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I toss his favorite cologne bottle down at his head. He dodges just in time. The glass hits the sidewalk and smashes into tiny shards. I’m sure there’s a really profound metaphor about how hurt people hurt people somewhere in all of this. I just don’t care enough to overthink it.
For two months, I allowed this jerk to string me along with his bipolar dating habits. The last month was a complete waste with him visiting family in Europe. What started out as a week’s trip ended up being a flipping month. Pretty sure that was the plan all along. False hope and sweet texts were enough for me to think there was a chance. I should have just sold his stuff on eBay and used the money to throw a bash.
“You mad over the breakup?”
“Mad you had to do it in the airport! In front of your entire family!”
A few people walk by the scene we are creating and snicker. One guy wearing his Gamma Delta Theta frat T-shirt snaps a picture with his cell. Russell flips him off. A skinny redheaded girl mumbles an exaggerated “dude” under her breath. I give them a wave and a big grin.
Next, I hurl out a plastic bin of his shoes—purposely leaving off the lid. I watch from above as he tries to pick them back up. Pretty sure the only flower we have is now smashed.
“Hell, Angie! What’s your problem?”
My giggle is demented. “Just cleaning house.”
Russell is my July-’til-August mistake. I have no room for distractions like Russell this semester though. Second chances are not always free, so maybe losing this type of boyfriend baggage is the best thing to happen to me.
Next goes his entire tennis racket collection. I throw each one down separately. All eight of them.
“You crazy bitch!”
I feel childish but oddly refreshed. Empowered. Invigorated.
I slam the window shut and sit back on my heels, watching him scurry to retrieve his briefs from the shrubbery and dig out his watch from the dead flowerbed. Serves him right. Bastard.
* * *
I drive past the dorms on my way to Harrison Hall to meet with Dr. Williams. The first-year new arrivals of River Valley University are busy unloading vehicles and hugging loved ones goodbye. Welcome to a life of ramen, Easy Mac, and the deprivation of Vitamin D.
It feels weirdly nostalgic watching the new herd start their journey, when I’m on the last leg of mine. Sure, it is taking me longer than anticipated, but I remind myself that life is too short, and worrying over it will only make it shorter. Some things are just out of my control.
I slow down as a group passes in front of me. I can’t believe this is it. My last semester—the sequel. I park in the permit-only lot and clip my tag to my rearview mirror. For a Saturday, the lot is nearly full. With classes officially starting on Monday, the campus is buzzing with life.
I jog into the main entrance of the building and travel to the end of the hall where Dr. Williams’s office is located. I dread going in but know that backing down now will be the death of my dream—before it even has a chance to take flight.
I give two light knocks on the door and am quickly greeted by a young bright-eyed girl in her upper teens. Her arms are full of file folders. A possible work-study student? This is a first.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m here to meet with my advisor.” Even though it’s a weekend, many of the senior professors are in their offices. It is a tradition, and I imagine an excuse for many of them to get together for a celebration later.
Her smile is contagious. “Dr. Williams is free. Go on back.”
“Thanks.”
I walk past the shelves of books and find the door half open to his study. I give a knock.
“Who is it?” Dr. Williams’s voice breaks. He gives a cough, and through the crack of the door, I see him take a sip from his mug.
“Me.” I open the door and peek my head inside. “Is now a good time?”
“Miss McFee.” He places his mug back on the ceramic coaster and straightens his posture. His leather chair creaks with the movement. “I wasn’t expecting to see you.”
Dr. Williams’s mahogany desk is polished and clean of clutter. In the few years I have been a student here, his organizational skills—or ability to hire help—have improved tenfold.
“I decided to give it another shot,” I volunteer with a shrug. “I want to try for an internship again.”
He motions to the chair in front of his desk, and I take a seat.
“As you are well aware, Miss McFee,” he says, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses, “not every student who applies gets an internship.” He pauses to emphasize the fact. “Just the cream of the crop. You can always have an English degree without any journalism attached, you know?”
