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I get up from my chair and head toward the checkout window. I pay my waste of a copay and head back out to my car. I shouldn’t be surprised. This is not the first time I’ve been denied what I desperately need.
It takes me longer to get back to campus due to rush-hour traffic. I park in the visitor lot and walk toward Livingston Hall. The top floor of the building has the computer labs. I make a beeline down the corridor to the help desk and IT support center.
A girl with purple hair removes her ear buds at the sight of a life form. “Whatcha need?”
“Is Zander Worthington working today?”
“Yup, he’s actually updating all of the machines in L205 to the newest release of Fedora.” She smiles, her eyes lighting up with the technical talk—even though it is one-sided. “It’s a flavor of Linux,” she adds, as if that is enough to make me understand the jargon.
“Oh, okay.” I swallow and nod politely. That sounds intimidating just thinking about it. Zander is probably having a field day getting his mind deep in computer softwariness.
I make a hasty retreat before I am sucked into a discussion on the importance of encryption and how to identify a secure website. Nope. Not in the mood for that today.
I find Zander in his element in the empty lab. One computer plays Sum 41, while he runs from machine to machine, updating the operating systems.
“Hey, what brings you here?” he asks, losing concentration at the creak of the door. “I’ve been worried about you.”
“I know. But please try not to. I’m fine. I came to work on my research for class. I figured that I would see if you were on shift. And you are.” I make my way over to him to get a closer look at the screens he is working on.
“Cool. I can set you up with one of the computers in here if you want to hang out.”
“Can you make sure that it looks like what I am used to? You know how I get freaked out over change.” I narrow my eyes at him. “Are you laughing at me?”
“Of course. You crack me up with your misguided repulsion.” He chuckles and flops down in front of one screen to stop the update process to preserve the familiarity for me to complete my task.
I replace him and remove my flash drive and notes from my bag.
“I forgot to tell you the other night that I saw inThe Headlinerthat the charity gala exceeded last year’s earnings and hit an all-time record.”
I smile. “Yeah, I saw that too. It’s awesome that the community supports such a worthy cause.”
“I’m glad you asked me to be a part of it this year. I had fun, Angie.”
“Me too.”
“I happened to see the photo of Graham with some blonde, as I’m sure you did,” he says softly, carefully walking on ice.
“Yeah. They work together. Apparently it was a publicity thing for his jewelry company.” Am I actually defending him? And most importantly—why?
“I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I don’t want to get hurt either,” I admit. But something tells me that is going to happen no matter how I slice it.
Once all of the machines are updated, he shuts them each off, and we walk down the stairs to the main exit. He walks me to my car and then enters his.
“Bye, Z,” I wave.
“See ya, Ang.”
I watch as Zander pulls out of his spot and leaves. There is something off about him tonight that I just cannot put my finger on; he seems sad. I turn my key, and my car sputters and struggles to start. I rev the engine and it gains life. I back out and pull onto the road. Raindrops sprinkle my windshield and glisten under the streetlights. I swipe them away with my wipers.
Fog settles over the ground, making everything look gray. I come to a stop at the intersection, and when I press down on the gas to move forward, my car shuts off. I switch my hazard lights on and check my gas level—which appears to be half full. No dash lights come on. I turn the key again and nothing happens. Silence.
I shift the car to neutral and turn the steering wheel to the right. I step out and move behind the trunk to give a firm push to the frame. Slowly, I guide it to the side of the road, into the shale. I shut off the caution lights, retrieve a white plastic bag to put in the window, and grab my purse. I lock the doors and call a towing company to come move it to a nearby shop for an evaluation.
Being just a mile away from the townhouse, I decide to risk the weather and walk the rest of the way. A little rain won’t make me melt.
I pull the hood on my jacket up over my head. I use the light on my cell phone to help guide my steps as I trudge through the mud until I see the first row of townhouses in the distance, where the sidewalk begins. The moving fog makes the entire area seem creepy—or it is just my overactive imagination playing tricks on me. I pick up my pace as the rain droplets get more frequent. My jacket absorbs most of the moisture from soaking into the next dry layer.
