The boy next door

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Solby

It isn't that Sam golbach is shy, necessarily.  It's just that he's the type of guy who enjoys keeping to himself and remaining anonymous.

The fact of the matter is that anonymity feels like a rare thing to have nowadays, living in Los Angeles.  And anonymity is the one thing that Sam seems to cling to above all else.

Having grown up in a small town in Kansas, he'd never faced the struggles of a Californian until he'd came here for school.  He hadn't needed spare change to park his car.  He hadn't needed to purchase a bus pass, because ultimately his car could've taken him anywhere with minimal traffic.

But now— now he struggles to balance 19 credits a semester, because, as his mother would say,  "You'll never get a good job just by coasting along, Samuel Golbach. Challenge yourself." (His mother, bless her heart, had a PhD in astrophysics-- because of course she did-- so Sam couldn't help but feel the pressure to measure up her entire life.

So challenging himself was the only option, really.  And it isn't that Sam minds all that much.  Entering his third semester of grad school, he feels accomplished.  As though he's achieved more in his 21 years of living than most people his age.  Sure, maybe Los Angeles may not have been his first choice.  But hell, it certainly wasn't his last. 

Currently he sits at his dining table, one leg tucked up under him and the other dangling so that his toes just loosely graze the wooden floor of his apartment.  He absentmindedly tucks a strand of hair behind his ear and types something into his laptop, chewing at the inside of his cheek when the results of his search appear fruitful.

"What are you looking at?"

Sam nearly jumps out of his chair when he hears his roommate's voice break through the silence.  He quickly switches tabs over to his e-mail.  His inbox hasn't received anything new since the last time he'd checked it, which had been four minutes ago when he thought Devin was coming into the room.  For the sixth time.

"Nothing," Sam says, dismissively.  "E-mails.  Homework."

Devin is 26 and works for a law firm.  Which sounds much cooler than it actually is, Sam thinks.  All Devin does is answer phones and file paperwork every now and then, and she gets to wear the heels she likes everyday so all in all, no one complains. (Except for the days when Devin does, in fact, complain about every little thing that goes on in the firm and behind the scenes.  Sam thinks he knows a lot of these people's stories better than he knows his own, which is saying something.)

Devin looks at Sam incredulously, and scoffs.  "You cannot possibly have that much homework."

"I do!" Sam says, pushing his glasses up on his nose and clicking the "compose e-mail" button.  For what reason, he doesn't know, but it makes him look like he's doing at least something.

Devin groans, clomping in her heels across the hardwood floor and over to the kitchen.  She opens the fridge and bends down, which reveals a little too much of the pink lace she's wearing under her short dress.  When she straightens up, she's got a beer in her hand.  "Come on, kid  You've gotta have some type of plans for tonight."

"It's Thursday."

Devin rolls her eyes, rummaging through the nearest drawer until she finds the bottle opener.  "Have you never heard of Thirsty Thursday?"  She takes a huge swig of her beer and hums in delight before holding it out in Sam's direction.  "You want one?"

"No thanks."  Sam smiles, because Devin really is a sweet girl.  She means well.  It's just that she and Sam are two incredibly different people.  Which works out, really, because 95% of the time, Devin is gone and Sam gets the apartment to himself.  That isn't to say Sam doesn't worry about the older girl, but usually he'll receive a call or, at the very least, a text from Devin to let him know what her plan is for the night.

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