Before I can ask him what the commute is like, Dr. Alvarez calls my name.
“Sebastian?”
I shrug a shoulder at Marco. “Catch you later?”
He points a finger gun at me. “Yeah, later, man.”
I weave through the group of lingering students still in the room and over to Dr. Alvarez’s desk.
“Quick minute?” he asks.
“Of course,” I say, and try to keep my head from doing that shame hang like I might be in trouble.
He leans back against his desk and rolls up the paper in his hands. “Two things. First…Ms. Ricks has been speaking very highly of you.”
I keep my face steady, trying not to grin too hard. “Thank you,” I say, and it’s not some humble brush-off. It’s real gratitude. Feels good to be seen.
“She says you don’t make a show of yourself,” he continues. “That you do the boring things well and the hard things gently. I wanted to tell you I see that,too. I’ve watched you in a few different rooms of mine over the last couple of years. There’s a steadiness in you that wasn’t there when you were a baby sophomore the first time I met you. I’m proud of your growth. You’re gonna do big things in this field.”
“That means…more than you probably know,” I say. “Thank you.”
He nods, then his face shifts into serious mode. “Second, we’ve had a spot open in the suicide loss group. Co-facilitator. Our alum who was doing Wednesdays got a last-minute job out of state.” He pauses to let that sink in. “Your name was next on my list, if you’re open to a switch.”
For a half second, I don’t even register the words he’s saying.
“I know the campus recovery nights have been meaningful to you,” he adds. “From what you’ve shared with me and what Ms. Ricks has relayed, you fit well there. If you want to stay there, that’s totally fine, but I also know your story and your interest.”
I inhale to buy a second. I love the recovery group. I like the ragtag family that’s starting to trust me. I like the rhythm of Wednesday nights. And I like…God help me, I like the fact that Lydia always shows up without fail, closed off, but always looks for me in the room, like I help her feel safer there. I like watching her open up, I like learning more about her, and I like being in the same room as her any chance I can get. If I switch nights, I lose that. I lose the clean, professional reason to see her every week in a place where my caring is allowed—
But…that also means those barriers and rules loosen up. I don’t have to pretend she’s something less than what she is.
Dr. Alvarez watches the whole debate going on in my head. “How does that sit?” he asks.
“I—” I start, and then look down at the desk. “I want it,” I say. Not wanting to think too muchand change my mind or pass up the opportunity.
He pushes off the desk and pats me on the back. “I think you’ll do really well there. We can transition you next week. I’ll fold you into the grief group supervision.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
Outside, the campus has fully taken on the fall season. Every year when the leaves try to remind us that death can be beautiful, I always have the urge to give it the middle finger, laugh in its face, and tell God he can keep the little life metaphors he built into the trees, and into the bones of this earth. But…that middle finger stays in my pocket today, and so does the anger. It’s no longer a second skin on me like it used to be. I can see death and accept what it is without letting it pull me down under the ground with it.
I sit down in the fourth row of Psych Health. I always sit in the fourth row now…becauseshealways sits in the fourth.
When the clock hits the start time of class, our professor claps once. “Okay, team,” he says. “Today, harm reduction and choice architecture. We’re going to talk about how to help people make the choice they want to make when our hot-shot brain shows up and says, ‘What if we didn’t?’”
The back door is closed, her seat stays empty, and I have to force my eyes to the front.
We’re in the thick of theory when the door opens back up. She slips in with her backpack against her stomach. Late. Not her style. She either misses a class entirely or she’s on time with a face that says,Nobody look at me; I’mnotfriendly.
She mumbles an apology to Dr. Helms, and he waves it off with a smile, already mid-metaphor. She slips into the second row, not even looking up, no check-in nod, and no smile like she does at every start of class.
Her face is turned towardthe front, but I can see the way her fingers fiddle with the hem of her sleeve, then go still, then press flat on the desk like she’s telling herself to stop fidgeting. Dr. Helms moves through his notes, and I keep checking the clock like I want time to go faster so I can check on her. When class ends, she bolts—head down and hood back up. She doesn’t even look in my direction.
I slide out of the row and catch up with her in the hallway. “Lydia,” I say, trying not to be too loud.
She stops but doesn’t turn all the way. “Hey.”
“You okay?” I ask. It feels like asking if it’s raining. It’s obvious that it is, but sometimes naming obvious things is all you know how to do in the moment.
