6

––––––––

I don’t see Aster all week. Jerry doesn’t talk about her or the break up, just wisely assumes I figured it out on my own.

One of the flaws in my genius plan was underestimating the power of my own guilty conscience; another one is forgetting that Aster and I have no reason to cross paths if she’s not coming to my apartment several nights a week. I don’t know her class schedule—hell, I don’t even know her major—and I while I know where she lives, I have no reason to be in or around that residence. So...shit.

At Frisbee baseball on Thursday I’m lacing up my sneakers when Shamus sits on the bench beside me.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

He links his fingers together over his knees and peers around the gym, a real-life example of how not to succeed at being casual.

“Is something wrong?” I ask reluctantly. “Do we have enough players?”

“Yeah, we have enough.” He manages to make that sound like a bad thing. “I asked your friend Aster to play again, but she said no.”

I try to ignore the twist in my stomach at the sound of her name. No, at the sound of her name spoken with Shamus’s Irish lilt. My stupid fucking plan has another flaw: Aster would never have cheated on Jerry, but now that she’s single, there’s no reason she can’t hook up with Shamus, using a bit of his Irish luck to mend her broken heart. Especially when he apparently has her phone number and I don’t.

I am such a fucking idiot.

“Maybe she’s busy,” I hear myself say.

He exhales. “I don’t think that’s it. She looked kind of depressed. Still gorgeous, though.”

This time I can’t ignore the twist in my stomach or the alarm that slices through me. “You saw her? In person?”

“Yeah. We have a class together. We’d just never spoken until you brought her out to play that time.”

Oh my God. I opened the door for Shamus to walk through? No. Fuck no. I was going to take some time to figure out how best to reach out to Aster after the break up, but that’s no longer an option if Shamus is planning to make the same move. Shamus, who didn’t pay Sindy to destroy a relationship. Shamus, who may be keen and annoying, but is also not a world-class asshole.

“I don’t really know her,” I say. “She’s my roommate’s girlfriend and they’re always...going at it.”

Shamus’s face falls.

“Like, hardcore,” I add. “Sometimes I have to leave the apartment.”

“Oh.” He cringes.

“I wouldn’t mind meeting a girl like that,” I continue. “But a completely different one.”

“What about Missy?” Shamus asks.

“What?”

“What if you went out with Missy? She likes you.”

What the hell is it with guys I’m trying to sabotage being nice to me? And why the hell does it feel so shocking to have someone be kind?

“Not her,” I say quickly, just as Missy jogs over and drops her bag at the far end of the bench. She winks at me and I turn back to Shamus. “She’s not my type.”

He nods. “Sure. Okay. Me either.”

And I know we’re both still thinking about Aster.

* * *

I’m still thinking about Aster when the game wraps up two hours later. We lose, and I notice her absence in right field for reasons that have to do with far more than her fielding ability.

The team goes out for drinks afterward but I bail, blaming an essay I’ve got due tomorrow. It’s an icy, drizzly night, the sidewalks shining with frozen rivulets of water, trees dripping raindrops onto my shoulders with a steady thud.

Instead of walking home I navigate my way through the dark, quiet campus toward Aster’s building. I don’t know what I’m going to do when I get there—or which floor she lives on—I just let my feet lead me and figure I’ll decide the rest when I arrive.

The building lights are warm and welcoming as I approach, a couple of students shivering in front as they come out for one last smoke before bed. I’m itching for a cigarette now, but the memory of Aster’s wrinkled nose kills that idea. I’m not even sure I’ll get to see her, but if I do, I don’t want to smell like an ashtray.

Before I even have time to come up with a plan, I hear my name.

“Aidan?”

I turn to see Aster approaching the building, her arm around the waist of a very inebriated girl.

“Hey,” I say, hurrying toward them and helping to relieve some of the girl’s weight. “Everything okay?”

