“Good. Can I talk to you about something that you won’t like?”
I turn to her. She looks at the moon.
“I guess I’ll just tell you,” she says. “I almost told you last night, after you left his room.”
“This is about Pierce.”
“It is.” She sucks in smoke and blows it out quickly. “I’m starting to like Pierce too. And I feel bad for what I said at the pub, just unloading all that on you with no context. But … I think you need the full story.”
“Okay,” I say, drawing out the word.
“See, the flautist I told you about? Pierce’s ex?” She looks to me for recognition, but my face is frozen solid. “Right. You know. I thought he and I were going to be best friends. We clicked so well, and so did he and Pierce.”
I turn from her, because whatever she’s about to say, I don’t want her to see my reaction to her words. She continues.
“When things ended, Colin was devastated. Pierce didn’t even break up with him—just kept putting off his calls, texts. Pierce was on to someone else so fast, and revealed that information to Colin forty minutes before his Friday recital. To paraphrase Taylor Swift here, he gave it all to Pierce, who changed his mind. He was a mess. He cried on my shoulder until the stage manager pried us apart.”
There it is. The pain that creeps back in my chest, leaving a burning residue as it slithers down my insides. We’re not even a thing, and it’s complicated. Aren’t things ever just okay? Can’t people fall out, but not fall apart?
“The performance went as well as you’d expect,” she says. “His playing sounded like he’d gone through a breakup minutes ago. Weak, sad, dead inside. After the recital, I couldn’t find him. He disappeared, then went to the main office the next day and dropped out of the academy.”
Deep breaths. I clench my fists, and fight the urge to hide from my anxiety. Seems like I never have that option here. I let Megan take control of my life back home, but here I’m on my own.
I have to face things head-on, again and again, even though it’s too exhausting. I’m too exhausting. The others might not think my reactions make sense, but they don’t see everything compounding through the day.
The stress of a car ride
The pangs of early love
The constant worry about how my every movement and every word are being taken
But I breathe. Because that’s the only thing that grounds me.
“I think … this could be different, and I hope it is. I just don’t want to see a friend go through this again.”
“Sophie,” I say. “I’m not Colin. I’m not going to just disappear.”
She drops her cigarette on the gravel, and I clutch the cider I’ve barely touched. I’ve never felt so young. The can crinkles under my grip.
“Then what should I do? How do I stop it?” I turn, take a sip. “I’ve never felt this way. I see him and I think my heart stops. I can’t breathe. And I can’t hear everything you’re saying and not think that this is different. Even if it’s not, how can I not think that?”
“Marty …”
“Sometimes, when my anxiety gets too bad, I make a list of the things I worry about on my phone. Bullet points—sometimes three of them, sometimes twenty. But no matter how I try to break down that list, I can’t get rid of them. It’s what I do, it’s how I function, but worrying about it doesn’t help me make the right decisions, and it sure as hell doesn’t prepare me for what could happen. I know the stakes are high here. To fall for someone in your only friend group? To be on trips with a boy when I should really be practicing and applying for jobs 24-7? I can’t stay here if I don’t get a job. I’m running out of time, and I’m clearly getting distracted. But it’s also the first time I’ve ever been able to do something like this.”
Her arms are around me, and she’s squeezing tight.
I start to breathe again.
“You’re going to be okay,” she says. “But you strike me as a guy who likes to be prepared for all outcomes, right?”
I nod.
“With Pierce, this is a potential outcome. Prepare yourself for it. And don’t fucking run off on me like Colin, because I’m really tired of