Chapter 1
August
It’s the start of my senior year at Pembroke College—a new beginning.
If my life were a Netflix limited series, this would be the first episode.
I can picture it as the scene opens to a small apartment bathroom.
The lights are off, but the midday sun shines through the windows, illuminating the space just enough to see my hand pop into the frame, like a zombie breaking free of graveyard dirt.
I grab on to the sink, hoisting myself up off the ground.
The camera zooms in as I look up into the mirror at the mess staring back at me.
I pull what looks like a straw wrapper from my tangled hair.
My shirt from last night is half off. One fake eyelash still on, the other glued to my cheek.
I sigh at my appearance and stumble from the bathroom, but the camera is still focused on that spot, and the title of the show appears on the screen in my absence, in big, bold letters.
I wonder what it would say. Maybe something like “Hot Mess,” or “Redeemable?” with a question mark that slaps onto the end of the word at the last second.
The audience would wonder how I got here.
They would form their initial opinions of this character in front of them, and they might not like me.
Right now I don’t even like me.
I pull myself from my thoughts as I tiptoe across the hall of the two-bedroom off-campus apartment, squinting against the
offensive morning light, and I peek in at my bed, wanting it to be empty.
Short, light brown hair is lying atop the pillow next to mine. Slow, deep breaths rise and fall under my comforter. Shit.
I step into my room, over jeans and shirts, the clothes from last night tossed about in a hurry. I can barely even remember
if we . . . I let the thought trail off unfinished, unwanted as I pick up the black leather wallet on my nightstand and open
it up. Nick Crane, age twenty-one, six two, brown hair, blue eyes, from Boston. Hm. Not bad. I study the ID a moment longer
when he begins to stir, turning toward me. I quickly shut the wallet and set it down as he opens his eyes groggily and smiles
up at me.
“Hey,” he says.
He’s cute, and I’m wondering how I’ve never seen him around before, considering we’re the same age. Pembroke is a big school,
but it’s not that big. And by the time you’re a senior, you either know or at least recognize just about everyone in your
year. His lazy grin makes my stomach feel sour when I remember that I don’t remember how we got here.
“Hate to do this to you but I have to go to work, so I need you to leave.”
I don’t really have to work today; in fact I specifically requested off for this whole weekend, but it’s nicer than just telling him to get out for no reason.
I start rummaging around my dresser, pulling out what I would wear to work if I was really going.
The first weekend of the semester, also known as Welcome Weekend, is usually a three-day, nonstop party.
Everyone is back from the summer, all tan and glowing, and the weather is still warm.
Every house has people drinking on the lawn, every bar is packed full.
I bet my friends are already up and out again, wondering where I am.
His smile fades as he looks around, then props himself up on his elbows. “What time is it?”
“Like two in the afternoon.”
“Damn.” He sits up fully now. “Do you want to grab some lunch before you go? Or even just a coffee?”
I find in these situations it’s best to just be curt. “No.”
The last thing I want to do is nurse a hangover in broad daylight with someone whose ID I had to check five minutes ago, like
I’m the bouncer of my own bedroom.
“Oh, okay.” He gathers his clothes from my floor and starts to put on his jeans from last night. “Well, maybe we could grab
a drink sometime?”
He stands up, his white T-shirt still in his hand. I imagine us casually getting a drink together. He would have to remind
me of his name, I would have more than one drink, and we would wake up here again.
“Maybe,” I say, but I don’t mean it.
I walk him to the door, stepping over the clutter of boxes I still have to unpack that are scattered throughout the small space.
I trip over a box overflowing with the same books I bring to school every year, cursing to myself when my shin collides with the corner of Little Women, sending the stack toppling over.
I give a silent apology to Louisa May Alcott and the March sisters as the hardcover hits
the ground. He turns at the noise, and I lean casually on the kitchen counter, pretending I didn’t just fall into it. I watch
his eyes drift over to the empty wine bottles and take-out containers. Knowing I have to get all this cleaned up before my
cousin Adrienne moves in tomorrow makes my head throb. I wrap my arms around myself, counting the slow, nauseating seconds
until I can lie back down.
He steps out of my apartment onto the wooden platform before the stairs. “Can I have your number at least?” The look on his
face almost makes me give it to him out of pity.
Almost.
“No, goodbye, Nate, it was fun.”
“It’s Nick—”
“Okay, bye-bye, now.” I shut the door without another word.
I pull my curtains closed and get into bed. I can’t help but feel a little disappointed in myself for falling back into this
pattern so easily. Senior year was supposed to be different; I was supposed to have it under control, but here I am struggling
to put together my memories of last night like an old puzzle that’s missing pieces.
When I finally pick up my phone, I find that I have fifteen missed calls from my mom and younger sister, Claire.
We are not the type of family that talks daily—sometimes I don’t even speak to my mom weekly.
They were just here on Thursday moving me into this apartment with my stepdad, Don, and youngest sister, Sofie, so what could they possibly need me for not even a full two days later?
Dread forms in the pit of my stomach as I think maybe I did something last night that would warrant these calls.
I quickly go through my messages and my profiles, covering all bases before replying to them.
