by Lori L. Otto
“S’okay. What’s up?”
“I need to talk. Like, a serious talk. Do you have some time?” I look around the coffee shop, speaking low to make sure no one’s eavesdropping. I feel good, having nabbed the only single table in the back corner.
“Sure, yeah. Wow. I feel honored. Me over Max, huh? Is it about Max? Is everything okay?” He’s suddenly awake and worried.
“Everything’s fine with everyone. It’s nothing like that.”
“Okay. Okay, good. Yeah, shoot. Whatcha got?”
“You hung out with me and Zai that day over Christmas. What did you think?”
“Uhhh… it was a little boring, but I didn’t have high expectations. We all needed to go shopping and that was the only free time we all had, so… lunch was fun.”
“No, that’s not what I meant. What did you think of things between me and Zaina?”
“Oh.” He’s quiet while he thinks. “You guys were normal. A little boring, but I didn’t have high expectations.”
“Come on, Callen. Be serious!”
“You’re Zai and Trey! I don’t know. It seems like you’re in a groove.”
“In a rut, you mean.”
“Well, maybe.”
“Things were more fun when it was the four of us, don’t you think?” I ask him, and then wish I hadn’t asked him in such a leading way.
“Well, fuck, yeah, it was always more fun when me and Max were a thing,” he says with a laugh. “It was always more fun when Max was around, period.”
“Right? I think our relationship is lacking Max,” I say with a chuckle. “But seriously, it’s been slowly deteriorating. And we both acknowledged that we would change and deal with that, but… at what point is it too much change? At what point do you just cut your losses?”
“Wow, T. Four years, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And there’s no one else?”
I sigh before answering. “There wasn’t, Callen.”
“Wait.”
“I swear. I was having these feelings before.”
“Did you cheat on her?”
“No! God, no!”
“Okay. I was going to say, if you’ve learned nothing from me, man…”
“I learned that one. Up close and way too personal, thanks.”
“And I regret it every day of my life.”
“He’ll come around,” I tell him, just like I tell him every time we talk about Max. “He’s such a stubborn little shit sometimes, but he still loves you. He just needs you to know how much you hurt him and get in a few jabs himself. If you can stick it out, I know he’ll come around.”
“I’m still here. Still trying to get his attention… but you. What the hell? Who is she?”
“Really, Callen, I wouldn’t lie about this. I was even journaling about the rift growing between me and Zai long before I met Coley.”
“What kind of name is Coley? Sounds like a dog’s name.”
“It’s a nickname. Shut up. And if you saw her… holy shit, Callen. She makes every other woman look indistinct and lifeless.”
“That does not sound good for Zaina. Not good at all. I don’t know how you come back from indistinct and lifeless,” he ponders aloud.
“I’m such a prick.”
“You’re not, Trey. Provided you haven’t done anything with Coolio here.”
“It’s… Coley,” I tell him plainly, taking his joke. “And aside from a conversation last night that crossed a line by about one sentence, no boundaries have been breached.”
“That sentence wasn’t ‘I love you,’ was it?”
“No,” I tell him. “It was a misplaced sexual… suggestion of sorts.”
“Like, oops! I didn’t mean to put that there! How do you misplace a sexual suggestion, jackass?”
“I don’t know, Callen, but she did it masterfully.”
“Oh, wow.”
“Yeah.”
“And how’d you handle it?”
“I backed away from the line.”
“Good for you. See? That’s what I didn’t do right. You did learn from me.”
“Yeah.”
“So… what do you want from me? Did I help you at all?”
“I guess I just need to know that the entire world isn’t going to hate me if I break it off with Zai… because I feel like everyone I know will be disappointed in me–especially if I start dating Coley.”
“Trey, you only live life this one time. Why the fuck are you worried about what everyone around you thinks?”
“Because I care.”
