Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
EVE
F orty-one months.
Ben and I started dating in October of our freshman year. It’s March of our senior year now. I’m not counting March in the total tally, even though we’re more than halfway through the month, because I can . And because forty-one sounds slightly better than forty-two.
“Forty-one months,” I announce, flinging my phone away without bothering to close out of the calendar app. “That’s how much fucking time I wasted.”
“You didn’t waste anything,” Harlow says. She’s curled up on the couch next to me, feet tucked under her. My best friend hasn’t left my side since she picked me up on the street thirty minutes ago. “Don’t let the ending ruin the rest.”
That sounds like philosophical bullshit to me. Harlow is trying to be supportive, and I appreciate the sentiment, but how can the ending not ruin the rest? I don’t know how I’ll be able to look back on the past forty-one months with any sentimentality.
I exhale, tilting my head back and staring at the plaster ceiling. There’s a semi-concerning yellow stain I’ve never noticed before. Hopefully the roof doesn’t cave in before we move out in May.
Ben isn’t impulsive. This was a decision he thought through. Has he known for weeks? Months? All the planning, all the conversations. Was there a part of him that always knew he wouldn’t be able to follow through, while I was looking ahead, oblivious and excited?
I don’t want to know the answer.
It’s what he decided. The when doesn’t really matter.
Bitterness curdles in my belly, so I reach for my half-full cup as a remedy. I added some seltzer to the vodka, but the drink’s strong enough to use as antiseptic. The sip burns at first, then settles and spreads into pleasant, warm numbness.
“Want to watch a movie?” Harlow asks. “Take your mind off it?”
“No.” I blow out a breath. “Thanks.”
“What about donuts? I can make a quick run to Holey Moley.”
“Not hungry,” I reply.
Harlow already sacrificed her night with Conor for me. I’m not going to send her out on a fried dough mission solo, and I’m in no shape to be seen in public.
Holt is a small campus, and I used to love that about this school. The sense of community was comforting. Now, it feels constrictive.
Now, I have people to avoid.
“We could go spread instant mashed potatoes in his front yard,” she suggests. “The snow’s supposed to switch to rain soon, so he’ll have a late-night surprise snack. Oh! Or we could cover his car in plastic wrap. I saw that on a TV show and I’ve always wanted to try it.”
I groan a laugh. I knew she’d suggest pranks at some point. Harlow’s fiercer—braver—than I am. I’m the type of person who likes to pretend unpleasant moments never happened. Or, in this case, get drunk on the couch. “Dozens of Holt students live in his apartment building, Harlow. And the car thing sounds…like a lot of work.”
I don’t care enough . I can’t say it aloud, even to my best friend.
When Conor broke up with Harlow—on her birthday, which I haven’t totally forgiven him for—Harlow was hurt. She was also furious. I should be feeling that way, I think. Not this detached processing, like I’m watching someone else write my life and am waiting to see their decision on what I do next. I skipped right past denial and anger and bargaining and depression and already reached the final stage of grief. Acceptance. There are vestiges of all sorts of emotions swirling inside of me—sadness, surprise, sentimentality—but I’ve already accepted their cause. It never occurred to me to disagree, when Ben said I’m not sure we’re forever . To argue or to attempt to change his mind. Partly because of pride. Partly out of apathy.
“I’ll keep brainstorming.” Harlow reaches for her glass and gags on a sip.
I measured both drinks.
I smile, but it collapses quickly.
Harlow reaches out and squeezes my knee. “It’ll be okay, E. Even if it doesn’t feel that way right now.”
“It does feel that way,” I admit. “I’m not worried. Just kind of…numb.”
“That could be the vodka,” she tells me. “Did you add any seltzer to these drinks?”
“A splash.” I sink lower on the sofa. “I didn’t see it coming. Not because there weren’t signs—because I didn’t want to see it coming. Because I thought if I kept forging ahead…he’d keep following me.”
Hindsight is a bright light, casting what I should’ve done in contrast to what I did. The funny thing is, I don’t think it would have prevented my breakup with Ben. I think we would have broken up a lot sooner.
