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Off Campus
“You have to get up and do something, Nora.”
I glared at Rachael. “I am doing something, Rach. I’m eating ice cream and watching Netflix.”
“Is that alcoholic ice cream?” Rachael asked, glaring at my almost finished pint.
“Maybe,” I responded, glaring back.
“How much of that have you had? It’s only ten in the morning.” Rachael reached for the pint I was nursing against my chest. I hoped if I kept the cold bucket pressed against me long enough it might numb my broken heart.
“None of your beeswax,” I said, holding the ice cream out of reach. Rachael lunged for the ice cream but I scrambled to the other end of the couch.
Exasperated, Rachael pulled back. Hands on hips, she said, “You can’t just stay here and get drunk on ice cream all day.”
“Why not?” I asked, spooning more into my mouth.
“Because it’s…” Rachael struggled to find a reason. “It’s pathetic.”
“Well”—I pointed my spoon at her as I made my point—“I feel pretty pathetic so at least what I’m doing matches that.”
Rachael perched on the arm of the couch, her face contorting from pity to problem solving. Mentally, I geared up for one of her patented pep talks.
“Did you ever tell Foster you love him?”
I scoffed, shoving another spoonful of my wine ice cream in to my mouth. As the delicious blackberry flavor melted on my tongue, I regarded my best friend with the appropriate disdain.
“When exactly should I have told him? When he was dumping me? Or after?”
“He might not have dumped you if he knew how you felt. It makes sense to end a fling. What you guys were doing was dangerous and reckless and stupid, if-if-you weren’t in love. But you are in love, so it’s worth it.”
I snorted. “Rachael I appreciate you trying to make me feel better but Foster just doesn’t care about me. It’s that simple. This isn’t a love story. It’s life.”
“How many times has he texted you?” Rachael asked. I glared in response. Rachael pressed. “How many, Nora?”
“I don’t know,” I lied. In truth, Foster had been texting me nonstop—asking me how I was doing, how I was feeling, if I needed anything. He said he still wanted to be friends. After the last text had come about fifteen minutes before Rachael’s intervention, I’d thrown my phone at the wall.
Later that day, after Rachael left and I sobered up some, I walked to campus. I was hoping to convince the registrar to let me drop Foster’s class. It was only one day past the no-penalty drop day, after all. I’d hopped in the shower, popped a few breath mints in my mouth, and made my way to campus.
There was no way in hell I could spend the rest of the semester in Foster’s class. Of course, because God hated me, I ran into Foster almost immediately.
“Nora…” Foster said, his voice laced with pity.
“This”—I pointed at my obviously disheveled appearance—“isn’t because of you. A very important goldfish of mine died. I’m quite broken up about it.”
“A goldfish?”
“Yes. His name was…” I paused, trying to come up with a name for the imaginary goldfish that was supposed to be saving my dignity. “Goldy?”
“Goldy the Goldfish?” Feeling even more humiliated as Foster repeated the ridiculous name, I opted to walk away from him. It was better to leave rather than endure more embarrassment. I rounded the corner, realizing I’d made a directional error. I was at the end of the hallway, the lights were off, and there was just a door marked “Custodial.”
Just perfect.
Can’t I get a break?
“Nora, talk to me.”
Apparently not. I turned around to see Foster, the light behind him an angelic shadow. I watched him walk toward me, powerless to move. When he placed his hand on my cheek, I melted. I let him pull down the straps of the dress I was wearing.
