Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Jude

Past (Ten Years Ago)

Three weeks ago, I returned to my hometown for the first time in years, looking for a break from the relentless grind of maintaining my 4.0 GPA. After my parents moved to a new state, staying with my sister, Madi, was the only logical option for the summer. She had mentioned her best friend lived with her. But being four years older than them, I had left for college before they ever met in high school. Combined with my lack of social media, everyone’s lives were pretty much a mystery to me. My focus had been acing my pre-reqs, not seeing if my Aunt Lisa vacationed in Barbados or Miami this year.

I had no idea what kind of roommate situation I was walking into. And I definitely had no idea the roommate would look like that —so overwhelmingly gorgeous that it was difficult to not constantly stare .

The moment I saw her in that dingy bar, I couldn’t shake her face or voice from my mind. Ella Thatcher was like a catchy song or vivid dream—her presence weaving like ivy, wrapping around every square inch of my brain.

I constantly find reminders of her throughout the day. Like when a Foo Fighters song plays on the radio, and I can perfectly picture her singing along to her favorite ‘90s music. The hills in late summer, green transforming into gold—looking exactly like her hazel eyes. My three daily cups of dark brew coffee, the same shade as her long mocha brown hair.

She’s my sister’s best friend, as well as my roommate. And I have to leave by the end of the summer to start multiple years worth of medical school.

Those are all valid reasons why I shouldn’t make a move on her, yet none of them possess enough weight to dissuade me completely. Because for every reason why this would be a horrible idea, there seem to be a hundred reasons why it’d be worth it.

Ella silently pads into the kitchen in nothing but a hoodie that barely covers her ass and a pair of fluffy socks. Her long hair is pulled into a high ponytail, and her doe eyes glance in my direction. Every morning she looks surprised to find me here again. And while I typically am an early riser, there’s a large portion of myself that arises early now because I know I’ll get to see her.

She pours herself a mug of coffee from the freshly brewed pot I made for us. “Morning,” she says, blowing the steam with pursed lips .

“Did you sleep well?” I ask, my own voice still rough with sleep.

“I managed a solid few hours, which is a win in my book.”

“A few hours? How the hell do you teach Pilates classes for hours on that?”

She walks past me to the fridge and lifts her mug. “Caffeine. Lots of it. Oh, and the constant fear of failure. Can’t slack off when you’re terrified people will judge you for a terrible class.”

I grab a pan from the cabinet and turn to her. “Sit. I’ll make breakfast today.”

Giving me a look like she’s not backing down, she stands her ground with a carton of eggs in her hand. I stare right back, both of us smirking at each other.

Being the only two awake in the house most mornings, we’ve settled into a routine together. I make coffee, while she makes eggs. But today, there’s an air about her that teeters on exhaustion. An impulse well beyond my control kicks in, and all I want to do is take care of her.

“Ugh, okay. You win. I’m too tired to even fight you on it.” She passes me the cardboard carton, a cautious look on her face like I’ll suddenly change my mind or ask for something in return. “Thank you,” she whispers, sitting on the barstool at the counter beside the stove.

I may not know all the details of her past, but the one thing that’s obvious is she’s not accustomed to being looked after. There’s a flicker of discomfort every time I do something small, like having the coffee ready when she wakes up. It’s like she doesn’t quite know how to handle someone being in her corner.

We eat side by side at the counter in mostly silence. Our respective books splay out in front of us, as we get lost in our own fictional worlds. When her alarm to leave for work goes off, she rinses her plate, before running back down the hall to brush her teeth and get changed. I sit at the counter, attempting to read my book, but the same feeling of contentment doesn’t sit quite right now without her next to me.

She walks back out, in a pair of black leggings and a form-fitting tank that shows off her every gorgeous curve. The sight of her usually always leaves me speechless, like some braindead caveman that’s primal urge is to throw her over my shoulder and claim her as mine.

Grabbing her keys from the entryway table, she slips a shoe onto each foot. “Hey, thank you again for making breakfast.”

“Anytime. I enjoy our mornings together.”

Her cheeks tinge pink at my words, and I’m worried I’ve scared her off. She’s like a cat that will make a run for it if you push too hard.

“Me too,” she says, not making eye contact. “Will you be around later?”

I’m equal parts surprised and excited that she’s asking. “I’ll be here. Ready for my next round of reality television education with you.”

She smiles wide, finally looking up at me. “I’m still appalled you have never seen one single episode of Jersey Shore . It’s basically like the Pride and Prejudice of our time, but with more hair gel and less class.”

I burst out laughing. Most of the time she’s so quiet and timid. Then she’ll go and say something like that. It catches you off guard in the best way possible, making you want to dig deeper and know more. Over the last few weeks, I’ve discovered that beneath her shy surface, there’s a whole other side to her.

