Page 38

ANDY

A FTER DINNER, I start a new book but toss it aside after reading the first paragraph four times. I can’t even concentrate enough to read—so frustrating.

It’s been almost a week of self-inflicted misery.

I was never going to break up with Jack to get my editor position back, but once Bryce’s deadline passed, I dithered.

Since I’m usually decisive, this state of limbo has been agonizing.

Jack is right—he deserves a girlfriend who can be completely committed to him.

And my head tells me that I’m not ready to be that, no matter how much I miss him.

Yet, his absence is like a visceral void. I started out unhappy and it’s worse now—I hate myself for not even being able to make a decision.

There’s a sharp tap on my door. I groan and drag myself off the bed. I have zero energy, but an RA can’t play hermit. I swing open the door.

Emily and Dawn are standing there with loaded tote bags.

Hey. What are you doing here? I don’t remember any plans.

Girls’ night, says Emily at the same time as Dawn says, It’s a fucking intervention. They barge into the room.

Which is it? I can’t even muster the energy to be annoyed.

How about a girls’ intervention night? We’re worried about you, says Emily.

She starts unpacking her bag. There are chips, cookies, Sour Patch Kids, and KitKats.

This looks like Emily’s emergency stash of comfort food.

Meanwhile, Dawn slides out a takeout pizza and a six-pack of canned vodka spritzes.

Oh, no. We’re not allowed to have alcohol in the dorms, I protest.

Dawn rolls her eyes. Please. It’s not like the RA is going to report you.

I frown. Yes, but I’m supposed to set the example.

This is your problem. You need to stop following all the rules, especially the stupid and arbitrary ones you create for yourself. Dawn’s scowl stops me from arguing further.

Fine…but you have to hide them if anyone comes by, I say weakly.

Nobody is coming by. We put a note on your door that says anyone with a problem should talk to Sunny. And yes, we checked with Sunny first, Dawn retorts.

Welp, this feels pretty serious. I sit on my bed and pop the tab of a spritz. Emily sits beside me on the bed and pats my knee. Dawn sits backwards in my desk chair, then rolls in front of me and swigs from her own can.

Emily begins. Andy, you’ve been through a lot of terrible crap this semester, most of it thanks to Bryce. But you refused to give up. You turned all those lemons into some pretty amazing lemonade. You went from zero sports knowledge to making a real success of the editorship.

I nod. Yeah, but to what end? All it took was a few days for the new sports editor to destroy everything.

Joey Vincent, the former deputy sports editor, is the new sports editor.

He immediately took over the hockey game reporting from Jacob, got rid of C.J.

and the women’s hockey stories, and alienated Mehmet.

The only feature that’s still running is the intramural scores portal, probably because Joey doesn’t know how to turn it off.

Yes, but everything you accomplished still exists online. Besides, the news is always changing. Emily slides even closer. What’s important is you—and how you treat yourself. Why can’t you accept the good things as well as the bad?

What? I squawk.

Your relationship with Jack. You were the happiest we’ve ever seen you.

And not just happy—you seemed to have this inner ease, like you were more at peace in the world.

Emily often has these woo-woo takes on the world, but this time I know exactly what she means.

Lately, I’ve had an inner confidence beyond scholastic achievements.

Dawn leans forward and points her spritz in my face. You need to go for it. Give me one reason you shouldn’t be with Jack. Before I can open my mouth, she adds, And I don’t want to hear about the risks of getting hurt. Being alive is full of risks. You could get hit by a snowplow tomorrow.

That seems oddly specific, I grumble, then shove a handful of potato chips in my mouth.

Honestly, with the way Jack worships you, a snowplow accident is more likely, Dawn says.

I munch in sulky silence.

Yeah, exactly. You have no arguments because you know how lame your excuses are. All that bullshit about him needing a better girlfriend, when it’s obvious that you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him, says Dawn.

Emily interrupts. Okay, let’s try to approach this in a more positive way. We’re concerned that this problem may be bigger than the three of us can handle—even with all this junk food. And we’re wondering if it’s time for you to access the college’s mental health resources.

I blink. Me? That’s ridiculous.

