Just Roll With It: a Just Us novel (3 page)

I look back at him and wink. His eyes widen, and a small amount of red creeps into his cheeks. I'd bet he never thought about it the other way around before. At least, not about me.

"I was looking for my art supplies. I'm still not used to the doors around here. I thought I was opening the supply room," I justify.

He moves to the kitchen and pours a glass of soda, looking less and less embarrassed.

"No worries, what are you painting?"

"Don't know yet. I had to relax my nerves after driving home in the rain," I confess.

"Oh yeah, your … you know, I was thinking about you actually. When I saw the weather, I almost called to see if you wanted me to pick you up, but the rain didn't seem too bad." He looks at me for reassurance.

"It wasn't. Not the point, though. I can't control what triggers it. Sometimes driving in the dark or rain does, and sometimes it doesn't. It's unpredictable. Just depends."

"I know. Well, let me know when you do need anything," he offers.

"Thanks. Actually, after our little incident, I'm feeling much better," I say with a huge grin on my face. "Turned out to be just the distraction I needed."

He gives me his famous
I hate you, but not really
look, and chucks a coaster at me. I duck my head just in time, and he misses, causing the coaster to glide past and fall deep in the crack between the couch and the wall.

"Glad I could be of service, while servicing myself." He dramatically waggles his brows up and down. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have to get ready for my date." He makes a ridiculous bowing gesture then walks back into his room.

I listen for a click, but he still doesn't lock his door. Dumbass.

"I don't even want to know why you were doing what you were doing, before a date," I mutter to myself, as I finally pull out my paints.

Art is my therapy, always has been. Especially after the time I overheard my mom having a conversation with my grandpa about me needing therapy but not having the money. I'm glad I at least had a paintbrush.

When I paint, I forget about everything except the brushstrokes, and the color. I started with acrylic on canvas, though more recently I've enjoyed watercolor. In school, we're taught watercolor is done on a smaller scale. Painting small would drive me insane. I like to paint big. A big canvas takes me longer, and I can add as much detail—or not—as I see fit. I agree art has rules; the only rules I don't follow.

Currently, I'm working on a piece of downtown Flint, in a double two-point perspective. The city our university is in. I love architecture and what a painting can do for it. You can do amazing things with the stroke of a brush. I finally find my peace as I finish up on the side of a building which was bugging the shit out of me.

I put my brushes back in the water, change into my sweats, and decide to actually get some sleep. Except I can't. The black-haired, brown backpacked, hauntingly beautiful guy invades my mind as I'm about to fall asleep.

For a split second, I think about doing what I caught Enzo doing. I give myself an evil grin and decide not tonight. Who knows when he'll be home from his date, and that's the last thing we both need to see again tonight. I laugh out loud to myself, remembering the look on his face when I walked in.
Golden
.

I pray to Thor sometime soon he'll walk in on me with sexy, don't-know-if-he-has-a-girlfriend, will-probably-never-see-him-again, Roman. Who knows, he's probably a dick. Or worse, snores. Yeah, a girl can dream.  

Walking the distance to the poli-sci building, I can't help but peek around to look for Roman. I parked back at the art lot, like always, so I'm walking on the same sidewalk I met him on yesterday. A few people are walking in the opposite direction, but no Roman.

I have to quickly side step a tall girl with blond hair and a side backpack. She almost shoulders me from looking down at her phone instead of paying attention to where she is walking. She doesn't even notice how she almost pummeled me. I can feel it already—it's going to be one of those days.

I'm not looking forward to Tuesdays and Thursdays because I don't have any art classes. I have more general eds left to take, on account of me substituting them for more art related classes freshmen year. In hindsight, I might not have made the best choice. Being a senior and taking government is going to suck balls.

It's unusually chilly outside for being late September, but that's Michigan for you. Trying to predict the weather is useless. I notice how hard the wind is blowing as a gust stings my skin. I'm going to have to consider another parking lot for Tuesdays when winter hits.

I struggle to open the heavy-ass metal doors to the building, but once I do, I finally find relief from the wind. I step to the side of the stairwell to get out of the way of those who know where they are going. You know, because I am considerate like that.

"Okay. Now, dreadful classroom, where are you located?" I look down at my schedule. "Three hundred forty-four."

Wonderful. It's on the third floor. Guess I'm taking these stairs after all
. I roll my eyes out of frustration and then take a deep breath in preparation of my ascent. I shouldn't care, I live on the third floor of my apartment building, but I would still rather avoid numerous flights of stairs when possible. My calves are surely going to be in shape by the end of the semester. See, I am an optimist after all.

I smile to myself as I reach the top. Now, where to go from here? Right, or left? Well, when the world doesn't treat you right, go left. I choose left. I notice as I'm walking I should have went right. Figures. Regardless, I make my way around to where I am supposed to be.

"Three forty-four, I found you."

I glance at my phone for the time. Twenty-five minutes early. Would now be too early to go in? It is, isn't it? Only a freshman would be so early. I'm not your typical senior; I'm always way early. It's just one of my many quirks. I can't be late. Never be late. If I am late, I won’t even go in at all. I hate when I act this way, but I can't control it. The "always be early" thing is something I learned from Grandpa Joe.

Being early is a good thing, however, pair a good quality with me, and my way of amplifying everything, and it will most definitely become a burden. Fuck it, I might as well go in, my only other option is standing out here in the hallway like a moron.

I barely get a foot inside the doorway when I freeze cold.

"Shit," I breath out, so only I can hear.

