Just Roll With It: a Just Us novel (2 page)

It doesn't bother me when Nate doesn't seem to care how I'm walking over to another guy. It's not like we weren't just making out in his car on our way to school or anything. Okay, we were. In his defense, I don't, either.

I make my way to the sidewalk, walking as inconspicuously as possible toward my guy, acting as if I happen to be going in his direction. I don't know where this courage came from all of a sudden, but I'm glad I haven't passed out yet.

As mystery man gets closer, I wait to see if he's going for the greeting, or sidestepping me. It's my lucky day. Mystery man makes eye contact.

"Long walk, huh?" his husky-as-fuck voice washes over me, and I'm caught off-guard.

I was planning to address him first, even if I didn't know what I was going to say. Shit, now I'm thrown off and speech-stuck. I chance a look at him as he waits for me to respond. An amused, almost cocky look rests on his face, and it's shattering my confidence. He tips his head slightly. Lifting a brow, he tries desperately to hold back a smirk.

"Uh-hum, yeah," I stutter. "I have a long walk, but that's okay. Walking doesn't bother me."

A few more seconds of awkward silence goes by, and I'm starting to think I should walk away and die now. Apparently, assertiveness is not my thing. I'm super shy, and this was a stupid-ass idea.

He stands there patiently, waiting for me to get to some point, but his face can't hide he's confused as all hell, reminding me I should talk now.

"Did you go for lunch?" I ask him, shyly but assertive enough.

"Yeah," he mumbles.

Wow, big talker over here. Okay, maybe he's bad at this too. Or has a girlfriend. Why didn't I think of that? Damn.

"So, what did you get?"

"What?" he asks me with a blank stare.

"You know, for lunch?"

He blinks his eyes into focus, like he's just waking up. "Oh, McDonald's," he answers.

"Eeew, gross." I twist my mouth in disgust without thinking. This is not at all how I imagined this going.

I give him my best apologetic look and then hold out my hand like I'm conducting a goddamn business interview.

"Well, my name is Rigbee Damon. What's yours?"

He presses his lips together and draws his eyes down to my outstretched arm. Why do I have to be such a dork? I begin to blush when I realize he's not going to return the handshake. He's leaving me hanging. I was about to give up when his expression softens. He reaches out, takes my hand in his, and says, "Roman. Roman Ransom."

Un-fucking-real. It's her. The girl. The one from tech school. She didn't know I would watch, she definitely doesn't remember. I only talked to her once, yet I remember exchanging plenty of admiring and thought-provoking gazes while passing her pleasing body in the halls.

I now know the douchebag, Scott Something-or-another, didn't talk to her for me like I had asked him to. He was our one and only mutual acquaintance. What a piece of shit. He wanted her too. He could never have had her. He wanted as little competition as possible, and he sure as hell wasn't going to encourage any. I was pissed when I found out; I got over it. Amy and I had just broken up anyway.

We had a nickname for this girl, Scott and I. What was it? Oh yes, Bug. She didn't, and she doesn't, know, of course. But the first time the toolbag told me her name, I'd thought he said Rugby. He found my mistake hilarious, being the immature dick he was, and started calling her "The Rug". His lack of respect wasn't cool with me—it sounded demeaning. She deserved something as adorable as she was, so I evolved the word to Bug. Thus, the nickname was born.

She drove me nuts for a minute when she didn't acknowledge my attempt. I was already on academic probation after the cluster fuck that was Amy. I was on the fast path to an epic fail, which is not an option for me, ever. I was done pining for any and all females afterward.

I'd had plenty of girls still, but making sure they knew the deal was high priority. I wasn't interested in the long term. Some weren't cool with the idea, automatically pegging me as a prick, but some were. In any case, the ones who stayed weren't exactly the kind you bring home to Mom.

I started to pull up my grades, and my focus was on point from then on. I graduated on time, despite everyone's doubts. It was hard as hell, though. Taking tech at the end of the day was the only way to gain my credits back. Which, incidentally, was where I first saw her. That girl. She was always going when I was coming. Much like right now.

The first Monday of my last year of school came and went. I didn't run into backpack boy, I mean
Roman
, again. I probably won't, and fine by me. After our humiliating encounter, not seeing him ever again might be a blessing.

"Shit," I mutter to myself.

It's starting to rain so I jog the entire way to my car. I'm parked all the way in the back lot, behind the art building. I always park here. Apparently, so does Roman.
Gah. Get it together, Rigbee.

