In Her Wake (Ten Tiny Breaths 0.5)(16)

“Excuse me, can I help you?”

I jump at the voice, and turn to find a brown-haired nurse standing next to me. “Yeah, can you please put these in Kacey Cleary’s room for me?” I shove the bouquet into her face, forcing her to accept them.

And then I get the hell out of there, heading in the opposite direction of Livie and anything to do with facing this nightmare.

■ ■ ■

A hundred or so beige seats stretch out in front of me. For as big as MSU is, with 47,000 students in attendance, many of my program classes are relegated to the same area. This will be my seventh time taking a class in this lecture hall. It’s my first time sitting in the back row, though.

And it’s definitely my first time consciously avoiding all eye contact.

I can feel them watching me. From glances over their shoulders to full-on stares, countless eyes full of everything from curiosity to judgment burn my skin.

They all know exactly who I am. Our program isn’t that big, and given that I’ve spent three years with most of these people and I played for the Spartans, my name is known. My face is, too, based on the comments I’ve received over the years from the female student population.

But they’re not looking at me for those reasons now, and so I keep my head down.

I smell her perfume a second before she slides into the seat beside me.

“Hi.” It’s a flat word, not genuine at all.

With a sigh, I turn to look at the brunette. “Hey.” I recognize her but I have no idea what her name is.

By the set of her jaw, she looks like she’s not here to introduce herself to me. She looks like she’s on a mission.

“I knew Mr. Cleary. He was one of the nicest, funniest teachers I’ve ever had.”

She pauses, as if waiting to see how I’ll respond to that well-aimed verbal stab into my stomach. What the hell am I supposed to say? Especially with an audience. Even Professor Giles is now standing at attention by the podium, her attention focused on the back of her room when she should be starting the class.

Gritting my teeth, I manage, “I’m sure he was.”

The girl opens her mouth to speak but then hesitates. She must see that she’s already sufficiently wounded me, that the guilt is pouring from me in a constant stream. “He didn’t deserve what you and your friends did to him. None of them did.” With that, she gets out of the chair and heads toward the front of the lecture hall, her chin held high, having said her piece. I wonder if she’s been planning that confrontation all summer long or if it was a spontaneous outburst.

“Welcome back, everyone!” Professor Giles calls out, pulling everyone’s attention to the front.

Except mine. I quickly tune her out, dropping my gaze to the blur of words in my textbook. Why the f**k am I even here? When I chose Art History and Visual Culture as my area of study, I knew it was purely a stepping-stone. Truthfully, I could have skipped the degree and gone straight to a one-year design school program. I’d already be working full time at my mom’s agency. But I wanted the full college experience—the parties, college ball, the piece of paper that should be coated in gold for what it cost. So did Sasha and Derek. Our parents weren’t the least bit surprised when we applied to the exact same list of colleges and made our decision based on where all three of us had been accepted.

Now, though, I don’t care about any of it.

Because everything has changed. Being here doesn’t feel right anymore. It’s like I’m trying to step back into the past and the door is firmly shut, with deadbolts barring it, the key thrown into a deep well.

I close my textbook and slip out the door, escaping the judgment.

■ ■ ■

“How’d it go?” Rich asks from the couch, one foot on the coffee table, one beer in hand.

I toss my empty knapsack on the floor. I returned my textbooks. All of them. “I’m out.”

He sits up straight, a frown on his face. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m out.” It took one more class of staring at pages and not hearing a single word spoken for me to make my decision. Though no one else decided to bludgeon my conscience, I felt the stares. I have a hard enough time living in my own skin right now. I can’t deal with this.

Falling back into the couch beside him—even sitting on this couch is uncomfortable—I sigh. “Do you think you can find a roommate to take over my half of the rent?”

Rich’s gaze burns into my profile for a long moment but I ignore it, gluing my eyes to the TV, zoning out on nothingness. “Yeah, for sure.” Another long moment of silence. “You wanna beer? The fridge is loaded.”

“Nope.” I’m done with alcohol.

I’m done with this apartment.

With this school.

I’m done with everything.

■ ■ ■

“Hey! Can you get that for us?” The boy points to the bush at the end of my parents’ driveway, where the hockey puck landed.

I retrieve it and toss it back onto the road. He and the other kid resume passing it back and forth between their hockey sticks without even a thanks my way.

Little shits. I smile. They’re good. Not as good as Sasha and I were. The Danielses’ front door opens and a brunette woman steps out. “Boys! Dinner.” Of course they ignore her, too focused on the puck.

Slinging my duffel bag over my shoulder, I walk up the flagstone path to the unlit front porch. Our house is modest. My parents had talked about moving once, to a wealthier neighborhood in Rochester a good twenty minutes away from Sasha. I threw such a fit that they never talked about it ever again.