“You don’t need him,” Harlow says softly.
“I know.” I take another generous gulp from my drink.
But I wanted him. Wanted the security of constant companionship and support.
I know having a few people in your life who care about you is better than having more who don’t. More is nice, though. I like being able to say “I talk to him regularly” when the topic of my father comes up. I liked being able to say “my boyfriend is moving with me” when someone mentioned how far or expensive New York City is.
Want and need are different. I don’t need more, I remind myself.
Harlow’s phone—half tucked under her thigh—lights up, a new notification adding to the many messages littering the screen. I can make out the heart next to Conor’s name from here.
I try to remember the last time Ben texted me nonstop about something. About anything .
I come up blank.
He did text me twenty minutes ago, asking if I made it home safely. I replied Yes , because I’m not petty enough to make him worry about my safety. Even if he’d always dismiss my fears of being kidnapped by saying it was statistically unlikely.
Ben didn’t respond to my reply.
I swallow more fizzy vodka, avoiding Harlow’s concerned gaze.
The first half of spring semester felt frenzied, like graduation was imminent. Now, time has come to a standstill, and the remaining seven weeks of college appear an eternity ahead. Seven weeks of avoiding Ben. Seven weeks of screening potential roommates to ensure I don’t end up sharing space with a serial killer. Seven weeks of submitting job applications alone.
Spring break starts next Saturday. Or Friday, if you’re one of the lucky few with no classes on that day. I didn’t want to spend any of my precious savings on a trip, so I planned to stay on campus. With Ben. We were going to take a day trip to Seattle…and discuss New York.
Even if Ben’s in Somerville for break, I won’t have to see him. I can stay, slouched, on this very sofa for the entire week.
“Answer him,” I tell Harlow, nodding toward her phone. “Way more productive than staring at me with that wrinkle between your eyes.”
The wrinkle deepens. “Do you want to go to Gaffney’s? Throw some darts? Hit some pool balls?”
I consider it, then shake my head. “No. Thanks. Honestly, I just want to stay on this couch the rest of the weekend. I’ll get through next week, and then I can camp out here all break.”
I’ll stock up on cookie dough and browse the library’s fiction section and order a new face mask and?—
“Absolutely not.” Harlow looks horrified.
“No, it’s a good thing,” I assure her. “Like a rest, recharge, and revitalize kind of retreat?—”
“You are not spending spring break—our final spring break—on the couch. That is not on the bucket list.” Harlow points toward the kitchen. I don’t turn my head, but I know where her finger is aimed. Right at the creased piece of paper attached to the bulletin board hanging next to the stove. The senior year bucket list was my attempt to prioritize all the things I told myself I’d do in college but didn’t. It was a short list to begin with, and all I’ve crossed off was attend a sporting event .
“There’s nothing about spring break on the bucket list,” I say, reaching for my drink again. It’s become an emotional support glass at this point.
“Not yet .” Harlow hops off the couch, returning a few seconds later with the worn paper. Something red—pasta sauce, I hope—is splatted at the bottom.
Harlow picks up one of her thick marine biology textbooks off the coffee table and flops down on the couch with a pen poised in hand.
She scribbles something, then holds the paper out to me.
I have a bad feeling about this.
Yes, I wrote the list to be more adventurous. But Harlow is much more adventurous than I am. I barely remember what made the original list, but it was nothing that wild. All-nighter was on there, I think? Attend more parties ?
Hesitantly, I take the paper from her. The title I wrote —Senior Year Bucket List has been crossed out. It’s now called Eve’s Fuck-It List .
And spring break road trip has been added to the bottom.
I sigh. “Harlow, I can’t afford?—”
“It’s free,” she tells me. “The whole trip has been planned and paid for.”
“ Your trip?”
Harlow told me last month she was driving to a small town in northern California with Conor over spring break. She invited me at the time, but I told her I had plans with Ben.
“ Our trip.” She grins. “Come on, it will be a blast.”
“I appreciate the offer, H. I really do. But there’s no way I’m freeloading and third-wheeling for a week?—”
“Fifth-wheeling, technically. Aidan’s coming too and he has a girlfriend now.”
