Constructing Us (New Adult Romance) (3 page)

Chapter Five

As soon as he stepped into the apartment, Tragan was hit with an insanely enticing aroma.  Better than a wood-burning stove or fresh coffee, this was a scent that had never filled 3B as long as he’d lived there: home-cooking. 

Lights shone from the kitchen
straight ahead, at the back of the apartment, and also from Andy’s open bedroom door. 

Instinctively, he sniffed the air
as he walked toward the light.  He knew he had to clear the air with his new roommate, if only to erase the weirdness of their initial meeting.  Like Matt had said at the Billiard Grill earlier, Andy was here now; no sense in making a thing about it.  Besides, after what Ethan had told him just now…

W
ell, Tragan couldn’t help but feel bad for the girl if she had a medical situation--but again, he wasn’t going to dwell on that.  Tragan had never been one to get into other people’s business.  His mother had chastised him more than once over the years, because of his lack of interest in “human news,” as she called it.  It was like she saw that as a bad thing--maybe a sign that he was too self-centered--but he just saw it as letting people have their boundaries.  What was so bad about that?

Now he approa
ched the open bedroom door.  When he glanced in, he stopped short.  Andy had her back to him and was bent over, unpacking a box.  Words failed him for a moment as his eyes zeroed in on her behind.  It was an automatic reaction.  He didn’t mean to stare, but the sight of her shapely, jean-clad ass locked his gaze for a moment.

Until, abruptly, she
stood up straight, snapping him out of his lusty trance.  When she turned around, she jumped, startled.  “Oh!” she said on a breath then pushed a few loose strands of hair away from her face.  Since seeing her earlier, she had put most of her thick, honey-blond hair up into a ponytail.  Seeing her face again, Tragan noted that her eyes were even bluer and prettier than he’d first noticed, and her face appeared warm--sweet.

Mentally he shook himself before he got muddled by an odd combination of feelings.  On the one hand,
he still wasn’t thrilled about having a female roommate.  Yet, he also felt a pocket of compassion for her.  Now add to that: an undeniable stirring of physical attraction.

See, this was why girls made living situations too damn complicated, he thought
, but forced an easy smile anyway, as he leaned on the door jamb.  “Hey,” he said.  “How’s the unpacking going?”

“Good,” she replied
.  “I’m almost done.”

As she said that, he eyed her room.  It was the smaller of the two rooms and
at the moment, seemed particularly overcrowded.  Piles of books were stacked all over the floor.  Hardcover books, paperbacks, all different sizes, were layered on top of each other, making a collection of shaky-looking towers that stretched from the floor to the window sill.  “Just got a few more cases of books and you’ll be all set?” he asked, giving her a sardonic grin.

Following
Tragan’s gaze, Andy laughed.  “Yeah, pretty much.  I guess I would be called a ‘book junkie’ in some circles.”  Then she tilted her head.  “Or ‘book hoarder’--if you want to be all judgy about it.”

His grin deepened.  “Never,” he said, holding up his hands.  “Do your thing.”

When Andy giggled, the sound relaxed him a little.  Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.  For all he knew, Ethan had been exaggerating about her condition anyway.  She sure didn’t
look
sick.  “Where were you living before this?” Tragan asked out of curiosity.

“My mom’s house in Chestnut Hill,”
Andy said, stepping a few feet closer to him, still carrying some books under her arm.  “I finished school in December, and after that moved in with my mom for a while, but…”  Her voice trailed off as she restlessly bit her lower lip.  Ripe, pretty lips...

“Where did you go to school?”
Tragan said, keeping his tone casual.

“
University of Chicago.”

“But you’re original
ly from around here?” he asked--then caught himself.  Why was he even asking these questions?  Who cared? 

Yet, as Andy answered, she continued to step closer to him
, and the closer she got, the more aware his body became of her.  On some level it made him want to keep the conversation going.  He supposed it was only to be expected with a very attractive female in his apartment.  He was a guy; he couldn’t exactly help being aware of her. 

At the same time, he wasn’t a clueless animal.  If he and Andy were going to be
roommates, he’d just have to push aside his awareness of her physical appeal and see her platonically.  How else would they be able to live together for five months without any drama? 

Besides that, he had his pride. 
He wasn’t about to make a play for a girl who might not be interested in him at all, and then have to face her everyday in the living room.  No, thanks. 

Now h
e realized she was talking.  “Actually, I have a huge bookcase at home,” she was explaining, “but I knew it wouldn’t fit here. So I just brought along some of my favorites.”

“I see,” Tragan said, nodding slowly, eying her collection again. 
“Just your favorite four hundred, huh?”

With a giggle
, she said, “Yeah, now you see.”

Come to think of it,
Ethan had never mentioned what she did for a living.  “Are you an English teacher or something?” Tragan asked.