They don’t know what they’re talking about. I’m on top of all my responsibilities. Maybe I’ve skipped a few classes and boot camp sessions in the past week, but I’m not depressed or anything. Even my anxiety is manageable. My lack of energy and concentration are…only temporary.

Dawn nods. Yes, you. Obviously, we know more about you than most people. You had some challenges growing up—which you’ve overcome—but that doesn’t mean that they haven’t affected you in a deeper way.

My friends know about all my issues—not knowing anything about my birth parents, being different from my family, being the only Asian in my entire town.

Yes, I’ve developed a complex set of rules to live by.

It’s not because I’m trying to fulfill some model minority stereotype, but because I like the comfort of control.

But before I push aside Dawn and Emily’s concerns, the memory of that last night with Jack comes back to me.

How he saw through all my phony arguments to the scared little girl inside.

How he knows my weaknesses—and still wants to be with me.

How he said he loves me, and I gave him nothing in return.

I want to be a person who can love as freely as Jack. I want to throw myself into the safe place that Jack creates through his sweetness and caring. Yet, I’ve been paralyzed with indecision all week. How can I become a person who can take emotional risks?

Ironically, I can hear the speech I’ve given to so many residents: Getting help doesn’t mean that there’s anything wrong with you. We all need support sometimes.

My girlfriends are right. They’re offering me wisdom—and junk food—because they care. Only a fool would turn that down. I exhale my worries and inhale a sense of relief. Okay. I’ll make an appointment to talk to someone.

Emily whoops and hugs me. Way to go, Andy. You know we just want good things for you. Her words are an echo of the last sweet thing Jack said to me, and tears begin to trail down my cheeks.

Oh, no! Don’t cry, Andy. You’ll make me cry too. On cue, Emily starts sniffling.

You guys are such saps, Dawn scoffs and lets out a burp for emphasis.

Emily wipes her face and holds out an arm. Come on, Robot Heart, join the group hug. Pretending reluctance, Dawn comes over and allows us to embrace her too.

I love you two, I declare. Why is it so easy to say I love my girlfriends?

Dawn squeezes tight, then pulls away first. Let’s eat some pizza. Have you ever tried pizza with potato chips on top? So bad that it’s good.

T HE NEXT DAY, in addition to a full slate of classes, I have an email from Professor Davis Pullman summoning me to a meeting at the end of the day.

What does the faculty advisor to the Messenger want with me?

Surely the fact that I’m no longer on the newspaper staff means we have no reason to talk.

Unless he wants to expunge all my past accomplishments to ensure I never sully the halls of journalism?

So, I’m preoccupied as I finally make my way to the humanities building. I struggle against the freezing wind to open the door, when someone reaches around me to help.

Thanks so much, I say as I hustle inside. Then I turn to see who it is.

It’s Jack, of course. The person I’ve carefully avoided for the past six days. My heart thumps so hard, it must be visible through my down jacket.

Andy. All he says is my name, and something inside me collapses. Possibly my entire skeletal structure.

How are you? My politeness brain takes over, and I curse myself for sounding so cold.

I haven’t been great, he admits, because he’s all about the truth.

He’s almost more handsome in his unhappiness, with dark smudges under his eyes and a yearning expression. He looks like a Byronic hero with a tragic past, the romantic ideal of every English major ever.

I gulp. I’m so sorry. I’ve been meaning to call you. Ugh, I sound exactly like one of those jerks who ghosts women. But it’s the truth. I pick up my phone at least a dozen times a day, either wanting to message Jack or hoping for a communication from him.

Yet, I’m still not ready for this conversation. I’ve made an appointment with a counsellor, but even after last night’s intervention, something is still holding me back.

A week feels like enough time to think about things, Jack states flatly. He’s taken to heart all my advice about standing up for himself, and that’s to his credit. Now I need to take my own advice and stop wavering.

You’re right. It’s not like decisions will magically become clear if I keep putting them off. When I finally meet his gaze, all I see is sympathy.

Should we meet up tonight? I ask. A deadline will force me to do something, anything.

He shakes his head. I can’t. We’re leaving for a tournament.

Sorry. I should have known that. I’d really like to stop apologizing, but I feel so terrible about causing him all this pain. I’ve been wrapped in my own misery when Jack is even more sensitive than me.

Um, I’ve got a meeting now. Call me when you get back and we’ll get together.