Aster grunts. “Obviously not. Help me get her inside, please?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

One of the smokers gets the door for us and we squeeze through. Aster jabs the up arrow on the elevator, then looks at me over the girl’s slumped head. I’m expecting her to be angry, like she’s learned of my part in her pain, but instead she shrugs and makes a “What can you do?” face.

Right. Aster’s a resident advisor. She’s got other people’s problems to deal with in addition to her own.

We get the girl to her room on the tenth floor, where her roommate promises to keep an eye on her and call Aster with any problems. We step into the hall and Aster runs her hands through her damp hair. Her cheeks are flushed pink from the cold and exertion, and though she’s wearing the yellow jacket again, she doesn’t seem quite as bright as I remember.

“So,” I say awkwardly. “How are you?”

She shrugs, trying to look tough. “All right. You?”

“All right.” An uncomfortable pause. “I saw Shamus tonight at the game. He said he asked you to play but you were too...depressed.”

Her brows raise. “Depressed? Wow. That’s a strong word.” Then her tough girl image wobbles. “I mean, maybe it’s not the wrong word...” 

I resist the urge to reach out to touch her, to do something, anything, better than what I’ve already done. “I’m sorry about...everything.” If she only knew.

Aster wipes a stray raindrop off the tip of her nose. “It’s not your fault. Did you come here to check on me?”

I try not to notice how blue her eyes are beneath her dark lashes, spiky with rain. How pretty she is. But it’s fucking impossible. “Maybe?”

“That’s nice, but it’s not necessary.”

“I know. But you brought us chicken soup the other night, and now here you are taking care of drunk students... Who’s going to take care of you?”

That’d be her cue to bat her lashes and say, “You can take care of me, Aidan!” but that’s not what happens.

“I’ll take care of me,” she says matter-of-factly, turning to push against the fire door to the stairwell. “Come on. I’m one floor down. Do you want some coffee? Tea? That’s really all I can offer. I drank all the wine, but I have a kettle.”

“A kettle? I didn’t know they treated R.A.’s like queens.”

She smirks at me over her shoulder, but I notice the way she’s gripping the stair rail, like she’s just barely hanging on to her composure. 

“This life is nothing if not glamorous.” She exits onto the ninth floor and I trail after her into the hallway, finding the same trampled green carpet and white cinderblock walls I left behind.

We pass a couple of students and Aster greets them by name. Though we’re third years and they’re likely firsts, Aster still seems like their boss, their older sister. I grew up fast; I’ve felt older than everybody my whole life. We have something in common.

“This is me.” Aster unlocks the door to the corner unit and I follow her inside. It’s bigger than the other rooms I’ve seen; a room meant for two being occupied by just one, an R.A. perk. There’s a queen bed pushed into the corner, the covers rumpled. A desk, a bar fridge, a wardrobe and a dresser line the walls. It’s a typical dorm room, including the recycling bin topped with two empty wine bottles and a garbage can overflowing with candy bar wrappers.

Aster smiles sheepishly. “It’s been a rough week.” She pats her stomach. “I’m going to stop, I swear.”

“Whatever helps.”

Her bravado drops for a second. “It’s not helping,” she admits, lower lip trembling. “It sucks. Have you ever been cheated on?”

“No.”

“Ah. Well. Lucky you.”

For some reason I have the inane urge to say something in defense of Jerry, even though that’s in direct conflict with my plan.

She plugs in the kettle and grabs two mugs off a shelf, setting them on top of the bar fridge. If I’d tried to predict what Aster’s room would be like I’d have guessed something light and frivolous, lots of reds and yellows. But this place is strictly functional, books in stacks on the desk, a laptop beside them, an overflowing laundry basket in the corner. There’s no artwork, no photographs, no personal touches. The curtains are pulled back to show a view of the street and the small copse of trees beside it. It doesn’t feel anything like the bright and shiny Aster I expected.

“Have a seat,” she says, gesturing to the desk chair. She takes off her coat and hangs it on the doorknob, so I take off mine and drop it on the floor next to my gym bag.

