Book IV of the UNC Series
Carter Blake has a bone-deep hatred for the world-and especially for the people in it. All he wants is to keep his head down, focus on school and basketball, and avoid the mess of human connection. After enduring years of...
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Pinning up another flyer, I ensure it's hidden behind the other ads so it's not as visible. Ryan said I had to find a roommate, but it's not my fault if no one sees the flyer. If no one calls and I don't find a roommate.
At least I tried. Can't fault me for that.
I can prove through the flyers that I made an effort if Ryan or Carsen were to ever ask me about it. Not that he ever would.
Since Ryan demanded this of me, I've been taking my time and delaying the process as much as possible. I've been fielding the calls, avoiding unknown numbers in hopes that Ryan and Carsen will get over this ridiculous notion that I need a roommate to be social.
I know I'm being difficult on purpose. But what did they expect? A roommate isn't going to force me to do anything. I'll just have this extra person in my space, getting overly involved in everything. I'm going to lose my sense of home, my sense of comfort.
But on the flip side, I know why they're doing this. Why they have resorted to kicking me out if I don't find someone. And as much as I hate it, I can't fault them for it either.
I could have easily put a random number on the flyer, but in case Ryan sees it—since her PhD supervisor's office is on Weston's campus—I can't risk her taking matters into her own hands and finding someone to occupy the space herself. I would rather find someone myself if I'm compelled to do this.
"Are you seriously putting up flyers on a bulletin board instead of posting an ad online? You're really making this as difficult as possible, aren't you?"
Speak of the devil.
I roll my eyes and duck my head, tucking the sheets into my bag before turning to her. Dressed in a UNC sweater and leggings, her long dark hair is swept back into a high knot, her cheeks flushed as she steps through the glass doors.
She crosses her arms and fists her hands in the crook of her elbow as she stands before me. Her icy blue eyes narrow as she glances over my shoulder at the flyer. Her nostrils flare, and her brows slant slightly as her gaze darts back to me with an agonized, crestfallen expression.
When I don't bother with a response, she lets out a solemn exhale, "You're a jock. An outstanding basketball player. Jersey chasers literally follow you around," just as she says it, a pair of girls walk by us as they wave and giggle. I grimace as she gestures to them like it's pretty obvious, "People love you despite how you react to them. Yet you hate people. I get the whole feeling of being alone and revelling in isolation," she uses air quotes before glaring at me sternly, "I get it. But you don't even talk to your friends or the people you used to like. You go out of your way to make it difficult for us to reach you. Why? What did we do, Carter?"
I press my lips together, turning away to avoid her gaze. She always asks me the same questions, but I never have the guts to answer. How could I tell her that I'm protecting the very people she's talking about? That's precisely why I can't say anything.