“
No.  I was an English major, though.”  Then Andy paused, as a sigh seemed to escape. “I don’t know what I am right now,” she finished lightheartedly, but with a reluctant-looking smile.

Tragan pushed off the
door jamb, standing up straight.  Technically they’d broken the ice now.  There was no reason to continue, but nevertheless he said: “Listen, I’m sorry I was so shell-shocked before.  To be honest, I didn’t know you’d be a girl.  I was surprised, that’s all.”

Andy’s
blue eyes widened and her mouth curved open.  “Ohh...”  Blinking at him, she bit her lower lip again.  “Really?  I’m sorry.  I just assumed Ethan told you.”

Quickly, Tragan shook his head, assuring her, “No worries, it’s not gonna be a problem.”

“Okay,” she agreed.

“I should tell you that there’s a lady on the second floor who plays the cello on the weekends--and pretty badly.  So if you hear it, don’t worry, it’s not an animal being tortured.”

Andy remarked, “That’s a relief.  Thanks for the warning.”

“
Sure,” he said with a half-grin.  “Also, my friends hang out here a lot, but if you ever need the living room, just kick us out.”

“Oh, no, don’t worry,
I won’t be in your way.”

“Of course you’re not in the way,”
Tragan countered.  “It’s your place, too.”

Still, Andy waved a hand through the air, as if dismissing the notion.  “Really, you’ll hardly know I’m here.”

“Well…okay,” he said, a bit confused by her response.  “Anyway, trash and recycling collects on Tuesdays.  So just leave whatever you want me to take down by the front door.”

“I can do it myself,” she assured him with a smile.

“That’s ridiculous,” Tragan said, without explaining why.  But really, it should be obvious.  He was a guy, so taking out the trash was a given.  This wasn’t about trying to impress her--really.  This was just logical.  Did he take out Ethan’s garbage?  No, fine, he didn’t.  But that was because Ethan was a guy, too.  See?  Logical.

“Also, I have a car here so if you ever need a ride and I’m around, just let me know.”

“
Really?
” she blurted, not even hiding her shock.

Abruptly, Tragan chuckled at her reaction.  “Why do you sound
so surprised?”

“Oh, I--uh, no reason…”

He narrowed his eyes slightly, as his mouth curved up.  “You know, I’m thinking that Ethan depicted me as sort of a jerk.”

“No, no!” she insisted, her wide blue eyes just a little too eager to deny it. 

“Uh-huh,” he muttered doubtfully.

“Really,” she said sweetly, but now tr
ying to suppress a grin.

Tragan
smiled at her.  “Look, whatever he told you…  Can we start from here?  I’m a nice guy.”  Why had he felt compelled to add that?

“Of course,” Andy
agreed easily, extending her hand. 

As they shook hands,
he felt instantly the soft warmth of her palm, her fingers, the gentle way she clasped his hand in hers.  When the contact broke, he started to leave.

“Wait!” she called
.  He turned back.  “I made lasagna before.  It’s still in the oven.  If you’re hungry, you’re welcome to have some.”

His eyes lit up at that.  “
Lasagna, really?  So
that’s
the awesome smell?  I didn’t want to ask, but--um--
hell yeah
I want some!”   

She broke i
nto a smile that was part laugh and waved toward the kitchen. “Help yourself.”

“Thanks.” 
As he walked into the kitchen, he commented, “Huh, so the stove does work.  That’s good to know.”

“Um,
how
long have you lived here?” she called back.

“
Two and a half years.”

“Okay…”

Grabbing a bowl from the cabinet, Tragan threw open the oven door.  As it screeched on its hinges, he heard Andy call out, “Oh, by the way, it’s probably still really hot.”

C
asually, Tragan called back, “Eh, I don’t care if I burn my mouth.”  He spooned a mass of lasagna into his bowl, snagged a water bottle from the fridge, and crossed to the other kitchen exit, the one near his room.  On his way, he started eating. “Damn, this is so good,” he muttered to himself as he shoveled in more, even though it
was
half-burning his tongue.  Something even possessed him to yell, “Andy--this is awesome!” as he headed to his room.

That night Andy lay awake staring at the window across the room.  From here she could just see the bottom curve of the street lamp behind their building.  For endless minutes, she looked into the hazy, orangey glow of the bulb, lost in thought. 

Not good
thoughts, of course.  Good thoughts rarely kept her up.  Anxious thoughts, worries, scary hypotheticals--those were like vampires, emerging at night. 
Relax
, she told herself, pulling her mind back from the cliff. 
Reset
.

