Page 1 of Love is an Open Book
One
Gavin
Nine Years Ago
Past midnight, and all I want to do is take off my backpack and fall into bed, but my apartment is blocked by a woman with her cheek pressed to the door, palm cupped around her ear like she’s listening. The stairwell door closes behind me with a hollow thud, and the stranger jerks upright, meeting my gaze with wide eyes. She swipes her sleeve across her cheek.
Even from this distance, it’s clear she’s been crying. Is still crying, from the loud sniff that cuts through the silence.
“You okay?” My eyes shift from her tear-streaked face to the latched door. I moved in a month ago, at the start of the spring semester, and my roommate seems like a decent dude, but if he’s abandoning crying women in the hallway at midnight—or anytime—we’re going to have a problem.
Instinct propels me forward, closing the space between us to where I can talk without raising my voice, but far enough not to crowd her. “Did he lock you out?”
“Forgot something inside.” Her gaze is steady, head high, though her brown eyes are blurry with unshed tears, thick lashes clumped with moisture. “I can come back later.” But she glances at the door again, like she’s not ready to leave without whatever she left behind.
Shifting the grocery bag to my left hand, I stick my hand in my pocket for my keys, ready to let her in, but hesitate. What if I’ve got it wrong? Could she be a vindictive ex trying to get revenge? Granted, Ted doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to inspire violence—or passion—but you never know.
Then again, what damage could she possibly do? She’s a head shorter than me, and about my age, I’m guessing. Her dark brown hair, parted at an angle, falls in a smooth curve to the collar of her puffer coat. Salt clings to the toes of her boots, probably from the sludgy sidewalks around campus. My own shoes are soaked after trudging through snowdrifts, but this stranger at my door has pushed aside my desire to hurry inside and warm up.
She’s taking me in, too, not bothering to hide her evaluation. “You’re Ted’s new roommate?”
I nod. “And you are?”
“Ted and I...” She sniffs and blinks rapidly. “We, uh...” A tear slips down her cheek and she swipes it away with the heel of her hand, like she’s frustrated with herself.
Enough of this. I hoist up the shopping bag, holding it open so she can see the paper products I picked up at the corner store. “Butts or spills?”
Her arched brows tug together in a frown, but she steps closer and peers at the paper towels and package of toilet paper.
“Butts or spills,” she repeats, deadpan. Eyes lifting to mine, she gives me a wry grin. “Let me guess. Marketing major?”
Faking dejection, I sigh. “Just know that if you tell me to find a new dream, you’re not the first.”
She breathes out a laugh. Progress. But her nose is still running, so I raise the bag higher, prompting her to pick one.
She grabs the toilet paper. “Butts it is.” Her eyes cut toward the door, a frown tightening her brows. “Assholes, more like.” Tearing open the package, she takes out a roll and unwinds it, dabbing at her face.
I found my roommate through an online post and don’t know him well, but I’m guessing she does. And if she says he’s an asshole... “Want to talk about it?”
Her dark brows arrow inward. “With the stranger who caught me lurking at his door?”
“With your boyfriend’s roommate.” A guess, but not a stretch.
She blows her nose. “Ted’s not really an asshole. We’ve been friends since freshman orientation. And he’s not my boyfriend, either. Not anymore.”
That explains the tears. “Breakups suck. How long were you together?” I go home most weekends to help out my dad with our family’s tree nursery, so even though I’ve never met her, for all I know, they’ve been together awhile.
“Long enough for him to realize he chose the wrong sister.”
“What?” I lose my grip on the toilet paper I was jamming back into the bag, and it bounces to the carpet by our feet.
She stoops to retrieve it. “Wish I was kidding. I told him I was falling for him, but he told me he’d made a mistake.”
“Unless she’s your identical twin, that’s messed up.” The moment the words leave my mouth, I wish I could yank them back. Humor is my coping mechanism, but I’m actually appalled on her behalf.
To my relief, she laughs, an incredulous squeak. “This isn’t a romance novel.”
“That happens in romance novels?”
