An image flashes in my head—the night of her overdose, a guy with sad eyes covered in tattoos on the sidewalk. I don’t ask if it’s him. Not everything has to be labeled. But I can’t help but wonder if that was him. It would make more sense if it was.
“So…how was your,” I start gently, already wishing I’d kept it lighter, “last real relationship…was it…good?”
Something shifts in her body language and expression. I notice it right away and regret asking that now.
“I’m sorry,” I say immediately, palms up. “You don’t have to answer that. I shouldn’t have—”
“No.” She shakes her head, eyes flicking down at the table and back to me. “I asked you first, I started this, it’s a fair question.” She takes a breath that lookslike it hurts and sets her cup down carefully. “The last—and only—relationship I had was…from fifteen to seventeen.” The words come out gently, but I can hear how they hurt her. “He was…not very kind. To me. To himself. It got bad fast. He’s the one who killed himself,” she swallows, “in front of me.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. Two words that are too small, but the only thing I have to give her. “You don’t have to talk about it if—”
“It’s okay to talk,” she says, almost like she’s reminding herself. “I think keeping it all inside is what made me run, made me use things to numb so I didn’t have to think about it. Talking seems to be the better way out now.” She looks past me. “He was…verbally pretty awful. Physically abusive, too. It gotreallybad. He taught me that love feels like waiting for a storm to pass and hoping you just don’t drown in it first. And after he died…well, before he died, he made it his mission to leave me with a pretty big scar for after he was gone, bigger than any of the physical ones he gave me. I had broken up with him, and like in the way he knew I wasn’t coming back this time. So, he made his death all about me, told me it was my fault…and also told the world it was my fault…told everyone that I pushed him to do it. I dealt with bullying before…my whole life, actually, but it wasreallybad after that. He made me the villain to everyone else, made sure I had to live with that.”
My stomach drops in that way that feels physical, like a floor giving or the drop in a ride. The thought of someone hurting her, putting their hands on her, treating her less than the most valuable thing on this earth, kills me…makes me want to kill him…if he wasn’t already dead. How can someone do that? What had to be so messed up in his head that he could even do that? I can’t seem to make myself feel bad for him, though. Anyone else, I would try to analyze their life, their childhood, their trauma, how they got there. But I can’t. Not when it comes to her. I try to feel bad for thinking it, but can’t. I’m glad he’s in the ground. Almost wish I could have put him there myself.
I tamp the feelings down. She doesn’t need my rage. She has her own. What she needs, I think, is my presence. The most boring thing I know how to offer. I don’t even register I’m doing it until I feel her hand under mine. Her hand is warm and small, and the contact sends a current up my arm that has very little to do with lust and everything to do with being alive at the same time and in the same space as her. She stares at it, but doesn’t move, not away at least; it almost feels like she moves into it. I eventually pull back, not wanting to overstep any more than I just already did.
“We can go back to studying,” I say after a moment.
She exhales and smiles a little. “Let’s read about choice architecture before my brain tries to set off those smoke alarms.”
The look she gives me reassures me that I didn’t just cross any line she wasn’t comfortable with, and I feel the relief wash over me.
We work for a while in this easy rhythm with each other before we pack up in that unhurried way that feels scary comfortable, like neither of us wants to leave.
“Hey,” she says, shyly as she stands up. “Greek game night is this weekend. You should come…with me. My roommates will be there, too,” she adds quickly.
I place a hand over my chest. “Is this you asking me on a date?” I’m aiming for funny, but land somewhere closer to being a dork.
She tilts her head and gives me the most playful and flirty smirk. “Maybe I am.”
I grin before I can help it. “I’d love to. Actually, Mason hasn’t shut up about it, so he’ll be thrilled you’re getting me to come.”
“Okay, good,” she says softly with a smile. “It’s…just nice to have more sober people around…makesthe drunk ones less…”
“Annoying,” I finish.
She laughs and then nods.
Before the caution part of my brain can wake up and lecture me on the bad idea, I stand up and hug her. She’s stiff at first, but quickly melts into it, her hand finding the spot they fit perfectly on my back. She smells like cinnamon gum and coffee and something that’s probably just her, light and sensual at the same time, a scent that I think is my new favorite.
We walk out together, and I walk her back to her dorm like I always do.
“I’ll…see you around,” she says, walking towards her building’s door.
“See ya, Lydia,” I echo.
69
Lydia
Greek game night looks like pure chaos. It’s fun and a hot mess and wild in a way that I don’t need alcohol to enjoy. It’s exactly what I need.
We walk through the front door of the Sig house, and it’s all string lights, folding tables, and someone yelling about whether Uno stacks are legal. Simone gets taken away immediately—hugged six times in a row by girls in coordinated tees and boys in Polos. Lani and I drift toward the kitchen island, and Sandro walks over like he owns every room he enters, or just never caring who else is in it. He hugs his sister and then hugs me.
Mason appears not long after. He smells like cologne and a little bit of pre-gaming beer.
“Ladies,” he says, but I’m too busy scanning nearby foranothertall boy to say anything back to him.
