“Grand gesture,” Freddie suggests. “But after you nail the presentation. Show up with flowers and a heartfelt speech about how you're an idiot.”
“Subtle conversation,” Alfie counters. “Acknowledge you overreacted, ask for a chance to start over. But yeah, after showcase.”
“Dick pic,” Troy adds helpfully. “Right after you get a standing ovation.”
“Troy!”
“What? It worked for me and Delilah that one time?—”
“I'm not sending Piper an unsolicited dick pic, before OR after showcase!”
“Your loss. I'm telling you, confidence is key. And nothing says confidence like absolutely crushing your senior presentation.”
I shake my head, but I'm grinning despite myself. These idiots somehow managed to debug both my code and my emotional state in one night.
“First, I perfect this presentation,” I decide. “Then... we'll see. Maybe she'll be there. Maybe she won't. But I need to do this for me first.”
“Now you're thinking straight,” Troy approves. “Get your professional shit sorted, then deal with the emotional stuff.”
“And if all else fails—” Troy starts.
“No dick pics!”
“Fine, be boring.”
As my friends file out, leaving me alone with my fixed game and the weight of the upcoming showcase. I look at where Greg used to sit on the windowsill. I never got around to getting him back from Piper. For that, I would have had to face her.
“What do you think, buddy?” I ask Greg's ghost. “Think we can survive three more days? Get through showcase first?”
Greg's ghost obviously doesn't answer, but I take this silence as approval.
And then I laugh at myself.
Before, I was talking to a plant, but at least, it was there. Now, I am talking to his ghost.
I have really lost it.
I guess I just need to pull it together for the next three days.
Three days. Three days to prove I made the right choice with my life. Three days to show everyone—my dad, my professors, maybe even Piper if she shows up—that this is real.
Then, and only then, I'll figure out if some things can still be fixed.
Before I know it,it’s senior showcase day. The auditorium is packed. Three hundred seats, all filled with students, professors, industry professionals, and parents pretending they understand what their kids have been doing for four years. My name is fourth on the presentation list, which means I have approximately thirty minutes to not vomit from nerves.
I peek out into the audience, searching for her.
She’s not here.
I shouldn’t be surprised. I didn’t exactly encourage her to come from our last conversation.
I'm backstage in my only clean button-down—navy blue, Freddie ironed it for me—clutching my laptop like a lifeline. The guy before me is showing some VR meditation experience that involves a lot of whale sounds. The audience seems into it.
“Prescott, you're up next,” the stage manager whispers.
My hands are shaking. Two years of work, my entire future, compressed into a fifteen-minute presentation and five minutes of Q&A.
Troy, Freddie, and Alfie are somewhere in the third row. They promised not to make faces during my presentation, but I don't trust them. My parents are here too—Dad drovedown this morning, sitting somewhere in the back with Mom.
