Chapter 2
GABI
Present Day,
Beginning of Senior Year,
Dornell University
This is wrong.
Everything about this is horribly fucking wrong.
I can still smell the remnants of her favorite perfume – Queens and Monsters from the brand Henry Rose – like she spritzed it mere hours ago before heading to campus.
The half-used bottle sits on her cluttered dresser, and I swear my poor heart is convinced she might come back at any moment.
My lower lip quivers as I slowly scan her bedroom, untouched from the last time she was here, as if it were frozen in time and converted into a mausoleum the day she disappeared.
Textbooks are stacked haphazardly on the floor, school papers litter her desk, and worn clothes are tossed in a heap atop the chair in the corner.
We would have called the police if she hadn’t texted us from an unknown number at the beginning of June, telling us that she was fine but not coming back and told us not to come looking.
We all immediately called the number after receiving the text, but received the standard operator message stating the number we dialed was no longer in service.
Monroe.
What the fuck did he do to you, Monroe?
I slump onto her unmade bed, unable to stop the torrent of tears.
This was supposed to be our year. After Viv, Ele, and I returned from studying abroad, the four of us were going to take our senior year by storm, partying like the most feral and unhinged motherfuckers this campus has ever seen. We were supposed to go out with a bang.
Instead, my best friend in the entire fucking world is gone and I’m supposed to go about my day-to-day like she didn’t vanish into thin air.
Not gone, missing, I correct myself. I’m not supposed to say ‘gone’ because that word makes it seem like she’s never coming back, and that’s simply not a reality I can accept.
I will get to the bottom of this, and I will find her because I know deep in my soul that she’s not fine.
Nothing about this is fine.
“Gabi?”
Vivienne stands in the doorway of Monroe’s room, her straight black hair freshly cropped into a blunt, shoulder-length bob for the new school year. She looks at me with sorrow-filled eyes because none of us know what to do.
“Hey, Viv,” I sniff and wipe at my nose. “When did you get in?”
“A few hours ago, actually. My mom insisted on driving me, so I took advantage of the parental credit card and asked her to take me to the market. Our fridge is stocked, at least,” she offers with a timid grin.
“Thank God for that,” I sigh. “Has Ele arrived yet?”
“She texted me about an hour ago, saying she was almost to campus.”
I nod. “I’m glad one of us will have a car,” I say. “Monroe would have had one too, if she were here – that silver jalopy she inherited from her grandmother – but…”
I can’t finish the sentence, folding in on myself.
“Come on, let’s get out of her room,” Viv coaxes as I fight back a complete breakdown.
“It’s not right, Viv. It’s not right,” I stammer.
“I know, but Monroe must have had her reasons. She’ll resurface at some point, Gabi. She wouldn’t just leave you.”
I want so desperately for Vivienne’s words to be true.
Other than that single text back in June, no one has seen or heard from Monroe.
I have no idea if she’s still a student at Dornell, or if she managed to complete her classes and exams. Did she fail out?
Communication from her became increasingly scant, and by the end of last semester, her presence was a ghost in our group chat.
At first, I chalked it up to her busy schedule and obligations as sorority president, but when weeks passed without a message from her, I could sense that something was off.
Vivienne guides me out into the living room area of our apartment, her delicate hand pressed to the small of my back.
We walk over to the window, which has been slid fully open to let in any trace of breeze.
Upstate New York is notoriously humid at the beginning of September, the lingering summer weather biding its time until it is replaced by the lashing winds of winter.
In a few months, Dornell will be blanketed in newly fallen snow, and this blissful heat, sticky and draining as it is, will feel like a distant fever dream.
We each perch a hip against the ledge to study the commotion below.
We’d strategically picked this apartment for its central location smack in the middle of College Avenue and directly across from Tommy O’s, the shitty dive bar that was and still is the epicenter of nightlife for upperclassmen.
The way we squealed with manic exhilaration the day the landlord handed us the keys is cemented in my memory.
The people-watching is unmatched. We moved in at the beginning of our junior year, thinking we had won the lottery.
I tear up as I remember the four of us seated along these same windows that semester, two at one, two at the other, watching like vultures as our fellow students queued outside Tommy O’s, hopeful and desperate to be let inside.
Our running commentary was judgmental and merciless.