She’d never particularly been a worrier until she’d gotten sick at the beginning of her junior year of college.  What started as a bad headache
spiraled into a debilitating kind of chaos.  Was it a “bug”?  Mono?  A heart defect that had gone undetected all the healthy years of her life?  No, to all those things.  After a month in and out of the university medical center and a couple of overnight hospital stays, she’d gotten better.  The headaches had stopped, the tiredness faded.  Her strange illness began to recede into the past. 

Until she relapsed over Christmas break and ended up in the ER at St. Catherine’s Hospital in
Brookline.  Though they stabilized her blood pressure, they couldn’t figure out why it had plummeted in the first place.  She insisted on going back to Chicago for her spring semester and by March, she felt like her old self again.

It wasn’t until a full eight months later that it all began again.  This time her mother wanted her home, so she’d left school and taken the rest of the semester off. 

And now here she was--after recovering again and finally finishing her degree, a semester late.  Admittedly she had suffered a brief turn this past Christmas, but she’d only felt ill a few weeks, not months.  She’d love to think of that as progress, but since her condition was such a medical mystery at this point, who knew what to think?

If only
doctors understood “Bronsteg Disorder” better.  If only it wasn’t so rare and uncharted.  When she allowed herself to reflect on the situation, she felt like a time-bomb--perfectly healthy, but for how long?  At what random moment would it change again?  And would this strange uncertainty go on like this for her entire life?

When she busied herself during the day, she didn’t even think about it much.  It was at night that the fears tended to creep in--the dread of blinding headaches, dizziness, fuzzy concentration, even aching limbs.  Brad
had told her once that her muscles weren’t precisely
aching
; they just felt so fatigued that her mind mistook it for ache.  But what was really the difference?  The point was: it sucked.

Even though she’d felt perfect
ly fine for almost two months now, Brad had convinced her to join this latest drug trial.  Though he wasn’t part of the study, he knew about it since he was a second-year resident at St. Catherine’s.  The drug they were testing was actually for Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, but some of the symptoms overlapped, and CFS wasn’t all that well-understood, either (though it was far more common). 

About a year ago,
Brad had prescribed her anxiety meds to tame her worrying, but before starting the drug trial, she’d had to wean off of them.  Which was why she was lying here now with only her unfiltered, unsettling thoughts to lull her to sleep.  No chemicals to “boost her serotonin” or put her fears in pretty hats… 

Well, this was ridiculous.  If she couldn’t sleep there was no sense staying in bed.
  Peeling the covers back, Andy swung her feet out of bed and landed them on the soft, warm rug she’d laid down earlier.  She glanced around the moonlit room, admittedly happy with the apartment.  It was an old building, but clean and well-maintained.  The old-fashioned radiator was painted stark white to blend in with the walls, and she could tell that the hardwood floors had been recently refinished.

Her
mom didn’t see why she had to leave their beautiful, spacious house in Chestnut Hill to take a room in an apartment.  Of course, logically, she had a point.  But emotionally, this felt healthier.  This felt like Andy
wasn’t
going backward in life, living in her childhood home under her mother’s implicit protection.  Taking the apartment made Andy feel more in control of her life, even if it was mostly an illusion.

As for her new r
oommate, she couldn’t quite get a read on him yet. On the one hand, Tragan seemed like a typical guy her age: laid-back, slightly messy hair, friendly but not effusive about it, and he didn’t exactly project “maturity.”  Yet…

T
here was something palpably masculine about Tragan Barrett.  Andy saw it--
felt
it--as soon as he’d appeared in her doorway tonight.  It was probably just the intensely dark eyes, and the deep, almost gravelly voice.  Or maybe the broad shoulders and strong-looking arms.  Perhaps it was the faint five o’clock shadow that ran along his jaw.  He was certainly a contrast to Andy’s boyfriend, Brad.  Both men definitely exuded confidence.  But at twenty-eight, Brad was undoubtedly more serious-minded, well-spoken, and polished. 

Brad had offered for Andy to move in with him
before she agreed to take Ethan’s apartment.  She had declined, partly because Brad’s apartment--while gorgeous, in a coolly-modern-metallic-chic kind of way--was all the way out in Cambridge, and convenience-wise, she would have been better off just staying in Chestnut Hill.  The other reason she said no had to do with a lack of comfort-level there, as well as a lack of intimacy between her and Brad these days, and a desire not to analyze their relationship, which was beginning to drift.

Now she sat on the floor, facing several tall stacks of books she hadn’t figured out what to do with yet.  Hmm, what would be a comforting choice tonight?  A novel?  Or--maybe she’d look through one of her cookbooks and find a new recipe to try.  Cooking had become her hobby lately--her new distraction tool. 

Soon, time was going by more rapidly, Andy was turning pages and her mind seemed to relax, finally, as photos of food and passages on culinary techniques stimulated pleasant thoughts, creative thoughts.  Not for the first time, a quiet voice in the back of her mind sighed, relieved. 
Thank God for books
.