Throughout the six hours that she’s gone, I attempt to play the part of a functioning adult. I clean the house, sort through papers, and double-check the details of my new school schedule, as if organizing my life will stop me from looking at the clock every five minutes. But it doesn’t. I still glance up, waiting for 2:00 p.m to hit, and take countless glances out the front window to see if I can spot her car pulling into the driveway. When she does finally arrive back at the house, she sneaks in so silently that I almost don’t hear her. The front door barely creaks. She’s perfected the art of entering unnoticed, twisting the knob gently and shutting the heavy door lightly so that it won’t make a sound. I hear her soft footsteps, barely there, and wonder if she’s been conditioned to move this way. Like she’s learned to shrink herself to fly under the radar.

I stay in my room, not wanting to spook her by coming on too strong. Once I hear the rush of water from the shower start, I head to the kitchen where I order pizza to be delivered. Ten minutes later, she walks out from her room. Her long hair is wet and beginning to curl into waves, and she’s dressed in nothing but a pair of tiny black shorts and a thin tank. Either she’s trying to torture me or she has no idea of the affect she has.

“Hi.” She says softly. Her exhaustion is evident, but relief shines in her eyes as she drops onto the couch.

“How were your classes?” I sit a full cushion apart. The distance is required or else I’ll be tempted to do something dumb, that could shatter this entire friendship we’ve only begun to form.

“They were good. Every class was full, and I had some requests for one-on-one sessions.”

I can tell she loves teaching. But there’s a part of her that holds back, guarding her happiness and keeping her cards close to her chest. It’s like she thinks that if she lets the world see how much she loves it, someone will poke a hole in it and take that joy away from her.

“That’s amazing, El. They’re smart to want to hire the best teacher in town.”

She rolls her eyes, smiling. “More like they’re insane to trust me. Besides, you haven’t even taken one of my classes to know if I’m a decent teacher or not.”

“So, is that an invitation to sign up? I told you before I gladly would.”

She propels herself across the space separating us and grabs my forearm with horror. “ No . Absolutely not. Don’t you dare.”

“Let me know if you change your mind.” I would sign up in a heartbeat if I knew she wouldn’t be mortified to have me there. With her, I never want to cross the boundary of her comfort. I get the feeling I’m one of the few people who have ever given her that respect and I intend to keep it that way.

Her hand lingers on my skin, the electricity between us almost tangible. The awareness of our contact dawns on her, and she pulls her hand away like I’ve burned her. She clears her throat, pretending like she didn’t feel that, too, and grabs the remote. “Are you ready for round ten of your reality show education?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be. Two months ago, I didn’t even know who Ronnie was, and now I can’t stand the guy for the way he treats Sammie.”

She glances at me, a huge smile lighting up her face. “Wow. You’re making me think I might actually be a good teacher. That’s some expert-level reality TV analysis.”

“See? I told you that you were the best. Let’s see how you handle the next challenge—all the History Channel documentaries I’ve got lined up next for us.” I wiggle my eyebrows at her, awaiting her reaction.

Her hand freezes, remote aimed at the TV, as her head whips toward me. “Are you serious, or is that some cruel joke? Non-fiction isn’t exactly my thing.”

“Promise me you’ll at least give it a shot someday. There is plenty of drama in history I think you’d like. Take the Vikings, for instance.”

She raises an eyebrow, skeptical. “What’d the Vikings do?”

“Just raided and pillaged half of Europe, sailed across oceans in ships with dragon heads, and generally caused chaos wherever they went. All very dramatic stuff.”

She nods, considering what I’ve told her. “Okay. That does sound a little cool. If I enjoy reality television chaos, maybe I’ll surprise myself and enjoy historical chaos too.”

Suddenly, the doorbell rings and Ella ducks down with wide eyes as if the house is being broken into. She’s low to the ground, a finger to her full lips signaling me to be quiet. I forgot to mention to her that I had ordered food, but the sight of her like this is almost too much for me to handle. She’s too fucking adorable when she’s in full-on stealth mode, acting like we’re hiding from a threat instead of the delivery guy.

“You alright there, love?” I ask, ruffling her hair as I walk past to answer the door. “I ordered us pizza.”

The nickname slips out without thinking. I should be self-conscious of how she’ll take it, but at this point, I do technically love our friendship. Yeah, maybe there’s more to it that I’m trying not to admit, to either her or myself. But these seemingly mundane moments have quickly become the highlight of every day, and that tells me everything I need to know.

Every conversation. Every look. Every day. The tension between us is undeniable. That look in her eyes reflects my own, and I’m certain we both feel it. This constant tug of wanting more.

That evening, after binging multiple hours of television, we linger in the hallway between our doorways. She tells me to wait there, and rushes into her room, returning with an old, worn Whitman book. Its tattered appearance is similar to century old volumes that could have been on Whitman’s own personal shelf. She hands it to me, and when our fingers touch, her eyes flit up to meet mine like a flick of a match.

In that brief minute, something shifts between us. I become hyper aware of everything—the hallway feels smaller and the space between us almost nonexistent. The rise and fall of our breath, the slight hitch in her chest. My eyes keep drifting to her lips, lingering there, wanting to close the short distance between us and find out, once and for all, how that perfect mouth tastes.

I think it’s the exact moment we both realize it’s a foolish uphill battle—one we’re bound to lose, no matter how hard we try.