Zelda
I’m sprawled on my couch when the knock on the door jerks me out of whatever sad story I’ve been imagining while I watch some comedy show on TV. I’ve totally lost the plot—several episodes have gone by while I’ve been lying here, and I have no idea what’s going on.
I have to get up and put the last touches on my final project that’s due before I earn my degree. It’s all that stands between me and freedom, because after I submit it, I’m done.
I can go wherever I want to go.
And I have plans, too. I have a three-month trial position as an archivist at Stanford, all the way across the country. I start in two weeks.
If I can submit this project.
It’s fifteen minutes of work, but my body feels so heavy that I don’t even want to get out of bed most days. It’s all I can do to drag myself in for my shifts at the library, pretend I’m fine, and then come back home to spend my evenings on the couch.
The knock comes again, more insistent this time. “Zelda, I know you’re in there.”
Carly.
We never did meet for lunch, although she’s texted me every single day since then. I don’t have the energy for it. I don’t have the spark.
I miss him so much.
“It’s better this way,” I say out loud.
“I can hear you,” Carly calls.
“What did I say?”
I still haven’t forced myself up from the couch. “I can’t really hear you, but I know you’re in there.” She pounds on the door, probably with the side of her fist. “Let me in!”
I push myself upright with a sigh. I’m already wearing sweatpants. They’re the same sweatpants I put on every day when I get home. Sweatpants and some ratty t-shirt from college. I kept a few of them around for occasions like this.
Occasions when I find myself wallowing for three weeks.
It was okay for the first few days, but I lost momentum fast.
I pull open the door.
“Zelda.” Carly’s tone is scolding. “What is this?”
“What’s what?”
“It’s six o’clock in the evening. The weather is beautiful.” She’s wearing a sundress that looks like it transitions perfectly between day and night. “It’s June. You’re leaving in two weeks.”
I cover a yawn with my hand. “It’s not you.”
“No way,” Carly says, shaking her head. “No way. Get into the shower.”
“What? No. I’m in for the night.”
“I’m putting my foot down.”
Without breaking eye contact, I raise my hand slowly to the door and start shutting it. If I can get it closed before—
Carly slaps her hand against the surface.
“Careful. That’s a brand new door.”
“Don’t you dare try to shut me out.”
“Fine. You can come in if you want, but—”
She sighs heavily, then pulls her purse off her shoulder and tosses it inside. The next thing I know, she’s stepped into my apartment, hooked her arm through mine, and is bodily walking me backward—backward!—toward the bathroom.
When we get to the door, she pushes me inside. “Take a shower.”
“I took a shower this—” The lie dies on my lips. I might not have taken a shower this morning. I can’t really remember. My hair was kind of flat, so it was easy to put up for work, but…
“Get into the shower. I’m choosing an outfit. We’re going out.”
Forty-five minutes later, we’re sliding into a booth at the Cellar, a little restaurant downtown that connects through a set of double doors to Greenville’s swankiest bars.
“You’re really pulling out all the stops.” I smooth my dress over my legs.
Carly shakes her head. “It’s a nice place. You need to go to a nice place.”
A waitress bustles over, and Carly orders two glasses of white wine. As soon as the woman turns her back, she folds her hands together on the tablecloth and looks me in the eye.
“Is this a job interview?”
“What is going on with you?”
I look up at the ceiling. “Carly, don’t. I’m—I’m a little overwhelmed with school, and—”
“Lies. All lies.”
“You interrupted me. I was finishing up and sending in my final project.”
“You were lying on the couch again. I heard the TV.”
“I was—”
“Zelda. You’ve been sulking for weeks. You never want to go out. You’re—” She waves her hand at my face. “Underneath the gorgeous make-up job I did—”
“Thank you for that.”
“You’re welcome. Underneath it, you’re pale and sickly looking, but I don’t think you’re actually sick. So, ’fess up.”
I look at her, my face totally blank.
She waits.
I blink.
She waits.
Carly narrows her eyes.
I take a breath, look down at the tablecloth.
“Seriously.”
“Seriously.”
“Zelda, this is ridiculous. If you don’t want to tell me, that’s up to you, but I don’t think this is end-of-school blues or whatever you’re pretending it is, and I—”
“I’m still in love with Sawyer.” The truth bubbles out of me and I can’t contain it, but my first instinct is to clap my hands over my mouth.
“Sawyer, bar man extraordinaire? With the tattoos? The wise-ass?”
“That’s him.” An ache comes to my throat. I wish the wine was here so I could swallow it down, but instead I look off toward the painting on the wall next to our booth. It’s of a farm scene, completely perfect, a sunny day. I hate it.
“Okay.” Carly is brisk and businesslike. “Let’s call him.”
I look at her with wide eyes. “Not. A. Chance.”
“Why not?”
“I’m done with him. I’m done with him, and it’s for the better.”
“Then why are you crying?”
“I’m not crying.” An ill-timed tear spills down my cheek, and I wipe at it with a sharp twist of my hand. “I—” Damn the quivering chin. “I miss him. Things might have changed, so…”
“What, did he turn over a new leaf for you?”
I start to shake my head, but then I think about the time we spent together. How he went to see his dad. How he wanted to get out of his job. How he didn’t fight back when Domino came to attack him, even though I know he wanted to.
“Yeah.” My reply is soft. “He did.”
Carly leans across the table, her face serious. “You need to talk to him.”
“I can’t.”
“You have to. You’re leaving soon. And this?” She runs her hand through the air in front of my face. “You can’t start a career like this. You can’t start your life like this.”
I nod. “I know.”
But what if I have no other choice?