The guy with the brown—I mean, Roman—looks up from his seat. He's sitting right there, in the middle of the row closest to the windows. I take in the sight of him while I can. He is engrossed in a book. His foot taps rapidly on the floor and his hand strokes at the stuff on his chin.

It's not long before he notices me. When he does, his eyes devour me, making a point of eyeing me up and down. I'm suddenly self-conscious, watching him take me all in. He is the only other person in the room, and I find myself wondering what would cause him to be here so early.

My feet are basically glued to the tile, so I'm still standing by the door when I blurt out, "Am I, uh … Am I in the right class? Is this government?"

He nods his head once, says, "Yeah," and looks back down at whatever he was reading.

I knew I was in the right room. My delirium wouldn't allow me not to. He is either really into what he's reading, or just not into me. I hesitate, but I begin walking to his side of the room. I maneuver my way through, getting jabbed with desk corners here and there, not to the seat next to him, but the one in front of the seat next to him. Strategy. Can't be too obvious now. Do I really even want to sit by him? I mean, he doesn't seem to be at all interested. The answer is sad but simple.
Yes, yes I do.

Gradually, students start to make their way in as we get closer to the time the class actually starts. To my surprise, there doesn't seem to be any freshman in the class. In fact, everyone looks old. I may even be the youngest one here, so something's not right. Government is a general ed class, which means the class should be freshmen level.

I wait for him to say something, anything, to me. He doesn't even look up from his book so I decide to quickly scan over my schedule again.

"Son-of-a mother-fricken-effer," I swear, unintentionally in my normal tone, meaning everyone around me heard.

I signed up for Political Science 301 not 101.

"Why would they let me take 301? Wouldn't I need some prof to sign off, or something, since I didn't take the pre-req?"

"No, not necessarily," I hear someone respond.

A much older looking guy is sitting next to me.

"If you're a senior, sometimes they don't require it. I think they are too busy with the freshmen. They probably assume seniors are in high level classes without checking further. If you ask me, I don't think these advisors pay much attention to the students already going here," he tells me.

Damn, I didn't even notice him sit down.

"Martin."

"Huh?"

"My name, it's Martin." He holds his hand out to me.

"Rigbee." I grab his hand and shake it.

Turns out, I'm not the only one left in the world who shakes hands like a dork. So there's that.

He notices the way I'm looking at him, because he follows up with, "I'm a soccer coach at a middle school. I had to come back and fill a credit requirement."

Now I know why he looks old. Not too old, however, early thirties maybe. He's average looking, with light-brown hair and a plain face I probably wouldn't remember. He seems nice, though, and he has a warm smile. I think we could end up getting along. Martin also happens to be sitting directly in front of Roman. I can use his location to my advantage.

The professor closes the door now and begins his introductions to the class.

"All right, class, welcome to Political Science 301. I am Fred Weiss, your professor for the remainder of the semester, which lasts roughly three months. From now until December, I will be seeing your lovely faces every Tuesday and Thursday."

I turn away from Martin and face the front of the room. Weiss looks typical, exactly like I'd imagine. Older, mid-sixties maybe, nice white beard. Respectable enough to wear a suit jacket, laid back enough to wear jeans. I like him already. A stack of papers fills his hands, our syllabus no doubt. As expected, he counts out each paper. Row by row, he hands a pile to the student in the first desk, so they can continue passing them back.

I chance a quick look at the row next to me and am taken by surprise when I see Roman already looking in my direction. His eyes dart away in a hurry. He was looking at me. But, if I caught him staring at me, then he caught me too.

I turn back to the front of the room in an effort to hide the heat in my face, but I know I fail. He had noticed. Oh well, why shouldn't I wonder about him? We've already talked to each other, once. I don't understand, he seems to be purposely avoiding contact with me, acting like we've never met. Complete strangers. Well, we are not. We crossed that bridge on the sidewalk yesterday.

Maybe I'm overreacting. It has only been a day, and there is no reason for him to talk to me. It's not like we are friends. But we could be, if he would just smile at me, or something. I mean, rude much.

I'm stressing myself out over-analyzing everything. I bet he isn't even thinking about me. He's probably thinking about football, or pizza. Whatever guys think about in their spare time. He could actually be listening to what Weiss is saying.

Speaking of which, I have no idea where we are at in the syllabus, or what we are talking about. I should probably pay attention. I'm in a three hundred level class, after all. I'm probably going to fail.
Blah, blah, Constitution, blah, blah, blah, Declaration of Independence, blah.

"Hair," Weiss yells out.

The Hell? All right, I'm confused. I should've been paying attention.

"Guy with the hair. Yeah, you."

He's looking in our direction. At Roman. He does have nice and unusual hair. Thick, and gelled, and styled like a lead singer of a punk band. I guess we all get nick names in here.

"Okay, hair guy, start reading fourth line down," Weiss demands.

I scan the room and see everyone has their big ass book, the one required for the class, open to a specific page. In a panic, I look over at Martin. He already has my back, tipping his book toward me so I can see what page we're on. I open my book and hastily flip to the right page.

I realize the book is the same book Roman was burning a hole through when I walked in.
How did I not notice?
Why would he be reading already? Maybe he is one of those students. The kind who like to know shit ahead of time so they sound smarter than the rest of us. I hate those people. No, he doesn't seem the type. A question for another day, I suppose.

The paragraph we are reading, the paragraph
Roman
is reading, is an excerpt from the Declaration of Independence. And he is botching the crap out of it. I don't think I have ever heard somebody read aloud so bad before. He is stuttering and stumbling every other word, skipping words and whole sentences as he goes. Yep, he lost his spot again.