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A blush stains my cheeks as I look up. My hands are still floating slightly over my legs, tracing letters in the air, before I force myself to rest them on my thighs. “Oh—yes. Sorry.”
“We’ve got it, Dr. Britton.” Paloma covers for me, smiling gently while our professor stands and walks around his desk, handing us both our respective folders back. “As long as you like the ones we’ve chosen—”
“I think your choices are excellent. I cannot wait to see what you two come up with.” As he says it, his hand grasps Paloma’s shoulder.
And then everything happens too fast.
Paloma jolts forward as if she’s been electrocuted, nearly falling out of her chair as she wrangles herself away from us both. A phone rings, distant in my ears, like I’m hearing it underwater. I stand—I don’t know if it’s to go toward her, to move away, or to leave. Only then I’m immobile, watching as she huffs a few breaths and gives us both her back, facing the door to his office.
“Are you all right?” Dr. Britton asks, concern coloring his voice. “Miss Blake—”
“No, I’m fine. I’m fine.” The words are said half to us and half to herself.
Paloma doesn’t look at me as she gathers her things and slides her ocean-blue backpack onto her shoulders. I want to reach for it, to hold it for her and walk out with her.
I should ask the same question our professor did. I should follow her and make sure she’s okay, offer to walk with her, carry her bag—I want to do all of those things so badly my teeth ache.
Instead, I’m still frozen standing by the table, my tongue stuck on all the questions I didn’t get to ask.
• • •
Paloma doesn’t show up for practice that night. Or our usual meeting for poetry—she cancels over a quick text. My stomach rocks with nausea that only grows when I walk Seven alone, not used to the extra space without her beside me.
“Hey, Bennett?”
Realizing I’m frozen on the walkway to our dorm, I look up toward Rhys as he steps out and pulls the door closed behind him.
“Yeah?”
“All good?”
I bite down on my lip and glance back at the overgrown sidewalk. “It needs to be mowed.”
“Yeah,” Rhys agrees easily, reaching down to tap Seven on the head. It’s only then I can feel the weight of my dog’s body pressing into my legs. “You’ve been out here for a while. I know this is stressful, but I can call and see about getting someone to landscape it.”
“It’s fine,” I say, attempting to ignore the way I try to straighten Seven’s collar four times before I can pull him off my feet. “Have you eaten?”
Rhys shakes his head, smiling, dimples gleaming. “I waited for you.”
“I’m going to make beef stroganoff then.”
“My favorite,” my best friend says. It’s not his favorite—I know that. But I also know he’d say that to anything that came out of my mouth right now.
I’ve been in therapy since I was eight, long enough to tell when things are getting worse in my head. My anxiety is dialed up, which means I need the distraction and control over the kitchen. I need something that takes all my attention.
When Rhys leans over the small countertop space, I eye him again.
“I’m fine. You don’t need to watch over me.”
My words roll off Rhys like water, no effect on the set of his shoulders and intense watchfulness.
“Sure. You’re making a complicated meal in our dorm kitchen after standing outside by the door staring at the grass for almost an hour.” He doesn’t wait for me to decipher the sarcasm or react to it, just continues on. “Something is bothering you. I know things are different now than they were at Berkshire. But you know I’m still here for you.”
My heart clenches, mouth opening like I might be able to tell him how I feel. Tell him about Paloma.
Rhys is everything you have never been. He completes you.
My anxiety pulls tighter at my chest. I try to focus on the facts, the things I know are true, but it doesn’t help.
