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“When I get back, you’ll ask me out again, won’t you?”
He smiled and nodded. “When you get back.”
Now, I grab my purse and turn back to Alexander. “He won’t mind. He’s not here today.”
Alexander nods. “Good. Then let’s go—I’m starved.”
I take the flowers he holds out and set them on my desk. Even though I’m still feeling slightly bitter about the events of the weekend, I say a small thank you, but that’s it. I’m not sure I feel up to pleasantries just yet.
I don’t know how to feel about what happened with Alexander. I can’t blame him for everything. He didn’t force me to drink as heavily as I did, but he and his friends did supply the drinks and ensure the night turned out as chaotic as it did. To say I was out of my league going out with a group like them is an understatement. I’m not sure what would have happened had I not thought to drunk-dial Professor Barclay. Honestly, the night could have taken a horrible turn, which is why it seems Alexander has his tail between his legs today. He must realize he messed up.
We stop off for salads and eat outside on a park bench. We go through forced pleasantries while we pick at our food, and then he turns to me and flat-out apologizes.
“I’m sorry, Emelia. I should have taken better care of you on Saturday.”
I don’t tell him it’s okay, because it’s not.
“I wasn’t aware you guys were doing drugs.”
He clears his throat.
“Were you?” I press.
“Yes.”
I’ve lived such a sheltered life. Even at Dartmouth, short of a few edibles, I never dabbled in much of anything. I never felt the need to.
“Are you okay?”
My question catches him by surprise.
“Of course. Are you?”
I nod.Thanks to Professor Barclay.
“I’m not perfect,” he admits, like he’s shattering some false image I had of him.Did I?
“We all cope in different ways. Do you think—”
He cuts me off. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”
“How long have you had a problem?”
“I don’t have a problem.” He sighs, then continues on in a short, clipped tone. “Listen, Saturday night shouldn’t have happened. I apologize for it, but beyond that, I’m not getting into it.”
I stay silent, shifting lettuce around in my to-go container like I might actually take another bite of my salad.
“I know what the world thinks,” he says, sounding wistful. “There’s no pity for the rich drug abuser, the depressed millionaire.”
“Are you depressed?”
He laughs like I’m being naive. “Emelia, we’realldepressed. Haven’t you heard? This is the age of anxiety.”
I frown, not appreciating his sarcastic tone. “I think some people are happy. My friend Sonya is.” I think I could be…
“Yeah, well, I’m not like her.”
My stomach squeezes tight.
