“You okay?” he asks. “You were gone.”
I tuck my fingers into my coat. “Yeah. I just had a small accident.”
“Oh, man. Like a car accident?” he asks.
“Um…” I glance at the door, wishing the professor would appear. “No. I got stuck in a fishing net while diving underwater.”
The guy on the other side of Ben suddenly looks at me, as does the guy behind him, like my story warrants the attention I’ve diligently avoided.
“Holy shit. What happened? Did you, like, drown?” One of the onlookers asks.
“No, moron. Drown means to die.”
I swallow the uncomfortable words from the other guy who I know as Bennet because he often answers questions or fires them off, causing us to release late on multiple occasions.
It feels like everyone’s eyes are on me then, silent questions and judgment from a few. Their narrowed eyes and stitched brows are working to determine if I’m lying—if I’m looking for attention.
I’m not. Not from this crowd, at least. Not this type from anyone.
“How long were you stuck underwater?” Someone asks.
“Why were you underwater?”
“Isn’t it, like, freezing?”
A girl giggles in the distance. “How did she get caught by a fishing net? Was she trying to pretend she was a mermaid?” More snickers and giggles.
“It was in the newspaper if any of you morons read or paid attention to anything.” A guy pokes his head out from behind his laptop, a mess of dark and unruly hair as he combs over my sea of onlookers. “She was saving a dolphin, and you’re a bitch.” His attention stops at the girl who called me a mermaid.
The professor enters then, and the stranger doesn’t move his gaze to meet mine as I silently debate if I’m grateful he stood up for me or if he’s just opened the door for more punchlines.
Without work and with everyone being upset at me, I’ve spent far too much time with my homework, catching up for the classes I’ve missed as well as reading ahead. Any excuse to stay in my room has been welcomed. So, when the professor begins talking about something I’ve already studied and know, my thoughts drift freely, thinking about Poppy’s words. I debate if Lincoln’s anger will subside on its own or if we should try and find him at a party? I can’t show up at his door and demand we talk because my brother lives with him. I could try texting him again. A call he might ignore, but it’s tough to ignore the words in a text.
I tuck my things away as class ends, my thoughts volleying between my angry football god and the hurt I caused, and the pain he’s returning in spades. My pen falls off the corner of my desk, and the sound of it hitting the floor is lost in the shuffle of others, but then someone reaches out and snags the pen, dropping it on my desk. I glance up to catch the same dark, disheveled hair, dark eyes, and clear skin that makes it appear like he doesn’t spend much time in the sun. He’s all edges and darkness with a grim smile that doesn’t hit his eyes. Blake Matthews. That was the name he responded to when the professor called his name.
“Thanks,” I say, depositing it into my bag.
He nods once and moves for the door.
I briefly debate telling Poppy about him. My best friend loves the broody type—don’t we all, unfortunately?
I file him away as ‘maybe’ and head toward the offices.
Mom insisted Dad drive me today, and because she’s still giving me the stink eye, I didn’t question her, regardless of how badly I’d wanted to.
Mr. Webber, the dean of admissions, is in the hall, a full cup of coffee in his hands as he moves in the same direction as me. “Raegan,” he says my name like he’s relieved he remembers who I am. I’ve met him no less than a dozen times, but his job involves meeting thousands, so I can’t necessarily blame him.
“Hi, Mr. Webber. How are you?”
“Fine. Fine.” He nods, his beige sweater vest and blue tie contrasting. “How are you? I seem to recall you took a very ambitious class schedule this semester. Trying to make sure you don’t have anyone questioning your admittance, huh?” He releases a dry chuckle, eyes under bushy and unkempt eyebrows turning my way.
“Something like that,” I say.
“Well, this is Brighton. We pride ourselves on only accepting the brightest and most talented kids.”
If my ego weren’t already in tatters, he’d have just driven a hole the size of a large boat through it, leaving me to question a dozen different things.
“Have a nice day, Mr. Webber.” My voice is curt, but my smile is too kind for him to fire back at me as I pause in front of my dad’s door.
Mr. Webber’s hips sway like he’s debating stopping with me, but thankfully he continues farther down the hall to his own office.
I take a seat on the bench outside of Dad’s office, grabbing my phone as I rehearse the words to say to Lincoln for the thousandth time.
Me: Can we talk?
My phone buzzes nearly instantly with a reply that has hope soaring, making me sit up straighter in my seat.
Lincoln: I don’t know.
Me: I get that you’re upset, and I’ve tried giving you your space, but I think we should talk about things.
Lincoln: I can’t tonight. Tomorrow?
Me: Sure. Where do you want to meet?
Lincoln: I don’t know.
There’s a waltz going through my chest, one side is hope, and its partner is doubt, sashaying through me, twisting my heart and feelings until I’m convinced he’ll cancel and then persuaded by the hope he’ll come. Despite his absence and unanswered calls, he told me he wanted me. All of me. Something that serious doesn’t change in a couple of weeks.
Me: We could grab something to eat or get coffee?
Lincoln: Whatever
Doubt takes the lead.
Me: 7 tomorrow at TidalWave Books. It’s on Elmont.
I choose the bookstore because it’s a large store that sells used books with few who appreciate its offerings, allowing us plenty of time and space to sort everything out.
Dad’s door opens, and a girl slides through a brief opening, closing the door behind her. She glances at me, her eyes round as they tick around the hall, reminding me of a rabbit ready to dive under the nearest shrub.
A tight smile pulls her thin lips into a forced smile, and then she briskly passes me, her legs and arms both thin, almost bony in a dress that looks like something Poppy would try to convince me to wear to a party.
Lincoln: okay
Okay? Okay?
After two weeks of radio silence, his reply is okay?
I breathe out all the air I’ve been holding as hope takes a seat on my chest. My lungs pinch and my throat closes, causing me to cough again. I cough so hard that my face turns red, and my eyes water.
Slowly, my lungs remember they can work independently, pulling in shallow gasps as I lean back and place my hands over my head to open my lungs as Dr. Grayson had instructed.
Arlo appears, a water bottle in his hands. He sits next to me without an invitation, offering me the water. “You sound terrible.”