Page 17

Chapter Seventeen

RUTH

Miss Walcott,

Please see me in my office at 11am tomorrow morning to discuss your absence from today’s test.

Sincerely,

Professor Adams.

F uck.

Shitting fucking fuck.

I think I might be sick. I think I might cry, and then be sick, and then maybe die? Just sink into the floor and become one with the earth.

When I got in at the start of the semester, I swore I was going to get my shit together. I had a system, routines. I was taking my medication and using all the tools I know have helped in the past. And yet, here I am, crying on the toilet because I thought this test was on Thursday instead of Tuesday, and now twenty percent of my psych grade for the semester is gone.

Why do I always have to be such a mess? I thought I’d got past all this shit. The ugly feeling of failure bears down so hard it might crush me. I tried so hard to do everything right, but still can’t seem to manage the things that are so basic for everyone else.

I stare up at the back of the door, at the checklists I was so desperate for Rowan not to see. Three sheets of laminated paper with squares for me to tick off each day of the month: brushing my teeth, taking my medication, making my bed.

How the hell did I miss this test?

Fresh tears trickle down my cheeks and into my mouth as I think about how hard I’d studied, desperate to try and make my professor hate me just a little bit less. Adams has been riding my ass since the start of the year, and I’d say only about forty percent of it has been my fault.

I didn’t disclose my ADHD at the start of the class, sure that if I just worked hard enough, I could manage it. I’ve had so many professors in the past who treated it like an ‘excuse’ or a ‘trend,’ not giving me any of the extra support that I need as a disabled student.

But all it meant was that when deadlines started slipping and I was struggling to stay focused in class, Adams had chalked it up to laziness. The day he called me into his office to tell me that I needed to put more effort into my education, I wanted to fall through the carpet. Even when I tried to talk to him about the problems I was having, he didn’t want to hear it, just telling me to ‘put my head down and focus.’

Sure. Because I’ve never heard that one before.

I storm out of the bathroom and throw myself face down on the bed, screaming my frustration out into the comforter. I’m so sick of being such a fuckup. I know I need to get up. I need to make a plan for how I’m going to fix this. It’s like I can hear my parents’ voices in my head, telling me to stop being so much, so emotional, but for now, I just want to wallow in this feeling.

For a moment, I debate calling Rowan, but we’ve not spoken since the fight we had. Honestly, it’s probably for the best. I don’t need any more distractions, especially not the grumpy man with the bright blue eyes who’s never said an unkind word to me. I’ve spent the last few weeks obsessing about him, letting my brain run over our interactions until they’re etched indelibly on my mind. Much to the detriment of everything else I’ve got going on.

I pull out my phone, scrolling back through our messages. Why have I been wasting my time on this? I’ve got so much I should be doing, but I’m really about to throw it away for some guy.

Rationally, I know that none of this is his fault, but fuck if I don’t need someone else to blame here. Even if it’s just for a minute, just so I can breathe for a second without the self-loathing killing me. Besides, it’s partly true. My brain will hook onto anything to distract itself, and for the last few weeks, that distraction has been a 6’2” football player. I can’t afford to keep giving myself the option of obsessing over him, and the only way to do that is to go cold turkey.

I mean, it’s not like he’ll miss me bothering him all the time.

The front door opens and voices flood the apartment, pulling me out of my stupor. I tuck my phone away and head out to investigate. To my surprise, Georgie and a couple of the girls from our economics class are sat around the kitchen table, opening textbooks and pulling out laptops.

Was there a study group meeting? Did I miss the message?

“Hey, Ruth!” Georgie says brightly. “Sorry, we didn’t realize you were here.”

“Are you guys studying?” To my knowledge, Econ is the only class they all have together.

“Yeah, just wanted to get ready before the test on Friday.” Steph gives me a small smile.

Shit.

I’d known the test was coming, but it kind of snuck up on me. “Of course!” I say, figuring I can pull off the lie if I only say it with enough energy.

“You can join us if you want?” Georgie moves a plant pot off the decorative stool it lives on in the hallway, placing the makeshift chair at the end of the table.

“You don’t mind?”

“Of course not. Why would we mind?” Her face is genuine, settling whatever had been starting to fester in my gut.

“That would be amazing.” I run to grab my stuff, thrilled to feel like I’m finally getting on top of my work, even if it’s just for an afternoon. I leave my phone on my nightstand, not about to let thoughts of Rowan keep invading when I’ve got work to do.

I take a seat, smiling gratefully as everyone shuffles their stuff around to make room on the table. Steph smiles back, but there’s something tight in the lines around her eyes.

Clara’s in the seat next to me, she leans close, keeping her voice low. “I’m so glad you’re here. I need to hear more about Mr. Football Guy.” She waggles her eyebrows.

I flush. “There’s, uh, there’s nothing to tell.” The words feel wrong coming out, but I make myself say them, as if speaking them aloud will make them true.

“Really?”

I shrug, casting my eyes away.

“Well, that’s too bad. He sounded like a good thing.” She gives my arm a quick squeeze. If only she knew.

“We’re just looking through chapter nine,” Indira says from across the table. I jerk up. Did I get off track again already? I open up to the page she means and immediately know how lost I am.

I’m sure I remember this class, I remember the professor talking about this stuff, but hell if I know what a single word on this page means. The others start up their conversation, falling into an easy rhythm as they talk about last week’s TV, each working through the practice questions. Clara makes sweet attempts to include me, but I’m too caught up in the mess on the page. The words swim in front of my eyes as I try to think back to anything I can remember from the lecture. I go to my notes but find embarrassingly little there to help me.

Eventually, I can’t take it anymore; I make a quick excuse and head back to my room, shutting the door behind me as I try to calm my breathing.

I’m not sure that any of them notice I’m gone.