My chest deflates. “Kam, if you almost failed an entire class because one guy left you hanging, you’d be upset, right?”
Like the first, third, fifth, and tenth time I’ve told him this story, Kameron validates my feelings and nods.
“Yeah, even if I'd like twenty minutes alone in a room with him, what he did to you was messed up.”
I pretend not to hear the middle of his sentence and start refilling the machines. From my spot behind the counter, I have a clear view of Grant McCarthy, and a clear reminder of the failure I almost faced because of him.
Besides the crash-and-burn conclusion, what I remember the most about our weeks in undergrad is how good we worked together. So good, we finished our presentation in half the allotted time. The weeks of free time were less about class and more about sharing funny videos in a library study room and making excuses to get ice cream off campus.
I was accustomed to pulling most of the weight in a group assignment. I liked having things organized and ready, back-up plans set up in case something goes wrong. It was a lapse of judgement when I told myself Grant was more than a classmate. I trusted him leading up to our presentation. I thought he was my friend.
Until the day came along and Grant never showed.
I called and texted him non-stop. I lied to our professor that he had car troubles and if we could go last, he would be there. With how much faith I had in him, I didn’t want to believe Grant would let me down.
But once our classmates finished and my texts were unanswered, I was forced to present alone. The result of trusting Grant was humiliating myself in front of everyone, stumbling over my words, and watching my professor shake his head in disappointment.
If it wasn’t for an embarrassing sobbing session during our professor’s office hours the next day, I don’t think I would have passed. I don’t know if Grant got a pity grade from my begging, and I don’t want to know.
I waited for him to prove me wrong. Still foolishly charmed by him, I expected him to explain himself and walk back into my life. A few days of silence went by before I blocked his number and every social account I knew of.
It doesn’t matter it’s been over a year since Grant screwed me over. The memory still stings. That same pit of humiliation resurfaces when I’m sitting around my writing workshop classes listening to constant criticism. Those are the feelings I associate with Grant now.
He hums from his window seat, brown hair bobbing to a beat only he can hear, and his calm demeanor sends animosity through me. If the cups I’m restocking weren’t plastic, I’m sure they would have shattered by now.
Out of all the times he’s come into this café, recognized me, and called me Lily, not once has he ever said “I’m sorry.”
My Saturday mornings are unpleasant, but my Monday nights? Sent straight from hell.
I used to like Mondays. It’s my most packed school day schedule wise, and when I was excited to take back-to-back writing classes, I considered Mondays to be fun.
How blissful it was to not know any better.
“You did so well with your outlines.” I swear my professor makes eye contact with everyone in class except me. “I’m looking forward to your first act drafts next week. Don’t forget, as some of you have for the past few assignments, I only accept submissions via your physical USBs. There are no exceptions to this…”
I’m too stressed to be an attentive listener. There’s a huge circle with multiple arrows on my calendar to remind me of the upcoming deadline. I see it every day when I double check my schedule. I pretend it doesn’t exist, and hope it disappears. It never does.
“Please remember to apply what you’ve learned so far and reference the rubric so you know what I’ll be looking for.”
Kill me.
My professor spews out another handful of reminders I don’t need before dismissing us. I barely talk to Kameron on my way out of class.
Yesterday, I tucked away my pride and finally asked him for some advice. The outline for his paranormal romance between two ghosts from different time periods was used as an example a few weeks ago. If anyone had suggestions, he would. Some sort of reading guide, or study strategy I could follow.
He’s seen the less than adequate material I’ve produced all semester, but still, he had nothing helpful to say. Only, “I don’t really study. I write what I feel, and what makes me happy. Try it.”
What makes me happy is not being humiliated via transcript. If it were that easy, I wouldn’t be scouring online forums about quarter life crises.
It’s an 18-minute commute of self-pity from campus to my apartment. During the anxiety-ridden trip I seriously considerdropping out, then remember the disappointment my parents would feel. If I can’t motivate myself, that will.
I struggle to unlock my apartment’s front door with one hand, the other occupied with researching writing coaches, when Rosie rips it open.
“Geez!” She catches me right before my face meets the hardwood. I glare at her, though it’s more out of surprise than anger. “What are you doing home so early?”
“I decided to study at home today.” Rosie says, her eyes downturned. Before this, she spent every Monday studying with a classmate she’s dating. I’m about to ask what changed, but she shakes her head. “He said he’s not looking for anything serious.”
“Oh.” I know to drop the topic.