I hop in my crappy Pontiac Sunfire and begin the stressful drive home to my new apartment.

The rain picks up about halfway home. A prime example of my own flavor of fucked up. I begin to tense up the harder the rain comes down. My knuckles on the steering wheel turn white, and I'm beginning to sweat. My jaw locks. I grind my teeth down so hard it makes my head hurt.

This is typically how they begin. Of course, I keep my medicine in my purse, which is in the back seat, which means I can't get to them now.

Funny story—my doctor prescribes me Xanax for them. They happen a lot while I am driving, but the warning on the label clearly states "Do not operate motor vehicle while using". Yeah, I'm an ironic mess. My heart rate speeds up again, causing my chest to go heavy. I need to get home before the hyperventilating begins.

I chant my mantra, "Just get home, just get home, just get home."

I pull into the parking lot of my apartments, thankful I'm finally here, and immediately reach back into my purse for my meds.

I made it. I'm home. Our apartment is small, but charming in its own way. The kitchen is frightfully outdated, nevertheless, it has potential. I was determined to make my place nice. Luckily, I had been gifted my parents old cream leather furniture, which helped a lot, seeing as we didn't have anything to contribute. I did the girl things, like placing frames and candles and what-nots here and there. Nothing special, but it feels like home.

I need to paint. Painting is the only thing calming enough not prescribed on a little blue piece of paper. I grab my bags and my purse and hurry through the gates of the building. Up the three flights of stairs, then through the entire length of the hallway, sits our tiny apartment. Last door on the left.

I unlock the door, set my bags down by the couch, and head straight for the storage room to get my paints. Without thought, I grab the door handle. I yank wide and fast, and stop dead in my tracks.

"Aaahhhh, Rigbee! Whatthefuckdontyouknock?"

I watch wide-eyed as my roommate, Enzo, quickly slams his laptop shut. He covers up what he was doing to himself with what he passes off as his blanket. The effort's futile, really. I saw what I saw, and I can still see it through the sheet. Also, I'm quite sure I can still hear the sounds of moaning and "Ahh, yeah," through the laptop speakers. Or, it's seared into my memory and set on repeat. I can't tell which.

A few seconds later, and I'm still standing there from shock … or curiosity.

"Rigbee, seriously. For the love of Thor, shut the goddamn door. Now, please," he pleads, more calmly now.

I close the door and immediately bust out laughing. For the obvious reason, and for the fact that he took my obsession with the Asgardian God of Thunder and turned it into a catch phrase. Even under duress, and under dressed, he's still funny.

Enzo is my best friend. He is good looking, I suppose. To be honest, I don't think about it because it's not his looks that make him important to me. But if I had to give it a name, good looking would fit. He is medium height, with brown hair and eyes. He's athletic enough to look like he works out, even though he doesn't. He also always keeps his beard long and his hat on.

Stupid hat. To me, it looks like a combination of a fishing and a cowboy hat.

Oh, man, back up and hold the phone. Was he just wearing his hat in there? Doing that?
Really, the things he does shouldn't surprise me anymore. I don't even want to think about it.

Our relationship seems complicated to people who don't understand, but not to us. It's the norm for us. The fact is, he's always been there for me, and I for him. Through girlfriends and boyfriends, he has been my one constant. I'd like to think he feels the same about me.

We met in our ninth grade science class. He was the only other transfer student. When the teacher told us to pick lab partners, I freaked. But, Enzo was right there to ask me to be his partner. He'd said I was his obvious choice since neither of us knew anyone else. He was my lifesaver throughout the rest of high school. The truth is, I might not have survived without him.

I read an article one time about cosmic soul mates, how your soul mate has nothing to do with romance. It's not about who you choose to marry, or spend a life with; it's a person who pushes you to be a better you.

They challenge you to the point of frustration and get you out of your comfort zone. They tear down your walls, smack you awake, and change you for the better. However, you don't necessarily want to be with them passionately, or for the rest of your life.

You will eventually need them to leave you so you can figure yourself out. Your best friend. My best friend. His unwavering optimism balances out my solicitous cynicism. That is my Enzo. My crazy, eccentric, caring, masturbating Enzo.

"Jesus Christ, Bee. We have only been living here, like, less than a month. This shit ain't supposed to happen yet."

He saunters his way out of the bedroom looking almost smug. He's dressed in a pair of jeans now. Thank … Thor, I guess.

"C'mon, Enz, something was bound to happen if you insist on not locking your door when you do private shit! Besides, who cares? Everybody does it," I tell him as I walk over to the closet.