by Ellie Wade
I jump into the shower and then throw on some clothes. I haven’t gone to classes in four weeks. My brother, Stephen, sent me over a “doctor’s note” for my professors, letting them know I had a severe case of mono and needed to stay in bed for a month.
I’ve “come down with mono” at least twice a year since starting college. Usually, the professors waive the work I missed while I was “sick.” I’ve been spiraling out of control this past month. It’s a pattern with me.
I can be okay for a while, and then I’m not. There’s a constant hole in my chest, void of all the things I can never have—respect, happiness, love. When life throws something my way to remind me who I am, I self-medicate and escape. I’m fucked up for weeks straight. I’m an equal opportunity addict. There isn’t a substance I haven’t abused. I have very little recollection of the past month other than my dreams of her.
Though I have to admit that she just might be my trigger. With her, I want more, but that will never be my reality. The weight of that is a hard pill to swallow. I am who I am. A beautiful girl isn’t going to change that.
I grab a muffin and an energy drink on the way out. I have no idea why there are muffins in my house. God knows I didn’t go shopping. It was either Ethan or my mother—probably both. I’d be dead without Ethan—that much is true.
I only have two classes today, and I’m glad.
Business Statistics is first, and the professor calls me up after class. “Mr. Harding, I’m sorry to hear that you’ve been ill. Are you doing better?”
“Getting better every day. Little by little,” I say in a pathetic voice, one that I’ve mastered for this exact situation.
“Good, I’m glad. I just wanted you to know that I’ve waived all of the assignments we had over the past month. You have enough to focus on with getting healthy. If you can, just complete the assignments from here on out.”
“Absolutely. Thank you so much,” I tell the professor and walk out.
English Composition is next, and this professor, a woman—Professor Gilbert—is a real bitch. I didn’t miss this class in the least. She, too, calls me up after class.
“Mr. Harding, so glad to see you up and around. I wanted you to know that you have exactly a month to make up all of the work that you missed over your little break.”
“But—” I start to protest.
“Your fake mono note might fool everyone else, but you’re not fooling me. I’ve looked into your records and spoken to your previous professors. I know this is a pattern with you, and I’m not buying it. You will make up everything you missed within a month, or I’ll fail you. Furthermore, I’ve signed you up for tutoring. You’ll have a minimum of twenty hours of tutoring to help make up for the class time that you missed.” Her voice is cold and firm.
“You can’t require that,” I hiss.
“Oh, yes, I can. It’s the least I can do. I know your type. You think the rules bend and change around you. Well, that’s not the way the world works, Mr. Harding. If you want something in this life, you have to work for it. If you’d rather not retake this class with me next term, you’ll have to show me that you know how to do the work.” She stacks up a pile of papers on the desk and slides them into her leather briefcase. “Any questions?” Her voice is perky, and her lips press into a tight smile.
She’s gloating. She knows she has me by the balls, and there isn’t a single thing I can do about it.
“No,” I grumble.
The urge to fight her on this is strong, but she’s right. She can prove that I’m a screwup and make this a lot worse for me.
“Great,” she says a little too cheerily, extending her hand with a paper in her grasp toward me.
I grab it from her.
“I looked at your schedule, and I took the liberty to sign you up for your tutoring sessions. The first one starts in an hour. The tutoring offices are located on the second floor of the library. You’ll see the room number for your first session. Work hard and good luck.”
With that, she walks out, and I flip her off as she exits.
What a bitch.
I weigh my options. Telling this broad to fuck off and dropping her class sound appealing. I could always take another English class next semester. However, there’s a big chance that if I do that, she’ll inform the rest of my professors and possibly the school that my doctor’s note is fake. If all of my professors make me catch up on a month’s worth of work, it will be tough. Plus, if the school looks into years past and discovers that I do this every semester, there could be repercussions. Could they take two years of credits away? I don’t know. I have less than two years of school left. I need to finish and move on with my life.
I can manage twenty hours of tutoring. I’ve been through worse.
Before my scheduled hour, I grab some coffee from the commons and then make my way toward the library on foot. It’s the building that’s the farthest out from the central part of campus. I could drive, but the walk gives me time to let go of some of my anger with Professor Gilbert, myself, and life in general.
With ten minutes to spare, I reach the library and take the steps to the second floor. Room 204 A, the paper reads. I scan the plaques beside each office door for their numbers. I contain my annoyance and open the door.
What. The. Fuck?
Alma is sitting at the lone table in the room, reading a book. When she hears me enter, she looks up, and her smile breaks. Her eyes go wide, and her lips part.
“What are you …” she asks quietly.
“I’m meeting a tutor here.”
She shyly raises her hand. “A tutor.”
“What?” I snap.
“I’m a tutor here. It’s my job. This is my tutoring office—204 A. Are you scheduled to be here? Now?”
“No, I’m just strolling through the library, opening doors for the fucking fun of it,” I bark, immediately regretting my tone.