“I hate to say don’t, but… don’t. You have the best judgment out of any of the friends I have. I trust that you’ve spent weeks worrying about this before you even came to me. You have to know what’s best for you. If it’s getting out of the relationship with Zaina, do that. If it’s playing the field for a bit, do that. But I don’t see you being the playing the field, type… so if it’s starting something with this Collate girl, do that.”
“Coley.”
“I swear I’ll learn her name when she becomes someone important in your life. Deal?”
She already is that.
I clear my throat. “It’s Coley.”
“Good luck with her, then. I look forward to meeting Coley this summer.”
“Thanks, Callen.”
“Anytime. Tell Max I said hi. When he tells you to tell me to go fuck myself, tell him I will, and I’ll think of him when I do.”
“Yeah, I’m not gonna do that, Callen, but I want to thank you–as always–for the visual.”
“Love you, T.”
“Love you right back, Cal. Take care.”
I call Zaina right after that–not to take action, but because it’s time for our scheduled call. I’m vague with my answers about last night’s formal. I tell her that I came home instead of staying at the hotel. I admit to dancing with other girls there–she doesn’t seem to mind since they were all my fraternity brothers’ girlfriends, anyway. I don’t think I lied about anything, but I did omit some parts of the evening. I do have a hard time hiding the lingering headache and sluggishness from the hangover, but I just tell her I’m not feeling well. That’s not a lie, either.
Before we get off the phone, I tell her to have a good week, and she tells me she loves me. It’s a reflexive response, and I say it back to her, but I still mean it. I do care for her. I’ve given her four years of my life. We lost our virginity together. She will always be someone special to me. But I just don’t feel the passion I used to feel for her.
Checking my watch and deciding that three hours should be plenty of time for Jenny to finish cleaning my apartment, I gather my things and head back upstairs. After dropping my books and laptop on the floor by the bed, I collapse on it, needing a few more hours of sleep to feel physically better. I won’t mentally feel better until I hear from Coley.
At seven, I finally get confirmation that she’s still alive, at least, but it’s not the kind of communication I’d hoped for. It’s a notification from our shared folder, letting me know that she’s uploaded her article for me to edit for class tomorrow. Normally, she’ll call out areas she particularly likes with an additional little note for me, but she included nothing extra with this one.
After logging onto my computer, I see if she’s online to chat about her poeticle, as we’ve decided to name her works. Our chat app shows she’s been away for six hours and seventeen minutes. I send a message anyway, hoping she’s nearby.
- Coley, do you want to go over this together?
I read through it twice, waiting for the light by her name to change from yellow to green, but it never does. A part of me wants to simply send the story back to her, unedited, and let her deal with the consequences for her lack of collaboration, but I know I’m being immature in my handling of this situation. This is what happens when you get personally involved, Trey.
Command + P.
With her words in my hands, I sit down on the couch with a liter of w
ater and my red pen, marking up phrases and replacing words–putting in a lot more effort than is usually required. She’s not on her game with this week’s assignment. Not only is the writing subpar, but the content is lacking in substance, too. Her head isn’t in this at all.
Fortunately, I was with her when she interviewed Maurizo Copa, a biology major who had become somewhat of a local celebrity as a street musician with his mandolin. I wish I could just write an actual article, but if I have to pass this off as Coley’s work, it has to be poetry. Scrapping all her original stanzas, I start from scratch. We’d recorded Maurizo playing four songs, and I listen to his music on repeat until I have a finished poem–three hours later.
I have no idea if Coley will be grateful or pissed, but I replace her file with mine and wait fifteen minutes to see if she happens to get online to show me which way she’ll respond. At 10:30, I give up and go to bed.
At 11:30, I check to see if she’s texted.
At 12:30, she still hasn’t responded.
At 2:15, I send her a message just to tell her I’m worried about her. I download a game Apple thinks I’ll enjoy on my phone and play it for an hour, hoping she’ll interrupt me while I’m tearing through level after level of logic problems.
At 5:00, I wake up when I roll over and the phone jabs me in the neck.
