There’s nothing worse than a roommate with a boyfriend. Even when he isn’t really a boyfriend.
It’s been more than a month since Ivy and Dave’s first date, and I hardly see the girl anymore. Sure, she’s at the apartment sometimes, but when she is, Dave is usually with her. He’s even brought his guitar over a few times to play for Ivy, everything from Dan Fogelburg oldies and a few of his own compositions to the latest country hits, not that I would recognize them. Country isn’t my thing, but if I had a guy singing to me like Dave does for Ivy, I’d consider adapting.
When she’s not with him, she’s studying hard to make up for time lost to her not-boyfriend. One would think they were committed, if it weren’t for the fact that he hasn’t even held her hand, let alone kissed her. I’m not sure who that’s making crazier, me or Ivy. Not that she’s said anything to me, but I can tell she’s dying for some show of affection.
I’ve picked up some extra shifts volunteering with the after-school kids to fill the empty hours, but I’m getting desperate for company. So when I spot Ivy staring into space at the kitchen table on this Friday afternoon, I pounce. “Hey! Want to go see a movie?”
She startles out of her glazed stare and moves a hand to her idle laptop. “I should study.”
Her phone buzzes, and she reads the text with a spreading smile, then jumps up and clears her things off the table.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“Dave wants some help with a song he’s working on.”
“I thought you had to study.”
“I said I should study. There’s a difference. I can do that later.”
I try not to feel frustrated at being passed over again for a friendboy. “What’s up with you guys, anyway?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you’re always together, and you don’t date anyone else. Have you defined the relationship? Are you exclusive?”
Worry lines her forehead. “No. I mean, we’re not even dating, really, so there’s nothing to define. We’re just friends.”
“Just friends? I hardly see you anymore.”
She flushes. “Dave doesn’t like me that way.”
“You’re devoting a lot of time to a guy who only wants to be friends. Don’t you want more than that?”
“Of course I want more than that!” she snaps.
Whoa. Ivy isn’t a snapper. There’s a glint in her expression that dims against my silence.
“I’m sorry.” She sighs, plops back into her chair, and runs a hand through her untamed curls. “He doesn’t find me attractive.”
I’m dumbfounded. Ivy unattractive? Not possible. “If that’s true, he’s an idiot. Is he seeing someone else?”
“I don’t know when he would.”
I can certify that truth.
I think back on the last few times I’ve seen them together. Dave is always the gentleman, opening her doors and that kind of thing, and when they’re together, they both light up. Maybe I need to do some sleuthing.
With another heavy sigh, Ivy gets up again. “It’s whatever. I need to go get ready.”
“Is he coming to pick you up?”
“Yeah. Let me know when he gets here?”
A plan takes shape as I agree. As soon as I hear the water running in the bathroom, I take up a post in the courtyard outside our apartment. Mr. Platonic shows up a few minutes later.
“Hey, Dave,” I say.
He shares the smile he was already wearing and gives me a wave, slowing enough not to be rude but still making straight for our apartment.
“How’s it going?” I ask.
He slows further with a glance at our door. It’s obvious he’d rather be talking to Ivy than me, but he’s polite enough to stay and answer. “Pretty good. You?”
“Not too shabby. Glad to have midterms over. Haven’t seen much of Ivy lately though . . .”
His smile brightens. “Yeah, sorry about that.”
He’s not sorry. At all.
“So what’s up with you two?”
“Up?” His eyes go shifty.
“I’m pretty much her family here, so I have to watch out for her. You know.” I do a fake chuckle that he matches with a nervous one. “You like her?”
The panic is getting real, but he swallows and tries to cover. “Just friends. You know.” He clears his throat and tosses another look at our door.
“Oh good,” I say with another chuckle to ease his nerves as I move to the door. “I’m not ready to lose her to a boyfriend.”
His relief is tangible, but his eyes are cautious. I take him into our living room and tell him I’ll go check on Ivy, but just then I hear her coming out of the bathroom upstairs.
“Dave’s here, Ivy,” I holler, busying myself with tidying up the room to disguise my motives while I observe. He forgets about me as soon as he hears her voice.
“Hey, sorry. I’m almost ready—just looking for my keys,” she says.
He watches her walk all the way down the stairs—mostly the toned calves showing below her capris, if I’m reading the angle of his eyes correctly. Right before she looks up from digging through her purse, he throws a wall of shutters in front of the appreciation in his eyes.
“Hey,” he says with as much enthusiasm as most people reserve for a passing acquaintance.
