“Oh my gosh, I didn’t see you sitting there.” I bend to take him by the shoulders as if the force was strong enough to send him flying.
He did not go flying.
“I am so sorry,” I enthuse, stepping around him, down two stairs and turning to face him.
“No—it’s not your fault. I’m the one who shouldn’t be sitting here.”
I tilt my head and look down.
It’s not easy to see him clearly in the dimly lit stairwell, but he’s a gangly boy with a buzz cut. Red t-shirt. Jeans.
Embarrassed half-grin.
“Then why are you sitting here?”
He shrugs, and I notice his lanky shoulders.
He can’t be any older than I am, probably a freshman, too.
“I guess I’m hiding.” His hands are clasped over his knees and his phone is out—he was probably playing on it as a diversion, if I had to guess.
“Hiding? From who?”
“Everyone.” He laughs, pushing up the glasses rested on the bridge of his nose.
“You’re hiding from everyone? Why don’t you just leave?” That’s what I would do if I hadn’t forced myself to come and be social tonight—one last hurrah before the football season kicks off and its curfews and check-ins by the coaching staff and rigorous workouts and nutritional regimens hinder my social time.
Also, I’m asking a complete stranger way too many questions.
“I came with my friends from high school.”
“So?”
“So—if I leave, they’ll make fun of me.”
Some friends. Why are guys such dicks to each other? All that toxic masculinity bullshit infuriates me.
“Well do you mind some company?” This perch is a great spot to stay out of the fray without actually leaving the party, which doesn’t appear to be dying down any time soon. Hunting down my teammates to say goodbye and leave on my own holds no appeal, either—safety in numbers and all that. It wouldn’t be a smart idea walking through campus by myself in the middle of the night.
“Um, sure.”
He does not look sure, but I plop down beside him anyway, scooching him over with a bump of my hips.
“I’m Lilly,” I say. “Freshman. How ’bout you?”
“Same.”
“What’s your name?”
His head dips in embarrassment. “Roman.”
“Cool name, bro,” I tell him, resting my elbows on my knees and gazing down at the bright lights of the living room below. A song has just started that everyone goes wild for, and the floor shakes as students jump up and down, dancing. “Holy crap, the floor is going to cave in on itself.”
“Might, depending on where the floor joists are if the weight’s not evenly distributed and how old the house is.”
Nerd alert. “Are you an architecture major?”
“No, it’s just basic physics.”
I think we’ve established that I’ve been botching up all things basic lately, so I’m no help when it comes to physics. Math. Science.
Not my strong suits.
“What is your major if it’s not architecture?”
“Tech.”
Oh.
That’s boring—everyone is a computer science major. He probably wants to create apps and stuff.
“Tech for what?”
The eyebrows above his glasses quirk up and down. “Automotive or aerospace.”
“Like—programming cars and stuff?”
Beside me, he nods. “I haven’t decided, but yes, something like that.”
Oh.
That makes what I’m about to say sound lame and juvenile.
I sigh. “I’m an English major with a business minor. My parents wouldn’t let me major in art, so I had to settle.” I have no idea why I’m telling him this; he’s a stranger and does not give a crap. “I like to craft.”
When Roman looks over at me, the lenses of his glasses catch the light from downstairs and I can’t see his eyes against the glare, but I can almost hear what he’s thinking: An English major with a business minor? What the hell are you going to do with that?
I know this because my father has asked me that question a million times, and I never have an answer for him.
“I’m sure you’ll find something you’re passionate about. We make our own destiny.”
I nod slowly.
We make our own destiny.
Those are some pretty profound words for a freshman guy at a kegger.
“Is that what you’re doing? Creating your own destiny?” I’m teasing him but I’m also curious—I’ve never heard a guy say something like that before, and it’s intriguing.
“Sure. I mean, every decision we make today impacts what happens tomorrow, don’t you agree?”
Um.
Yes?
“Of course I agree.”
Roman has his eyes trained on the action at the bottom of the stairs, where a small group of girls are congregating and whispering, their heads pivoting every few seconds to watch whatever—or whomever—is across the room.
Probably some hot dude one of them has a crush on but is too afraid to approach.
Roman is watching the girls intently before clearing his throat and glancing over at me.
“Are you seeing anyone?” I finally ask him. He doesn’t strike me as the type to be dating; I’m certain his course load will keep him as occupied as I expect to be during the school year, but you never know—maybe he has a cute little girlfriend hidden away somewhere.