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She knew the gory details of everything that had happened in France and when I got back. She hated Elden in solidarity with me.
Except I didn’t hate him. Not one bit. But I got good at pretending I did.
Our other two roommates were great. Henri was Korean and a double major. Her hair was cut in a severe bob that made her look much older than she was. She came from a hideously rich family and was constantly put together in monochromatic outfits and holding a stack of textbooks. She also loved to party and was in a polyamorous relationship.
Ollie always wore a beanie and had a smattering of freckles across her face. She was a tech major who spent a lot of time in her room on her computer but also baked kickass muffins, which she did for us every morning. Mostly because she was wired from the energy drinks she’d been chugging all night while she was doing … whatever it was she did on that computer.
Our house was an eclectic mix of all of our styles … bohemian, glam, eccentric, classic. We had a chore chart, and everyone seemed to get along harmoniously even though we were all pretty different.
Sure, I was still feeling a little sorry for myself and unsure in my own skin because it still burned with the ghost of Elden’s touch. I didn’t sleep much, which was fine because there wasn’t much time for sleeping. Not with all the campus parties we had to attend because I needed to be ‘introduced’ to our year, according to Sariah, who seemed to know everyone there was to know and whom I had yet to see wear the same outfit twice.
All of her clothes, accessories and her car hinted that she, too, like Henri, had seriously loaded parents. But since mentioning them in regard to the origin of her name, she hadn’t spoken of them once. I understood that, considering I’d rather donate a kidney than speak about my father.
I hadn’t heard from him. There was no way for me to hear from him since there was no way for him to get my new number, and his was blocked. My grandmother would never give it to him. I wrote her a long letter about … well, everything. Because I wasn’t sure how to say it on the phone and because I couldn’t be sure how she’d react. I adored my grandmother. She was warm, kind and had a wicked sense of humor. My grandfather was a little more stuffy, serious, but he was one of my favorite people in the world.
Still, my father was their only son. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to hear what a monster he truly was. I also couldn’t imagine what he was telling them in my mother’s absence.
It hurt my heart not to be in contact with them, not to share my new home with them, not to send my grandmother photos of the outfit I wore to the first day of classes—she had wonderful style and followed fashion week like it was the Super Bowl.
I hoped with everything in my heart that my grandmother would believe my mother. That I wouldn’t be forced to lose almost all of my family in one fell swoop.
Again, the ache of that prospect, my inner turmoil over Elden and everything that happened in France was swirling inside of me as I partied and commenced my first week of classes.
They were tough. I shouldn’t have expected much else considering I was taking the maximum amount of courses and majoring in architecture at an Ivy League school, but I’d been a little spoiled with the European approach to learning and life in general. Everything was slower there. There wasn’t that frenzied urgency to be the best, the idea that there was only a certain amount of places at the top, and if you paused, if you made time for rest, then you’d forsake that spot to someone who wanted it more, someone who hustled harder.
Again, it was a good thing because the less time I had to think the better.
I had not heard from Elden since I told him to lose my number, and him not calling meant he was respecting my wishes. But still, when I went to sleep, it was fantasizing about him turning up at my door—in the rain because it made it more dramatic—while declaring that he couldn’t think without me then carrying me into my room and claiming me.
That did not happen.
But the rain did.
A torrential downpour—apparently, a record amount for the area in one hundred years—began just as I was driving home.
The anxiety began the second the first rain drop hit the windshield, and was an absolute wreck by the time the downpour was in full effect. It was hard to breathe, my fingertips numb from my ironclad grip on the steering wheel. My vision blurred.
It was one of the worst attacks I’d had, most likely made worse by all of the emotions I’d been ignoring the past weeks. Had it really only been … eight weeks since my life changed so completely? Though a therapist might not agree with me, I was proud that this was my first mental breakdown.
From somewhere faraway, my phone buzzed, and on autopilot, I pressed answer on the car’s screen.
“Are you driving?” the voice rumbled through my car, battling against the hammering sound of the rain and my sobs.
I could suddenly feel my fingers again, and I could breathe underneath the weight on my chest, his voice floating into all those chaotic places and creating a state of calm.
“Elden?” I hiccupped. Even in my current state, it felt nice saying his name. I hadn’t even let myself think it. I’d been trying something different.
It hadn’t been working.
“Yeah, baby, it’s me,” he said, his voice gentler than I’d ever heard it.
“Why are you calling me?” I asked, my heart rate slowing further as the road came into more stark detail, though I still couldn’t see more than the distortion of taillights.
“Are you driving, Violet?” he repeated, voice still gentle.
I nodded, focusing on the road but also on the tenor of his voice. Things got slower. The world no longer seemed like it was going to implode.
Then I realized he couldn’t see me nodding. “Yes, I’m driving,” I told him. “I had a full day of classes and I forgot to eat and my roommate said she really felt like burritos from the good Mexican place,” I babbled, letting my grip loosen a tad on the steering wheel.