She’s wearing a long-sleeve shirt with jeans, the silhouette of her body highlighted by the streetlamps outside as she grabs a hair elastic from the desk just as the kettle starts to bubble, and pulls her damp hair into a ponytail. She doesn’t offer coffee again, just puts a teabag into each cup and fills them with water. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve had tea before, but I’d drink anything if it gave me an excuse to stay here.

“So.” Aster sinks onto her bed and slumps against the wall, cradling the hot mug in her hands. “Life sucks.”

“I’m sorry,” I say again.

She blows onto the tea, a tiny billow of steam rising. “I never even saw it coming,” she admits, chagrined. “Like, I never had a clue. When he told me, I thought he was joking. He kept saying, Seriously, and I just couldn’t believe it.”

“It was out of character,” I hear myself say.

“Ha.” She scoffs. “If someone cheats, it’s not out of character. It’s out of line. Out of bounds. Out of the realm of possibility. He’s just another guy who looks like one thing but acts like another. I’ve had enough of that.”

“What did you think he would be?”

She arches a brow. “Oh, I don’t know. Loyal? Decent? Honest?” She sips her tea and winces at the burn. “Well, I guess he was honest.”

“There’s that.”

“I keep trying to be angry,” she says, eyes trailing over my shoulder to the window. “I keep trying to think of ways to get revenge, but...”

No but, I think. Get revenge. Fuck somebody.

Fuck me.

“But I’m just so sad,” she says, her voice breaking. “Isn’t that stupid? I’m so...fucking...sad.”

I say fuck a lot. I don’t even think about it. But hearing the word come out of Aster’s mouth, contrasting with the simple clothes and the tea and that composed demeanor, it sets off a chain reaction inside me. Like a line of dominos falling, shattering every illusion I thought I had. Aster is perfect. Aster is sweet. Aster is flawless.

And Aster is human.

“Have your friends been checking on you?”

She shakes her head. “My friends were Jerry’s friends. Or rather, his friends became my friends. Now they’re just his friends again. They’re not mean about it, they’re just...gone.”

I swallow. “That’s rough.” I want to ask about the friends she must have had before they met, but it seems mean, given the circumstances.

“At least you’re here.”

“Well, you were nice to me when you didn’t have to be. Bringing the soup and stuff.”

“Why wouldn’t I be nice?”

“I don’t know. Why would you be?”

Something in her gaze softens, pitying and assessing at the same time. Seeing pieces of me she’s not supposed to see. And almost as though she recognizes this, sees my armor locking into place, she looks away and grabs a tissue.

“I’m so silly,” she says, wiping her nose. “I’m super emotional and I never am. Never used to be, anyway. But here I am, crying over some guy.”

“That’s normal,” I say. “It’s...healthy.”

Banging a guy for revenge is not.

Screwing someone over to make yourself feel better is not.

When I first saw Aster, I thought she was above me. If Jerry thought she was out of his league, then she’s ten fucking million miles out of mine. But seeing her here now, in this plain room in her plain clothes with this gross tea, I don’t think she’s anything I thought she was.

“Have you ever been skiing?” I ask abruptly.

Her eyebrows pull together in confusion. “What? Skiing? No. Why?”

“Do you read books to blind kids?”

Now she laughs. “What?”

“You just seemed like someone who would. When I first met you.”

She laughs louder, like a release valve has been turned, letting out some of the pressure that’s been building since Jerry broke her heart.

Since I broke it.

“I guess I was wrong,” I say, cursing myself and my stupid judgments.

“Not completely,” she says, dabbing at the corner of her eye. “I read to kids at a library a few times, but they didn’t have to be blind. Anyone could come.”

“You did? Seriously?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Do you like me better now?”

I drink my tea to hide my smile. “Yeah,” I mumble, trying not to sound too...sincere. Too eager. “I like you just fine.”