“Even worse. I’m happy here—what are you doing?”
“Texting Conor to check with him. But I’m sure he’ll say it’s cool.”
“Harlow, no !” I grab for her arm, but it’s just out of reach.
“Conor thinks it’s a great idea,” she tells me a second later.
I silently add slow responder to my growing list of grievances against Ben. By the time he replied about something, it was usually null. I’d already eaten lunch or left for Gaffney’s or gone to the studio.
As with his sighing, it started out charming. I liked that Ben wasn’t constantly on his phone like most of our peers. He always apologized for taking so long to get back to me, and I always said it was fine. I also started texting him less frequently.
“So, you’re in?” Harlow asks enthusiastically.
I scramble for some excuse.
“You said you’re leaving Thursday afternoon. I have my Poetics of Narrative class on Friday morning, and I can’t miss it.” I mean, I could , would actually love to, but I shouldn’t. And it’s the best excuse I can come up with while drunk and on immediate notice. “So…” I shrug, and then let my voice trail, leading Harlow to the inevitable conclusion.
“That’s fine,” she says, shocking me. “Better, actually. Now Hunter doesn’t have to drive nine hours alone. He has a Friday morning class too, so he’s coming separately.”
“ What ?” There’s pure panic in my voice, but Harlow is too busy texting to notice. And I’m too stunned to stop her.
Hunter…as in Hunter Morgan. I cannot ride nine hours with Hunter Morgan . I barely made it through our five-minute interaction earlier. I barreled into him, smelled him, and then babbled nonsense. Me, him, and a small enclosed space? I’ll probably self-combust. I’ll definitely say or do something embarrassing.
“Conor checked with Hunter. He said you’re welcome to ride with him.” Harlow delivers the verdict cheerfully.
Fuck, fuck, fuck .
My brain’s stopped working. I can’t come up with a single believable excuse for why I can’t ride with Hunter. I could fake an illness closer to Friday, but then there’s a risk Harlow would insist on staying with me. I already ruined her night. I don’t want to ruin her spring break too.
I could tell her the truth, but it sounds ridiculous even in my own head.
See, the first night of freshman year, I met this guy. And I’ve barely spoken to him since, but he’s stuck in my head, so I can’t be stuck in a car with him.
I never mentioned meeting Hunter to Harlow, and I’m fairly certain he has no memory of it. If he does, he’s never said anything. I tested Harlow last fall, the first time Hunter said hi to me, acting like I had no clue who he was, and she definitely didn’t respond with Oh, yeah. He said he met you freshman year.
I never expected him to remember me—it was a long time ago. But it makes me more self-conscious about how well I remember him .
I take a deep breath. “Harlow, I really don’t?—”
“Do it for me, Eve.” She gives me a pleading look. “I know I’ve been distracted by Conor lately. This will be a chance for us to hang out a ton. Aidan’s girlfriend, Rylan, is awesome. You’ll like her. It’ll be a fun, chill getaway. The perfect distraction. I promise.”
“You do realize the flaws in your quality time pitch are that we already live together and that Conor will be on the trip too, right?”
Harlow rolls her eyes. “Only for two more months. And Hunter is going. I swear it’s not a couples thing. The house Aidan rented is right on the water.” She nudges my ribs with her elbow. “ Way better scenery to paint than our living room.”
“It’s not just the couples thing. I’m going to feel like an outsider. I don’t know Conor’s friends.”
“You’ve met them. Aidan’s super friendly. And Hunter’s more reserved, but he’s cool. Driving with him will be fine.”
I know Hunter’s cool. He’s part of the crowd that’s beautiful and popular and athletic. It’s one of the reasons why being around him makes me feel like I’ve swallowed a sparkler. He’s so firmly outside my comfort zone being around him makes my world feel bigger. Makes me feel reckless, like maybe I should try to capture something out of reach.
And it’s also why driving with him will not be fine. It will be the most thrilling nine hours of my twenty-two years on this planet.
Fuck it .
I swallow another long gulp of vodka and tell my best friend, “Okay. I’m in.”