She shakes her head and pushes back from the table, standing. “I don’t think this is a good idea. You should sign up with someone else.”
I look down to the paper in my hand and see that every session is in this room. I toss the paper toward Alma. It falls to the table, and she picks it up.
“Are those all you?”
Her eyes move across the paper. “Yeah,” she sighs.
I drop my backpack on the table with a groan and drag my fingers through my hair. “Just great.”
“There are other tutors,” she explains. “We can find someone else who fits in your schedule.”
I think of Professor Gilbert and know I don’t have a choice. “Listen, this isn’t my idea of fun either, but I have this professor up my ass, and if I screw up these sessions, she’s going to fail me. Maybe you could just sign the paper saying I was here for all the slots, and we’ll call it good.”
“I can’t do that. It’s unethical. I could lose my job if anyone found out, and I need it.”
I fall into one of the chairs. “Fine. Teach me. Whatever.”
“Um …” Alma sits back down across from me. “What class are you in here for?”
“English.”
She releases a breath of air, seeming relieved. “Oh, good. I love that subject. I was afraid you were in here for Business or Econ or something. I mean, I would’ve made it work, but they aren’t my favorite,” she says rapidly.
I suppress a smile. I love how she talks fast when she’s nervous.
Stop. No. Not doing this again.
Remember your month-long binge because of this chick? No. Not going there—ever.
She’s not worth it.
Hell, she is. I know she is.
It’s me who’s not.
THIRTEEN
Alma
“You look cute,” I tell my roommate, who’s sporting a colorful jogging suit and pigtails. “Where are you off to?”
She’s been so busy with sorority activities that between our class schedule, my tutoring job, and her social life, I barely see her.
She
leans toward the mirror and puts on some hot-pink lipstick. I could never pull off such a bold color, but on Quinn, it just looks adorable.
“Our new pledge class is painting the kiosk, and then we’re going to play flag football against the other sorority pledges,” she tells me with a smack of her lips.
“That sounds fun.”
“Yeah, I’m excited. You’re off to tutor Hottie McIssues?”
About a month ago, I ended up telling her all about Leo. I figured if I wanted Quinn and me to be true friends, then I needed to open up to her about real things. Plus, I wanted her to understand why I planned on avoiding the frat parties.
Quinn hasn’t been hanging out at the frat house either with all of her sorority activities and social events.
After talking with Quinn and Amos about Leo, I knew I had to just forget about him, and I did for the most part. My homework and project load kicked up a notch the second week of school, and I had little time to worry about what Leo was doing. Turns out, eighteen credit hours is a lot of work. I was hired by the university as a tutor about a month ago. I needed some spending money, and I enjoy it. I’ve been so busy that I’ve only seen Amos once. We text daily and talk on the phone every few days, but I still miss him.
I promised myself that any free time I had was going to be spent on people who mattered, those who loved me. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t secretly hope to run into Leo on campus just to get a glimpse of his beautiful face. I don’t want or need him, but I still crave him. I just pretend I don’t.
I look to Quinn and sigh, “Yeah … his appointment is in thirty minutes.”
“Well, be strong and don’t put up with any of his shit,” she says with a huff.
“I won’t,” I promise.
Two days ago, after he plopped down at the table and agreed to allow me to tutor him, he didn’t say another word until the end. The entire hour was spent with me talking to him about his assignments, him typing up what we discussed, and him staring at me like I smelled. His face was twisted into this weird grimace the whole time.
I still haven’t figured that one out, though there’s a lot that I can’t figure out about Leo Harding.
Before walking out at the end of the hour, he looked over his shoulder and said, “See you Wednesday,” and that was the extent of his communication.
“See you Wednesday.”
And, now, it’s Wednesday, and I have to meet him at the library. I really don’t want to, but I kind of do.
Quinn and I walk out of our dorm together. Once outside, I tell her to have fun.
“You too but not too much.” She shoots me a wink, and then she’s skipping toward the kiosk.
I hitch up the straps on my backpack and start toward the library.
“Where are you heading?” a familiar voice asks with a hint of a smile. He walks in step beside me.
“The library,” I answer, not wanting to play his games.
“What a coincidence. Me too,” Leo says, much more cheerful than he was on Monday.
I detest charismatic Leo. It’s hard to hate that guy when he turns on the charm.
I look straight ahead as Leo keeps pace next to me. I’m going to my office. We’re going to talk about English for an hour, and then I’m leaving. I’m not getting involved in the weird hot and cold that Leo’s such a fan of.
“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly, and it catches me off guard.
“For?”
“For leaving your room after kissing you and never contacting you again. Know that it has nothing to do with you. I have issues.”
That’s what he’s sorry for?
“Yeah, okay …” Disapproval weighs heavily on my words. “It doesn’t matter. It was two kisses. You don’t owe me anything. We’re good. I’m just surprised that’s what you’re apologizing for.”
“What do you want me to apologize for?” he asks.
“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”
“I’m getting the impression that it does. You’re being very huffy.”
“I am not.”
