It’s been awful having her invade my space. Acting like she belongs, like she has any right to be here.
Now she’s gone, but why? Where is she?
Maybe she’s late. Maybe she finally got bored. Maybe she decided she had better things to do than sit out here every day, waiting for me to acknowledge her existence.
It would make sense. It would be easier.
I don’t believe it.
My gaze drags over the clearing again. Searching for what I missed. Some sign. Some explanation.
Nothing.
Just the empty space where she should be. I exhale, irritation covering other, less well-defined emotions.
At this point, I’ve stopped trying to wait her out. Becky doesn’t quit. That’s the one thing I’ve learned about her. If she decides something matters, she keeps at it, as if she can wear the world down into giving her what she wants.
She keeps showing up.
Day after day…until now.
I need to do something.No. I should stay here.
The words are familiar, ones I’ve relied on for years. Structure. Predictability. Distance. Yeah, that’s it. Someone else can deal with it. Not me.
And yet…
I stand there, waiting for the feeling to pass, for the impulse to step in to fade the way it should. I drag a hand through my hair.
“This is stupid,” I mutter under my breath.
She’s not my responsibility. Not my problem.
My weight shifts forward before I can stop it. My feet move, too fast for my mind to catch up. My stride lengthens, cutting through the trees toward her dorm, each step faster than the last.
If I think about it, I might stop.
So I don’t think.
I don’t even try.
This is going to completely derail my workout.
Chapter eleven
Middle
Becky
Everything hurts, my throat, my chest, my head. I don’t think I’ve ever been so sick. My last temperature was 104.2. I tried to take some Advil, but my hands were too weak to open the bottle.
Someone’s shouting, the words loud and angry, clanging around inside my already throbbing head. I hear voices. Familiar. One is the high nasaltone of my dorm mother, a middle-aged lady who lives on the floor above me. Rumor says she’s an alcoholic, but who knows. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen her. I try to focus on her words, but it’s hard with my head swimming. It’s about how she’s sorry and she didn’t know. There’s talk about an ambulance. A hospital.
“No,” I whisper, my lips so dry and cracked that I taste the copper tang of blood when I speak. “No hospital.”
The bed dips as someone heavy sits down next to me.
“What? Why?” says a voice, rough and male. Someone I should know. A name floats out of reach.