“Hi!” She gives him a full smile, tosses her curls over her shoulder without artifice and searches her purse one more time.
His defenses take a major hit from her hair and perfume, but he recovers quickly. He glances my way to see if I’ve noticed, but I turn my back.
“I think your keys are over here.” I fetch them from the kitchen and bring them to Ivy.
She thanks me on her way out the door that Dave has opened for her. He watches her go through, then casts a wary look at me.
I offer him a vacant smile, but I can see that he knows I’m not fooled. He’s head over heels for my roommate.
Ivy’s desertion leaves me antsy and irritable and alone. I could seek out some company, but the most recent additions to our complex are all fresh from the dorms. That doesn’t sound promising as a solution for irritability, and thanks to my taking a year off for Peru, pretty much all of my close friends have moved on from the college scene. Since it looks like the alone portion of the equation is fixed, I’ll have to do something to change the antsy and irritable. New episodes of the series I’m addicted to won’t be out for six months, and I have no desire to delve further into my life story assignment. In desperation I don my trail shoes and running shorts. I don’t really like running, but it’s a means to an end. The endorphins will be good for me.
I choose a route that will take me through the tree-named streets and up Lookout Mountain. The air is crisp and the leaves are fabulous, blanketing the ground in red and gold and enabling me to ignore the Homo sapiens I spy playing or lounging along my route past the park. I hit the mostly empty trailhead parking lot at not quite a mile, my warm-up officially over as I make my way from asphalt onto Lookout Trail.
My feet appreciate the change to packed dirt, but my quads and calves burn as I zigzag up the mountain. I push through each switchback and enjoy the milder slopes in between, grateful I have yet to pass another soul, though I’ve seen some antlike humans milling about near the lookout above. Judging by the three or four cars in the parking lot, I’ll most likely run into someone somewhere on the trail. I’m hoping I won’t. This kind of solitude—with the autumn air and palette—is beautifully therapeutic.
When I reach the side trail leading to the lower lookout, I spot a small group ahead moving that way. I push harder, knowing it’s only about a hundred more vertical feet to the upper lookout, and reach the top in a rush, legs and lungs afire. Allowing myself a much-needed rest, I bend over my knees, close my eyes, and gulp in the crisp smell of fall. Once my lungs have caught up, I pull a tiny water bottle from my running belt, deciding I’ve earned a few minutes of sightseeing from the top.
I never tire of this view. Looking out over the Colorado Plateau to the west, I fancy I can see the curvature of the earth from this height. Below me, Oak Hills Reservoir has adopted a bluish tint in lieu of its usual green, thanks to the cloudless sky. A bead of sweat trickling down my back reminds me that I need to get moving, so I loft a prayer of gratitude heavenward and start back. Maybe I can get past the lower-lookout group before they return to the main trail.
Watching my footing, I avoid the worst of the loose rocks and push my pace on the glorious downhill. I don’t hear the group until we nearly collide at the intersection of trails. With a smile and an apology for startling them, I make my way past several pairs of ill-chosen footwear and some giggling before I hear a deep voice say my name.
“Grace?”
Trail shoes skidding to a full stop, I turn and find Noah watching me.
“In a hurry?” he asks, a cute little blonde sidling up to him.
A bright, fake smile takes possession of my face. “Nah, just getting a run in.”
“You run this?” the blonde asks.
“Sometimes,” I say, noting that she barely reaches past Noah’s shoulder, even in her thick-soled, spindly strapped flip-flops.
“I thought I was going to die coming this far, but Noah insists we have to go to the top.” She pouts and gives him a shoulder bump that hits his elbow.
“Oh,” he says, “Amy, this is Grace. I’ve been tutoring her in math.”
Amy grins knowingly. “Noah’s an absolute genius, isn’t he?” She looks back to Noah and nudges him again. “Too bad I didn’t know you when I was taking calculus.” She laughs, high-pitched and annoying, and I feel my endorphins slipping away. “Isn’t it awful?”
Noah’s brows furrow as I consider how to respond to that. As if I’d ever attempt calculus. Ha.
“I’m not—” I begin, but Noah talks over me.
“We’d better get up to the top before it cools off anymore.” He motions Amy and her fashionably useless shoes up the trail ahead of him and tosses an unreadable glance over his shoulder as he follows. “Enjoy your run.”
I mumble a thanks as Amy bids an enthusiastic farewell, and I resume my descent.
I get back to my apartment in record time, but somehow the post-running rush is AWOL.