“Ooo-kay,” he drawls out. “Just tell me what it is that you want an apology for. We have nineteen more hours together. Wouldn’t it be better if we didn’t have this animosity between us?”
“There’s no animosity. And you don’t owe me anything. The entire student body could give you head, and it wouldn’t be my business. You do you, Leo.”
“What are you talking about?” he replies gruffly.
I can’t stop myself. “Was it uncomfortable for me to see that girl giving you a blow job? Sure, of course it was. But that’s not your problem. I’m the one who walked into the wrong room. It’s not like you meant for me to see it, not like it would matter, considering we’re nothing.”
“Wait.” Leo grabs my arm and stops walking. He steps in front of me, and his expression seems pained. “You saw a girl sucking me off? When?”
“At the frat party the weekend after … you know”—I look down—“we kissed.”
“No,” he says more to himself than me.
“You know I did. You looked right at me,” I snap.
“Alma, I’m sorry. I …” He raises his arm, his hand cradling the back of his neck. “I don’t remember that.”
“What do you mean, you don’t remember?”
“I was fucked up. I don’t remember most things from when I’m wasted. I am sorry that you saw that. I never wanted you to.” His beautiful blues look upset, and I find myself believing him.
“It’s fine. Whatever, right?”
“Yeah,” he answers softly, and we continue walking toward the library.
Once inside the study room, Leo pulls out his binder and laptop, and we work on one of his assignments.
“You have a lot of missing assignments,” I note.
“Well, I missed a lot of school.”
I want to ask him why, but it’s not my business. What Leo does in his free time isn’t my concern. I repeat that thought over and over in my mind.
“How’s your first month of school been? Are you liking Eastern?” Leo asks, and I snap my head toward him, raising an eyebrow.
Who is he trying to be? Sure, the questions are normal enough if they came from anyone else’s mouth, but coming from Leo, they seem odd, forced.
“What’s going on? I don’t understand this back and forth. You’re interested in me, and then you’re not. You warn me away from you, and then you’re kissing me. You’re sweet, and then you’re short with me. Now, you’re asking generic questions about my time at Eastern like you’re some distant family member inquiring about college life. You give me whiplash, and I can’t do this with you anymore. I’m not cut out for this.” I motion my hand between us. “I can’t be friends or anything else. I’m going to work with you on your English assignments, and that’s all.”
“You’re right,” he simply agrees and directs his attention back to the laptop.
His two-worded response bothers me. I pretend that I don’t want him to fight back, to say something—anything—that would make sense. I pretend that I wanted him to agree with me. I pretend that everything in me doesn’t want to reach out and grab his hand, just to feel his skin. I pretend because admitting the truth would be a betrayal of who I am and who I want to be.
I close my eyes and breathe in through my nose in an attempt to calm my nerves.
Leo’s typing stops.
“What are you doing?” he asks me, his voice hoarse.
I snap my eyes open. “What?”
“Why are your eyes closed?”
“I was just thinking. It’s nothing.” I wave my hand in front of me.
Leo’s face falls, and it causes my chest to ache. He looks at the time on his phone and packs up.
He stands to leave, and I follow suit. He grabs ahold of the door handle but doesn’t turn it. Instead, he drops his hand and spins to face me.
“Do you feel this connection between us?” he asks.
“No,” I lie.
&n
bsp; “Well, I do, and I hate it—not because of you, but because of me. You see, Alma, even if I wanted to, I can’t be with you. Can’t … do anything. You’re off-limits. Because I see you. Maybe you don’t believe me, but I do. You’re kind and good and smart and beautiful. I’m none of those things. In fact, someone like me would ruin those things in you. I would destroy you, Alma. I wouldn’t want to, but I would. And that’s why, no matter how many times I see you in my dreams, I can’t run to you when I wake because I’d hurt you.”
He presses his lips into a line and pulls in a breath through his nose. I simply stand across from him, silent. I can’t find words to say in response. I’m at a loss.
“I’m finding it difficult to be around you. When I’m my typical asshole self, I end up feeling bad for treating you that way. Though, when I try the friends route and you gift me with a smile, I want you even more, and that shit hurts. Being around you hurts, Alma, and I don’t know how to make the pain stop.” He flattens his palm against his chest.
The rawness in his words resonates down to my soul.
“Leo.” His name is a whisper.
His hand leaves his chest, and he presses his finger against my lips.
He drops his hand. “I’m sorry,” he utters quietly before turning and walking out.
FOURTEEN
Alma
The lines of trees beyond the cut pastures are vibrant with beauty. The ever-changing colors of autumn are my favorite. The sun shines bright in the pristine blue sky. Today is perfection. Warm and windy, it’s one of the days that Mother Nature gifts us Michiganders to keep us here. She’s smart, that one.
I stare out the passenger car window, dreading what’s to come. I’m spending one of our rare perfect days at the place I hate the most—home. I won’t exactly be in my family’s house for long but Amos’s. But those walls hold little love too.