I don’t text Stanley about it. I don’t text Stanley at all.
I go for a walk that has no destination. I end up in front of a stationery store off campus that I have walked past a hundred times and never entered, and I go in, and I buy a leather journal — heavy, unlined, the good kind. I put it in my bag, and I walk home.
I sit at my desk. I do my homework that’s due today and tomorrow before the holiday. The stick is still in the corner of my room. I don’t look at it. I attend my afternoon classes, submit what’s due, and it’s nice to get that checked off my list.
When I go to sleep that night, I’m thanking my lucky stars that my dad hasn’t forced me to take more notes on Stanley’s performance at practice. I’d be mortified if I had to.
On Wednesday at six in the evening, my father’s assistant forwards me a confirmation. My parents have booked me a flight. Thursday, 6 a.m. Return Saturday, 2 p.m. They booked it through Dad’s travel guy because my father has a travel guy.
I stare at it.
Stanley.
I have, since Sunday, received zero logistics from him about how he intends to physically arrive in the state of Connecticut. So I have no choice but to pull open our text messages and type something.
Me:Flight info. Thursday 6 a.m. Return Saturday 2 p.m. My parents booked it.
I set the phone aside and turn back to the report. It buzzes in under thirty seconds.
Ermington: I’m coming over.
I blink.
Me:Why?
Ermington: To book the same flight.
Me:You can book a flight from your own house.
Ermington: I need to see the confirmation in person.
Me:You do not need to see it in person.
Ermington: I do.
Me:You don’t.
Ermington: Linwood. I’m three doors down. I’m coming over.
I stare at the phone. I type, delete, type.
Me:Fine. Ten minutes.
Ermington: Five.
I am off the chair before I’ve put the phone down.
There’s a pile of folded laundry on the chair, a stack of three reports on the desk, two mugs on the nightstand, and a bed I didn’t make this morning because I’ve been feeling off and can’t get it together.
I make the bed in ninety seconds. I move the laundry into the closet. I rinse the mugs in the bathroom and run to the kitchen to set them down. Kirra walks down the stairs right at the perfect time to catch me being frantic.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah, just busy,” I call out.
I race back to my bedroom and square the reports into one clean stack. I close the laptop. I turn in a slow circle in the middle of my own room.
I see the stick. It’s in the corner. I haven’t solved the problem of how to give it back to him.