- - You rewrote my whole poeticle.
The text comes in the middle of my astronomy class.
- Your draft wasn’t great, Coley. We can talk about it at The Wit. Don’t take it personally, please. I wanted to talk to you last night, but you were MIA.
- - Can I even turn this in?
- We can add a dual byline. Monica and I did that a few times last year. A lot of your ideas were still there… and I think your style was still there, right? I feel like I got your voice right.
- - You did really well. It’s… fixed. Thank you.
- It’s what I’m here for. Can we talk about it in class? I’m in astronomy.
- - I can’t work with you today.
I shut my notebook and lean over to Jay, one of my Sig Rho brothers. “Can I get your notes later? I have an emergency,” I whisper to him. “I’ll take notes one day for you.”
“Sure, yeah.”
“Thanks. I’ll catch up with you at the house tonight.”
I’m dialing Coley’s number before I’m even out of the classroom. “Shit!” I turn around and see my entire class and professor staring at me at the doorway. I wave as I duck out into the bright sunlight, just in time to leave a voicemail at the beep as her cheerful voice instructs me to do. “Coley, what the hell? I know you’re there. I know you don’t have a class right now. You were just texting me. Why don’t you want to talk to me? Why can’t you work with me today? I am so sorry about Saturday night. Can’t we just forget anything was said? Please? I was drinking… I swear I’ll never drink and talk to you again.” A part of me wants to say that she was guiding the conversation, but more than that, I want to be a gentleman about this and take the blame. I can go back to how the conversation started and see that it was probably my fault. “I’m heading to The Wit now. Can you meet me early?” I sigh, making sure she fully comprehends my frustration. “I’ll be there.”
Eight blocks later, I enter The Wit offices, only to be confronted with an empty newsroom. After flicking on the lights, I take a seat and get out my laptop, making final edits to my own article that’s due today. A sound on my chat program alerts me that Coley’s online. Before I can send a message to her, I receive one.
- - I’m not coming to The Wit at all today. Aslon knows. I sent her my article already.
- Can we video chat? I’m alone.
- - I’m not.
Who’s she with?
- Are you mad at me about Saturday?
- - There are other things going on right now, Trey.
- Why are you being so cryptic?
- - Because I don’t know if I can trust you.
- Coley. What the hell?
Two seconds later, she gets offline. I pack up my things and go downstairs to Starbucks to get some chai tea, needing something to calm me down. Something about this drink reminds me of home, of my mom, and of the calming influence she always has on me. I head back upstairs when it’s time for our class to start.
“In case you haven’t spoken with her, Coley won’t be in class today,” Professor Aslon says to me privately. “Her article looks solid today, though. Good work.”
“Good. Thanks,” I say, making sure to hide any lingering frustration from my advisor. She hands me my assignments for the week, as well as Coley’s, so I know what she has to work on, too.
“Hey,” Asher says, startling me from behind. “Pryana’s out today. Looks like Coley is, too. Want to head out somewhere to start this week’s articles?”
“Yeah,” I tell him, picking up my papers and nodding toward Professor Aslon on our way out.
“Early lunch?” he asks.
“I guess, yeah. Dig Inn?” I suggest my favorite restaurant. He follows while I lead the way.
Once we have our trays, I decide to vent about Coley, unable to hold my tongue any longer. “Coley’s acting weird. You know, we always edit on Sundays. She wouldn’t return my calls or texts yesterday. She ended up just sending me her article at seven last night. I tried to get her online to talk about it like we normally do–and we needed to talk about this one. It was shit, honestly. I had to rewrite the entire thing. In poetry, mind you, because that’s her thing. I sent it back to her three hours later and thought I’d hear from her. Not a word until this morning… and then, it’s a ‘why’d you change my article’ text. No explanation, no nothing.”
“Yeah, Pryana’s acting weird, too,” he says of his partner. “Maybe their periods are in sync.”
