Outside, past the winter-dead golf course, the setting sun was a bright pink slash, the sky above it a deep purple. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I should have called you back…Things have been a little crazy here.”
“Okay,” he said, his voice neutral. He didn’t say anything else.
“I was in a car accident.” I instantly regretted saying it. I should tell him everything or nothing at all. I was acting like my parents, campaigning for pity, adjusting a storyline to fit my needs.
“In that guy’s car? That little car? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. It was just a fender bender. I mean, more than that. The car had to be towed. But really, I’m okay.”
He breathed hard through his teeth. “I knew it,” he said. “Isn’t that weird? I knew it as soon as I heard about the weather.”
“What does that mean?”
“What?” He was confused. I could picture his expression, his dark eyebrows lowered.
“You just assumed I would wreck the car in bad weather?” My hands were clenched. I accidentally pressed a number on my phone. “You knew as soon as the roads got a little slick? You can make it all the way up to Chicago, but you already knew that little me wouldn’t even make it home from the airport. Is that right?”
“What?” He started to laugh, and then stopped. “Veronica. That’s not what I meant. I was just worried. I heard the ice was really bad. I would have worried about anyone out driving in it. Or you, especially, because you’re my girlfriend.” He paused. “Are you—are you okay?”
“I’m not a bad driver.”
“I know you’re not.” There was a pause. “But that’s not what I was saying, Veronica. I was just saying I was worried.”
His voice was kind. I was a bad person. I was lying. Already, just by not mentioning Clyde, I was lying.
“Did you get hurt at all?”
“No.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “I’m a little sore maybe.” I glanced at the screen of my phone. There were no new messages. My mother had given up.
He wanted more details. He wanted to know how I’d gotten home, and whether or not I’d already told Jimmy. The more concerned questions he asked, the worse I felt. I stalled and hesitated. Finally, and honestly, I claimed fatigue. “I’ll tell you when you get home,” I said. “I’ll tell you the whole story.” I turned away from the mirror and lay back down on the bed.
He’d be home Sunday night, he said, but late. And he had classes all day on Monday. We could see each other on Monday night. He knew I had a test coming up, but he wanted to take me out to dinner, somewhere nice. He could pick me up at seven.
“Just come up to my room,” I said. Guilt aside, I had to be strategic. I had to tell him in my own room. I couldn’t wait until we were in his car to tell him. I wasn’t going to tell him at some restaurant. I couldn’t let myself get stranded again—an unhappy passenger in someone else’s car, too far from home to get out and walk.
I decided I would clean in the morning. I would get up early, bright-eyed and invigorated, and get the town house back in shape long before Jimmy and Haylie came home. By eight o’clock, I had already misted the plants and changed into my pajamas. I sat on the couch, my legs stretched out, with the leftover potato and my chemistry book. I was still a good student. I was not a completely different person.
And truly, for at least a half hour, I diligently studied diagrams of benzene molecules linking their little black arms with other benzene molecules. Ninhydrin and MDMA are colorless whereas the test reaction product is red because neither ninhydrin nor MDMA have enough conjugated p-orbitals to provide a HOMO-LUMO gap. I worked through two sample questions. I considered the third. Ten minutes passed. Twenty. It wasn’t yet nine o’clock. It was still early enough to call Tim and tell him everything, and at least not be a liar.
Focus. I looked back at the benzene diagram. I reread the equation. I closed my eyes. I opened them. I looked up at the clock. A single shelf, lined with books, sprouted from the wall behind the couch, fanged gargoyles guarding either side. The Collected Works of Shakespeare was prominently displayed. Apparently, Jimmy hadn’t sold his copy back at the end of the semester, which was