vast cavern of nothing. My anger is back, battling with the grief, but I don’t have any tears left, and I vow to be better and throw myself into filling out more law school applications. When Monday rolls back around, I resolve to go to class. I tell all my professors I was sick and when they look at my face, they buy it and let it slide.
Another week creeps by. I live at the library, trying to get caught up on my coursework. I eat real food instead of crap and keep my head down as I work at BB’s. Mara keeps asking me what happened and I can’t tell her. She gives up and just sighs whenever she looks in my eyes. I know what she’ll see there: heartbreak.
And through it all?
I haven’t seen or heard from Z.
A whimper wants to rise up inside me, and I push it down.
Which is why when he walks into our poetry class midmorning, I gasp aloud.
I scramble around for my phone and fire off a text to Eric. He’s been checking in on me periodically to see how I am, and while I only send him one-word answers—Fine, Okay—it’s a connection to Z that’s hard to give up.
Why is Z in our poetry class? What happened to therapy?
I see the dots across the screen and I clench the phone, anxiously awaiting a response as he comes to a halt in the doorway, looking for a seat.
He rearranged his schedule. Told me this morning.
Why? He’s still seeing the sports psychologist?
Yes, babe. Maybe he’s there to see you. I don’t know.
Whatever. I hit send and look back up.
Z looks magnificent, his shoulders and body in a tight black shirt, his legs in jeans that cup his ass, his feet in gold Converse. His hair is untamed, his face hard as he steps forward and moves his gaze across the auditorium.
I prepare myself for one of his intense stares.
It doesn’t happen.
His icy grey eyes ghost over the room and I feel the brush as they flicker briefly on my face, but they keep moving, his expression blank.
And just like that, it’s back to the way it used to be: me, invisible to him.
“Dude, Z’s back,” breathes Sorority Girl a few seats away.
“The TA said the professor excused him for hockey stuff, but he’s been doing the work on his own. Maybe he’s back for good,” another girl replies.
Well. She certainly keeps up. My lips tighten.
“I hope this class improves his hockey game,” says a guy a few seats away.
I clench my fists and even though I’m angry and hurt, I can’t let anyone drag Z down. I turn around and scowl.
The guy’s eyes go wide. “If you watch the news then you know he’s losing his shit.”
I flip back around and stare at the professor. There has been rampant speculation about what happened at Concord State but no confirmation, and I’d have to be on another planet to not know that they barely won their last game against Denver.
I have an empty seat next to me, as usual, but Z heads to the front where he used to sit. Of course there’s a girl on each side of him, gushing.
Class gets started but I’m in a daze. I can’t stop staring at the back of his head.
“Miss Ryan, can you read the poem?” Professor Goldberg says, and I blink.
“Sir?”
He raises an eyebrow. “The Emily Dickinson poem?”
I let out a breath. Right. The one you read last night, Sugar. Get with it.
I give him a nod, but my eyes are on Z, and I think I see his shoulders tightening as he shifts in his seat.
I lick my lips and stare down at my laptop.
“Miss Ryan? Are you with us today?” the professor asks.
“Yes.” I clear my throat and read the poem.
““Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
I’ve heard it in the chilliest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.”
“Excellent,” he says. “Elaborate, please, on the meaning.”
Oh.
Several long moments go by, and a few students turn to look at me.
But he doesn’t look.
He stares down at his notebook, pen twirling through his fingers.
Professor Goldberg gives up on me and looks around the room. “Initial thoughts, anyone? What is this poem about?”