tragedy, because honestly, I was totally looking forward to my first proper seder. A few weeks ago, Nash explained to me how it goes down at Molly’s—less party than Rosh Hashanah, more prayer and reflection. And great food.
Defeated by Gramps’s ultimatum, I reach for the door handle. “Okay. Fine.”
The passenger door swings open and I pick my backpack up off the floor, my movements stiff. I slam the door shut and leave Gramps without saying goodbye, angry because he’s right, this is what I do. I bite my tongue. I wait for moments to present themselves, for the right words to appear out of thin air, and they never do.
Nash hurt me too, but it never would have happened if I had just told the truth. He needs to know how sorry I am. Even if it comes out all wrong, I have to at least try.
I tie my purple cardigan around my waist and push through the double doors. I have five minutes until first period. If we were still us, we’d be hanging out by Nash’s locker, sipping on iced coffees and discussing King Lear before we head off to debate act one, Socratic seminar style. I bolt toward the English wing, taking the stairs two at a time and ignoring the stares from students who are heading to first period in every direction. Because if Nash is still at his locker, I need to catch him.
A five-minute chat won’t fix us. But I won’t make it through the day if I can’t talk to him first.
I turn the corner to the English wing and exhale because it’s mostly empty, but I see Nash—he is still here; I’m not too late. He’s at his locker, rummaging through his backpack as if he can’t find what he’s looking for. He’s chewing on his lower lip and his hair falls into his eyes.
He looks awful and it rips my heart in half because it’s my fault. I did this.
I approach him. “Nash?”
Nash does not react to the sound of my voice. His bloodshot eyes do not snap up to meet mine. He doesn’t flinch. Nothing. I’m standing two feet away from him, but it’s like I’m not even here. He digs through his backpack and I’m, like, if he hasn’t found what he’s looking for already it probably isn’t there.
“Nash.”
He pulls King Lear out. Zips his backpack and tosses it over his shoulder. He turns away and starts walking down the hall toward Mr. Walker’s class. I get that he’s angry. I deserve it. But talk to me Yell at me. I know I messed up bad—but I want to fix it. He won’t even look at me. He’d rather pretend he doesn’t hear the sound of my voice. It’s like I’m nothing.
“Nash.” I wipe away the tears that roll down my cheek.
I hate how desperate I sound, how desperate I am.
He doesn’t turn around.
And it hits me.
I’m being ghosted.
* * *
At lunch, I hide in the library, in the comfort of drafting OTP posts.
Really, what choice do I have? Nash and I have not made eye contact once today. It’s kind of an impressive feat, considering we have almost every class together. Like, I was banking on accidental awkward eye contact to happen at least once—for Nash to see that my eyes are bloodshot too. He doesn’t. All morning, we move from class to class, very much not together.
Of course, Le Crew is Team Nash.
They’re by his side in all our overlapping classes, as silent as he is.
Yesterday, Molly and Autumn texted me.
Molly Jacobson
Nash is wrecked. Please tell me there is a logical explanation because this is too messed up.
3:31 PM
Autumn Williams
I always told him not to trust Kels. I never thought we couldn’t trust YOU
3:33 PM
I didn’t see the messages until Gramps handed my phone back to me this morning. I wanted to answer them, wanted to explain myself. I get it. Nash isn’t the only one I hurt. I lied to them too. But today they’re as icy as Nash and I know it’s not worth wasting my words.
Le Crew are Nash’s people.
I need my people.
But I probably lost Amy, Elle, and Samira too. Still, they deserve an explanation—Kels just ghosted them along with Nash. I became too involved in my Halle/Kels drama to see I was literally giving them up just to maintain an unsustainable lie.
After finishing my lunch, I open my DMs, type a message, and send it before I change my mind.