Kensi visited me at Lake Crest. I can’t even count how many times she came to see me—sometimes with Owen, sometimes on her own. When I got in my first fight there, she was the one I called. I was beaten by a guy twice my size and two years older than me. He was in Lake Crest for committing armed robbery; he drove the getaway car. When he asked me to write his term paper for recent American history, I said no. So he fucked me up when I rounded the corner after my shower in gym. My eye was swollen shut, and he cut me on my cheek and arm with a knife he wasn’t supposed to have, but no one dared take away from him. I called Kensi so she’d come up with an excuse to keep my mom away for an extra week. She did.
Kensi made a lot of excuses for me.
That right there—that small thing that the girl, who will probably marry my brother, did for me, no questions asked—is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me. Kensi wrote to me, too. She sent me clips from the college paper on Owen’s games, and she took pictures and printed them out to make collages of things I missed—my car, my old house, the rink.
I gave up a year and a future, and Emma Burke couldn’t be bothered to stamp a goddamned envelope.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I scroll to the string of texts between Lindsey and me, and I send her one more.
Can’t wait for Friday. Can I see you tomorrow? I’ll come over. Oh, and don’t tell your roommate, but her cookies made me sick. Had to throw them out.
Standing from the bench, I push my phone back into my pocket and stuff my hands into my jacket, walking back to my apartment feeling entitled to lots of things. First on that list is Emma Burke’s roommate.
And I intend to have her.
* * *
Emma
I didn’t sleep.
Lindsey did.
She slept right through the sound of her phone buzzing on the bed between us. She’d brought it in with her, never stopping in her happiness to leave things in the kitchen or her room. She came to take care of me, then left her phone there as she fell asleep. I know she didn’t do it on purpose; she doesn’t have a clue about any of it at all, about who Drew really is. But it still all feels so carefully played, as if she’s working with him to make sure just the right everything finds my ears and eyes and insides.
…her cookies made me sick.
My body ached reading those words. They weren’t for me, but yet…they have to be for me. I lay there and thought about the way he looked at me—and the way he looked.
I let Lindsey stay asleep in my bed. Sneaking out of my room to the shower, I slip into my workout clothes so I could head to the gym before my morning class. I packed a bag with everything I thought I’d need, the plan to stay away until I heard from Lindsey about a date—that he’d come, and they’d both be gone.
But that text never came. Not a word. Nothing—not even an excited text from my friend about how he wants to see her now, because he just can’t wait.
I fought the urge to text her leading questions that would prompt answers about Andrew. We only shared labs on Mondays and Wednesdays, so I was on my own today, which made it harder to stretch things like lunch and studying into taking longer than they really needed to. By the time the sun was down, I was exhausted, running on maybe an hour of sleep in total. If they were going out, they’d be gone by now, and Lindsey would have let me know.
My backpack loaded down, I drag my tired legs to our apartment building, through the lobby, and to the elevator where I’m so exhausted I drop my bag from my shoulders during the ride and drag it along the floor as I exit and walk to our door.
It’s a weird season here now—not quite the snowy winter I’ve grown to love, but not warm enough to wear single layers. Every hallway and classroom is pumped with heat, though, which makes me sticky and uncomfortable by the end of the day. I’ve hit my limit for today.
I listen before putting my key in the lock. It’s quiet, which makes me think that maybe Lindsey left without telling me. My mind runs away with this thought, jumping to the conclusion that Andrew mentioned how he knows me—and my friend didn’t want to hurt my feelings, so of course now they’re off somewhere both talking about how they need to keep this a secret from me. I let these thoughts dance in my head until I open the door and see the both of them laughing, throwing strings of pasta at each other in our kitchen. Confronted with what’s real, I actually wish the daydream in my head from seconds before were the truth. At least then, I wouldn’t really know and see it all.
I’m too noisy, and they both turn to look at me, my clothes disheveled from being stuffed in my bag for the morning, my hair limp and stringy from my rushed shower, my back sweaty from carrying my heavy bag all day. Lindsey covers her mouth, hiding her giggle from whatever they were doing before—whatever was funny—but finally lets it go, laughing without abandon as she walks closer to me.