I text them to say that I’m at work and am just now checking my phone. A chat bubble immediately pops up from Claire but goes
away, then my phone is ringing again. I let it ring a few times while I look at her caller ID photo. It’s a candid picture
of her mid-laugh, which I can hear in my head when I look at it. Her hazel eyes crinkle at the corners, where freckled cheeks
form an innocent smile. We don’t look alike. We don’t act anything alike either, at least not anymore. Claire used to always
copy everything I did. If my favorite color was purple, so was hers. If I declared that I hated broccoli, so did she. But
then I was old enough to wear makeup and get highlights in my hair, and she wasn’t. Thus set the trajectory for the big personality
divide. Golden-child Claire, and Sloane, the child sent from Satan himself to ruin my mother’s life.
I hit decline on the call and begin typing.
I said I’m at work and you can text me whatever it is.
I find that a little white lie here and there is better than having to tell my family that I’m severely hungover, especially
after last year’s events. I consider myself lucky that Adrienne isn’t here yet to witness me in this state, since I’m sure
my mom has her on Sloane patrol. That was one of her conditions for letting me finish out at Pembroke: moving in with my honors-college,
fashion-major, has-her-life-together cousin. Adrienne spent all of last summer in New York City interning at Valentino, and
I spent mine doing one hundred hours of community service. We are not the same.
Another text bubble from my sister. I watch the little dots that indicate she’s typing.
But then they go away. My phone is ringing again, this time from my mom.
I decline her call as well. Claire’s face pops up again, and instead of nostalgia, I’m just feeling annoyed.
I answer the phone ready to bite her head off.
“Someone better be dead for you guys to be blowing me up like this,” I snap at her.
There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. “Um, well . . .” she says quietly.
I abruptly sit up in bed, which does nothing helpful for my head. “Wait,” I say, lowering my voice. “Is someone actually dead?”
Hearing Jonah’s name come from the other end of the phone makes my ears ring. A time-stopping, head-throbbing ringing that
nearly drowns out the rest of what she says.
Claire fills in the blanks for me on how my high school ex-boyfriend died last night in a horrific car accident. My hand trembles
as it hovers over my mouth and all I can say back is oh. The two of us sit in shared silence and I know if she were here right now she’d rest her head on my shoulder to comfort
me; I’d then rest my head atop hers. The room tilts as I lean into the phone, wishing this were the case.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers when I don’t say anything more. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Just . . .” Shocked? Confused? I have more questions though I know she can’t answer them.
“Yeah,” she breathes. And I know she gets it without me having to say it.
When I hang up with Claire, I sit with my knees pulled into my chest, willing myself to cry, but no tears come. I start to think maybe I should feel bad for not crying, but in a way, he was dead to me already. I wrote a eulogy for him and everything.
I get a text from my mom. She’s given up on trying to call me now that I got the news.
Are you ok?
Yeah I’m fine.
I get back up out of bed and dig through my backpack. Another text comes in from her.
Are you sure you’re at work? Claire said you sound like you just woke up. It’s almost 3 pm on a Saturday. Sloane, if I find
out you’ve been out partying all weekend you will be coming back home.
I roll my eyes at that. A third message comes through.
You promised you wouldn’t get into trouble this year, don’t make me regret letting you go back.
I want to respond in all caps, I GET IT, but I don’t, it’s not worth the fight. I find my leather journal at the very bottom of my backpack. I bring it into bed
with me and open it up to the first page, the first eulogy, Jonah’s.
For anyone who doesn’t know me, I am Jonah’s girlfriend of three years.
Or was his girlfriend. Because our beloved Jonah was taken from us too soon, in a fiery plane crash over the Atlantic.
It just blew up, no survivors, so tragic.
Jonah had always wanted to see the world.
So much so that one day he just got up and left for the other side of it with hardly a goodbye to spare.
Literally, he texted his goodbye to me. Had he just stayed here with me like he promised, this wouldn’t have happened.
Had he just followed through with our plans, he’d still be here.
So, Jonah, now it is my turn to say goodbye, and I’ll do it in person and not through text because I’m not a coward.
I wish you could’ve seen the world, but now all you are seeing is the bottom of the ocean. I hope it was worth it.
There it is, my first post-breakup eulogy. I was absolutely devastated when we broke up, because you always think your first
love will last forever. And we had a plan. We would go to Pembroke together, where I would be an English major and he would
study medicine. We’d make a bunch of new friends, but we’d never grow apart. We’d move into a one-bedroom apartment together
in junior year and get a puppy named Rocky, after Jonah’s favorite movie. On graduation day we would toss our caps into the
sky, all hopeful for the future, and as they tumbled back down, I would look over and see Jonah on one knee, with a ring in
his hand.
Three days before freshman year started, I got a text from him saying that he was sorry but he wouldn’t be joining me at PC; he was taking a gap year to backpack through Europe.
He said he’d always love me and cherish the time we had together.
I swear I’ve never cried so hard in my life.
I begged my mom not to make me go to Pembroke without him, but thankfully one of us had a brain and I ended up here anyway.
I unfollowed him on all social media platforms—I couldn’t bear to see him living his life without me.
I deleted every picture and video of him I ever took, and I did not keep in touch; in fact I’ve seen him only once since we ended things, at a bar back home over winter break two years ago.
He gave me a nod and a smile, and I returned the gesture.
A small agreement that we both ended up exactly where we needed to be.
Jonah had stayed overseas after his gap year to attend a university in Scotland, and I stayed here in Massachusetts. It was like we never even happened.
The only proof of a relationship is right here in this fake eulogy.