I only wanted to see that he was okay. That he was moving on. Doing well for himself.
But as I started getting ready tonight, I thought about a different scenario: bumping into him at a party with another girl. The two of us locking eyes from across the room as he kisses some beautiful brunette in a Bexler sweatshirt.
I want August to be happy. He deserves that much.
But I won’t be able to stomach the sight of it. Not yet. Not while everything’s still raw. Not while I still miss him so much it physically hurts in the form of stomachaches, dreams so intense I wake up crying, and a heaviness in my chest that steals my breath when I least expect it.
For three weeks after I told him goodbye, he texted me every day.
I miss you …
I need to talk to you …
When can I see you again?
I love you, Rose girl …
Then one day the messages just … stopped. And I knew they would. He had to have been tired of beating his head against the wall and getting nowhere.
Or maybe he met someone …
Time and time again, I caught myself typing something, only to delete it all and power off my phone to avoid further temptation. Engaging with him is playing with fire, a guaranteed way to get burned, and I’m still healing from the last time.
“Sher, please?” Stacia puts me on speaker, and a couple other girls chime in. We’re all in the same basic anatomy class on Tuesdays and Thursdays, all of us from different parts of Missouri, and we’ve all become close. “Please, please, please?”
I’ve never been a clique sort of person, but these girls have been my saving grace so far this semester. I’m never without plans on the weekends, and a good distraction is only a phone call or text away any time I need it.
I want to go.
But it’s a bad idea.
No good can come of it.
Only a hangover and heartbreak.
“I’m not really feeling well, guys.” It’s true. My stomach has worked itself into knots all night at the mere thought of running into August. Add some cheap beer into that equation and I’ll be sicker than a dog all night.
“I told you not to eat food service sushi,” Stacia says. “Should’ve listened.”
I laugh. “Yeah. It must’ve been the sushi …”
“Are you sure you can’t come with?” She tries one last time.
“I’ll let you ride shotgun and pick all the songs,” Hadley chimes in.
“Tempting, but I’m still going to pass.” I pluck a makeup wipe from its container. “You guys have fun without me, okay?”
I’m met with a symphony of groans and whining, and Stacia promises to call me tomorrow and tell me all about it.
For a split second, I contemplate changing my mind, because what are the odds I’ll run into him? One in fifteen thousand?
I end the call, peel out of my jeans and tank top, and change into pajamas—pajamas that happen to be the very ones I wore the night August snuck into my room.
Plopping on my dorm bed, I grab my laptop and pull up my Netflix. Clicking on the octopus documentary, I settle against my pillow … and grab a Red Vine from the bag in my nightstand drawer.
Maybe I’m just as crazy as he is.
It’s a tragedy, how perfect we were for each other.
And it’s heartbreaking that all that’s left are memories of a star-crossed summer and Red Vines.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
August
* * *
I shove my hands in my jacket and barrel down the campus town sidewalks until I spot my car in the overflow parking lot.
I have to get out of here.
I need air. I need a change of scenery. If I stay in this fucking Sheridan-less bubble another minute, I’ll die.
Ten minutes later, I’m taking the exit toward Briardale Community College. It’s an hour drive from Bexler, and I have no intentions of seeking her out. I just want to be in the same stratosphere as her, breathing the same oxygen, taking in the same views … anything to feel closer to her.
Led Zeppelin plays from my speakers—the same song she sang along to months ago, in the very seat that sits empty beside me. I crank the volume, settling in for the drive, knuckles white against the steering wheel.
This hopeless, helpless sensation is foreign to me, and I’ve never been one to feel sorry for myself, but I don’t know how much more of this I can take.
My life—without Sheridan—is an endless void.
A hamster wheel of college classes, beer binges, and meaningless monotony.
Resting my head back, I conjure up a mental conversation with her, imagining what we’d be talking about in this moment. School maybe. Weekend plans. How much we miss one another. It helps, sometimes, to pretend we never went our separate ways. And maybe in some parallel universe, we’re still together. We made it work. Growing deeper and harder in love with each passing day.