “Aster could fill in for you, if you wanted.” Then he turns to Aster. “And if you wanted,” he adds.

If she’s annoyed at him offering her services, she hides it well. “I’m free Thursdays. Just call me, if you want me.” Then she laughs. “To play,” she corrects herself. “If you want me to play with you.”

She presses her hand to her chest, drawing my attention there yet again. My stomach tightens, then my thighs, my arms. Everything pulls in tight, anticipating my next move, the way it did whenever I found the car I’d been sent to steal, sitting there, innocent, waiting.

No clue what was coming.

And no way to stop it.