I look up at him, not quite sure I heard him right. “You obviously didn’t grow up with women in your house.” He didn’t, exactly. His mom was a successful motivational speaker who spent eleven out of twelve months of the year traveling, doing conventions all over the world. His dad pretty much raised Asher and his little brother by himself–well, and with maids and nannies that he had multiple affairs with. My friend wasn’t sure if his parents had an open marriage, or if his mother was oblivious. “I made that comment once about my mom and sister when I was ten and I learned very quickly to never make such a speculation ever again.”
“Proof that it’s true,” he says, shrugging.
“Mom and Livvy would eat you alive.”
“And I would love every second–” I drop my fork and throw down my napkin.
“Do not ever insinuate sexual things with my family members again, Asher. It’s deplorable and disrespectful.”
“A,” he says, talking over me, “I was kidding–“
“Wasn’t funny.”
“And B, you set it up.”
“Just… move on,” I say, more than annoyed by his comment.
“Easy, there… easy.” I take some deep breaths to calm down, finally picking my fork back up and eating again.
“How’d the rest of formal go?” I ask, just wanting to talk about something else and picking the first thing that comes to mind. He quirks his brow, and I sense he saw me waiting below Coley’s dorm that night. I wish I’d thought of something else to talk about.
“After you, uh… went upstairs, I called a car for Pryana to take her back to her apartment.”
“You called her a car? And stayed at the hotel?” I ask, not expecting the blatant lie.
“Yeah,” he says, nodding his head.
I decide not to challenge him. If he’s going to maintain that lie, I can pretend that I went up to my room alone and didn’t walk clear across town to find the intriguing girl that plagues my every thought.
“You know,” he says, “I did go by your room early the next morning,” he laughs.
My stomach drops. “What happened?” I ask him, gripping a fork in one hand and a knife in the other with clenched fists.
&n
bsp; “You don’t remember?” he asks with a sneer I’ve never seen before on him.
I swallow. “Did anyone answer?” I can feel my pulse raging in my chest and shoulders, delivering blood to my biceps and forearms.
“Man,” he says, leaning over the table, “were you as fucked up as I was?”
“Did anyone answer, Asher!?” I say loudly, so that everyone in the restaurant is looking at us. I drop the silverware and put my palms on my jeans, rubbing them nervously, waiting for him to answer and hoping to God I can hold it together with whatever his answer is.
“I know what you did that night, Trey. I know who you were with.”
“What time was it, Asher? What time did you go by there?” She checked out at 7:35 a.m.
“Fuck if I know, man. All I know is that the sun was coming up over the park. I saw it through the windows in your room.”
I grab my things, knocking over the table as I get up in haste. “Sorry!” I say to the guys behind the food station–certainly not to Asher.
“Trey!” he yells, but I can’t hear any more. I have to get out of here or I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him if he did anything to her. My throat gets tighter and tighter as I walk toward Coley’s dorm. It gets harder and harder to breathe. I had asthma when I was little, but not since I was nine or so, and I’ve played sports year round every year since. I’ve played hard. I swim hard. But I know what an asthma attack feels like. This feels a lot like that.
And I can’t breathe.
Just across the street from Carman Hall, I can’t walk anymore and call 9-1-1 after easing to the sidewalk against the brick building. “Can’t. Breathe.”
Someone takes the phone from me. “We’re at the southeast corner of 114th and Broadway. Maybe an asthma attack?” I nod my head. “And holy shit. It’s Trey Holland. You okay, man?” An older guy squats next to me, trying to get me to breathe with him. “He’s not wheezing, no. No coughing. Yeah, he’s shaking like crazy.” He takes my hand in his. “Cold, clammy.”
Still holding my phone to his ear, he sits next to me cross-legged. A bunch of people have crowded around now. “Back off!” he yells, throwing his free arm around. “Sorry, sorry.” I’m not sure if he’s apologizing to the operator or to me. “Trey?”