We were such assholes. Not about the women, but we couldn’t help but roast all the dickhead frat guys who would saunter up and expect to be let right in as if they were royalty.
At the beginning of that semester, all of us were underage, so we would wait until one of our guy friends took over as bouncer and then dash across the street.
He would pretend to check our IDs, a performative show for the boss, then shoo us inside.
Once the rank smell of stale beer and bad decisions grew strong enough to singe our nose hairs, we knew we were in the clear.
Vivienne roots around the bag slung over her shoulder and pulls out a box of Parliaments.
“I thought you quit?” I frown.
“I did,” she answers as a cigarette dangles between her teeth. She lights it, taking a long drag, then blows a plume of smoke out the window. I wave it away from my face, disapprovingly. “I’d like to see you try to survive investment banking at Morgan Stanley, Gabi. You’d become a smoker, too.”
“Doubtful. My dad used to smoke,” I say with a shake of my head. “It drove my mom crazy. They would fight about it constantly.”
“Yeah, well, it’s gross. I know,” Vivienne agrees. “But whatever.”
“What does Sophie think about it?”
“We broke up,” Vivienne says with another blow of smoke.
“Oh. I’m sorry,” I stutter, stumbling over my condolences. This explains the smoking. I can see the underlying hurt in her eyes, so I don’t pry any further.
Vivienne shrugs, and neither of us can find the right words to say, so we sit silently and watch the scene unfold below.
The sound of our front door swinging violently open catches us off guard.
“Some help here!” Eleanor groans as she struggles to shove an oversized suitcase across the entryway threshold and into our apartment. Springing to our feet, we run to help her.
“I’ve got more downstairs,” she explains, sprinting back down the two flights of stairs. I follow her as Vivienne pushes the massive suitcase across the linoleum floor.
Ele and I race to unload her double-parked car.
I grab as many bags as I can carry and dump them right inside the building door, then run back for more.
After several rounds of this frenzied dance, we’ve successfully unloaded her car, and Ele drives off to find street parking.
The downside of this place is that there’s no designated parking for building tenants.
Monroe was always good about moving her car to avoid getting tickets, but I’m convinced Ele got enough tickets last year to keep the local police force funded for decades.
“Damn, she has a lot of stuff,” I say aloud, sighing as I load myself up with more duffle bags than I can realistically carry.
The trudge upstairs feels like I’m training for combat, and I cling to the railing to prevent myself from falling backward.
By the time I reach the second floor and door of our apartment, I’m profusely sweating and ready to collapse.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I complain, dropping to my knees as Vivienne rushes to help remove the bags.
“How much more is there?” Viv asks.
“Too much,” I groan. Viv scoffs and heads downstairs.
I decide to take a well-deserved break and begin inspecting the contents of Viv’s grocery haul when Ele bursts through the door.
“There is no parking anywhere in this bitch,” Ele shouts. “Oh, you guys brought my stuff upstairs!” she exclaims.
“Yeah, you’re fucking welcome,” I say playfully. Settling on a bottle of cheap rosé and a block of cheddar cheese, I close the refrigerator door with my hip and grab an unopened box of crackers from the cabinet.
“Are we having a girl dinner?” Ele asks gleefully.
“Unless you have a better idea,” I say.
“Listen, returning to our staple diet of cheese and crackers is fine with me. I definitely overindulged at Google this summer. Having unlimited access to fully stocked micro kitchens and dining halls serving any food you can imagine is dangerous.”
“Sounds amazing,” I say, sighing wistfully. “My internship at NBCUniversal did not come with such perks.”
“But you liked it, right?” Ele asks, slicing off a piece of cheese.
“Loved it,” I say. “I definitely want to find a job doing sales partnerships when I graduate. Hopefully, a position opens up at NBCUniversal, because the team is amazing, but it’s not a guarantee.”
“Viv, how was Morgan Stanley?” Ele asks.
“Not the best,” she responds, assembling a cracker and cheese sandwich stack.
I give Ele a subtle shake of my head, hoping she’ll get the hint.
But, of course, she doesn’t. “What?” Ele asks me. “Is it about Monroe?”
“She’s probably referring to my breakup with Sophie,” Viv says, unamused. “Which, by the way, I’m fine. Yeah, it sucks. I really liked her, but I’ll live.”
“I’m sorry,” Ele offers. “That does suck.”