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Chapter Thirty-Two

RUTH

I have to bite back a groan when I see Marshall sitting next to one of the last empty seats in the lecture hall. I shuffle in next to him, knowing I can’t go somewhere else without it turning into a whole thing.

I don’t know what I’m so worried about. It’s not like anything bad’s going to happen. We haven’t spoken since he came by my apartment. I don’t know what’s shifted since the night at the frat house, but it’s as if I’m seeing our relationship in a new light, like the shine’s rubbed off.

“Hey, I missed you.” He grins up at me.

“Yeah, sorry, things have been crazy.”

“It’s all good.” He keeps smiling. “We should catch up soon though.”

His suggestion grates, sounding an awful lot like what I was saying last year, lapping up scraps of his attention while desperately trying to play it cool. Now he’s acting exactly how I would have wanted back then, but I kind of wish he would just stop.

“Sure.” I give him a tight smile.

“Everything okay?” His eyes go wide, like I’ve really hurt him. “Have I done something wrong?”

I sigh, forcing my hackles down. “No, of course not.” I don’t know why I’m being so cold. He hasn’t done anything wrong, he just acted a little crazy during a crisis situation. If I think about it, I don’t know that I would have behaved much differently.

“We’re still friends, right?” he asks, his smile faltering.

“Of course,” I protest. “Why would you ask that?”

“You’ve kinda been giving me the cold shoulder.” He shrugs. “I mean, I get it. I came on a little strong, but it’s just because you mean so much to me. I would hate to think that our friendship was ending because I got a bit overprotective.”

“It was a little more than that,” I say, bristling slightly. Overprotective didn’t really cover the way he’d treated Rowan.

“I know, I know, I suck.” He looks down at his desk.

“You don’t suck, you were just kind of a dick to Rowan.” I don’t like seeing him so dejected; even though I’m annoyed with him, I don’t want him hurting.

I should really give him a break. We were such good friends before everything happened, even if he’s being a bit much, it’s nice to feel like we’re closer to that place again.

“He kidnapped you,” he grumbles.

“No, he didn’t.” I’m firm in my rebuttal, wanting to get past this. “He was looking out for me.”

“Are you still seeing him?” There’s something accusatory about his question and I don’t like it. I find myself not wanting to answer, worried about what his response would be if he knew that Rowan’s my…friend? Boyfriend? I’m not quite sure, but it’s definitely something.

“We hang out sometimes.” It’s not technically a lie, but I’m heavily skirting the truth.

“I don’t like him.”

“Well, I do.” I keep my tone flat. “So be nice.”

“I’ll try.”

That’s probably as good as I can hope for. Marshall’s never going to have warm and fuzzy feelings about Rowan, not with the way they first met. If I were in his position, I’d also dislike whatever guy opened the door when I went to pick up my kidnapped friend.

“You’d better.” I give him a quick smile, trying to break the tension. “Or else we’re gonna have a problem.”

“Look, I know I was a dick when I came over, I was just still pretty wound up, and I handled it badly,” he says.

“You were kind of an ass,” I say, teasing. It’s nice to hear him own his fuckups for once. Usually, he doubles down until I give up because it’s easier than arguing with him.

“I know, I’m sorry.” He tips his head to the side. “I was being hardheaded.”

“Nothing new,” I murmur sarcastically.

“It’s the director in me.”

I laugh at his excuse. He uses it all the time, whenever he’s being difficult or stubborn, it’s all just down to his ‘directorial tendencies.’

“You’re basically my best friend, Ruth.” He playfully jabs me with his elbow. “No guy’s ever gonna be good enough for you in my eyes.”

Guilt bubbles up as I think about how I’ve been treating him, like he’s the enemy. Whatever weird vibe I’ve been getting lately, is it really worth throwing away a friendship over? Especially one that’s been so important to me? If I lay out everything that’s happened, all Marshall’s really been doing is trying to be a friend. Who am I to judge someone for coming on too strong? I’ve certainly done it more than once.

We don’t say much more for the rest of class. He knows I’ve been struggling with psychology, so I need to try and focus without any distractions. I make it about halfway through the lecture before my mind drifts.

It isn’t until someone knocks against my shoulder, jolting my pen and leaving a long streak across my notepaper, that I notice class has ended. I look down to see half a page of notes followed by a series of mindless scribbles.

Shit.

The backs of my eyes sting as I look over what I’ve written. A whole lot of nothing. It’s another class I’ve wasted, and I can feel myself slipping further and further behind my peers. It’s like I’m running on sand. I try so hard to keep up, but it’s as if everything is working against me.

I remember that all throughout my childhood, I was just the dumb kid in the back of the class, drawing on my arms or folding my worksheets into intricate paper planes. Everybody told me I needed to grow up and focus, or I’d never be able to amount to anything, and I try. I try so hard, but I never get anywhere.

A gentle finger taps the back of my hand. “You okay over there?”

Marshall’s eyebrows are furrowed in concern as he takes in whatever’s on my face. He glances down at my notebook. “Shit,” he mumbles before reopening his backpack. “Here, let’s head over to the library. You can make copies of mine.”

I could almost cry at his easy kindness, the way he doesn’t ask questions or lecture me. He knows I’m hanging on by a thread right now. I nod and smile as he helps me pack up my things.

“Come on.” He stands up and I follow in silence.

We stay that way on the walk to the library. I don’t know what to say. I don’t even really know what I’m thinking. It’s like I’m stuck in a stew of frustration and self-loathing and it’s shutting down my ability to function. Marshall doesn’t try to get anything out of me until we pass by one of the notice boards in the hallway. He stops and points at one of the flyers.

“Check this out.” He pulls it down. It’s me!” The flyer is for the film department’s winter showcase. Right above where Marshall’s finger is frantically tapping is a picture of him looking thoughtfully into a camera lens. I almost laugh at the image. Having seen Marshall on set, I know full well that he doesn’t go anywhere near the camera, instead preferring to yell out directions from safely behind the monitor.

I can’t read the words, given how much he’s jostling the paper. “You’re coming, right?” he asks like an excited little boy. The look on his face is so endearing that I wouldn’t be able to say no even if I wanted to. “I’m really excited about this piece. I can’t wait for you to see it.”

“Of course.” I force a smile. It’s not that I don’t want to go, I just can’t really muster any kind of enthusiasm about anything right now. “I wouldn’t miss it.”