Chapter 13
Mia
My first shift at Members was officially a success.
Not a triumph exactly, but no one died, I didn’t burst into tears and the building is still standing.
And tomorrow, I have plans to meet up with Oliver.
Not even that awkward exchange with my least favourite roommate can kill my buzz, and that’s an especially impressive distinction for Ethan since I haven’t even met the others yet.
Hurling myself onto my mattress, I unfasten my insanely heavy boots, take out Oliver’s iPod and start scrolling through the songs.
I’m exhausted but too worked up to sleep.
Here in halls, my only possible hang-out buddy is Ethan and I’m not that desperate, especially after that shitty little comment about me and Gabe Friedman.
That would teach me to feel bad for him, skulking alone in the kitchen earlier.
What the hell did he mean, asking if I’d ever hooked up with Gabe?
I tutored that guy through one English test, staying late every day for three weeks to try to get his grade up and he still only managed a C.
I doubt he could even pick me out of a line-up.
If he had truly struggled with Wordsworth’s poetry, I might’ve had more sympathy, but Gabe didn’t care.
If he could’ve had me take the test for him, he would have.
So why did Ethan want to know if we’d been sleeping together?
A flurry of confusing responses flashed through me.
Anger at the thought of anyone lying about me that way, confusion as to why Gabe would bother telling his teammates we’d hooked up in the first place, and a shameful chaser of pride that someone as objectively hot and popular as Gabe Friedman might even consider me worthy of lying about.
Wow, that one is going to take some unpacking.
Perhaps I should sign up for some psychology classes while I’m here.
It doesn’t matter, I tell myself, as though something as simple as the facts might erase these new worries from my mind. Gabe isn’t here and I set Ethan straight. Who cares if everyone back at Marshall thinks I was sleeping with Gabe Friedman?
I do. I care.
In an effort to distract myself, I scroll through Oliver’s iPod.
He wasn’t joking about how many songs were saved on here, it’s like the library of Alexandria for music, only he’s somehow managed to not include anyone I’ve ever heard of.
He might have a deep respect for all kinds of music but there’s no love at all for the pop girlies.
‘Not even Chappell?’ I mutter to myself. ‘Boo.’
The playlists he showed me are easy enough to find.
I do as I was told, starting with number one, not allowing myself to overthink it when I slip his earbuds into my ears, because only a loser would get excited about using a guy’s earbuds.
Placing the iPod on my pillow, I close my eyes and listen, determined to lose myself in the music.
The first song is kind of angsty, a gruff-voiced male singer with just an acoustic guitar.
Not exactly a party tune. The next is more promising, opening with bright strings then a plaintive-voiced British singer, a rock band coming in to support as it goes on.
I like it. After a dozen more songs, more male singers, more rock music, weirdly a lot more strings, I pick the iPod up and scroll through until I find a name I know.
It takes a while. Luckily, my dad is a huge fan of the classics and even though I don’t know the song, I do recognize the name of a band about halfway through the first playlist. Fleetwood Mac, ‘Silver Springs’.
I press play and let it wash over me, a gentle piano, a wistful guitar, the powerful woman’s voice I remember from riding in the back of my dad’s car, fighting with my brother on our annual trip to Carowinds.
I lie still for the whole song, letting the lyrics settle around me like poetry.
By the end, I’m hypnotized, my heart breaking for the woman at the centre of it all and, honestly, worrying just a little for whichever guy inspired such an epic break-up anthem.
It’s a wonder men ever date women songwriters, it simply can’t be worth this kind of risk.
The moment the song is over, I start it again, springing to my feet to strip off my bar clothes, carefully removing my T-shirt without pulling out the earbuds, feeding the iPod through the neck of the shirt and sliding it over my head.
Once I’ve shimmied out of my jeans, I’m singing along with my new favourite song, pulling off one sock, then the other, shooting them across the room like little white basketballs.
Between ‘Silver Springs’, my interaction with Oliver, and my successful first shift, I could run through a wall.
By the time I’ve listened to the song three times through, a yawn takes me by surprise and when I check the time on my watch I’m surprised to see it’s almost midnight.
I’ve been listening to Oliver’s music for hours and I’m suddenly exhausted.
I move around my room to ‘Silver Springs’ one more time, readying my bag for my nine a.m. history of English lecture, resenting the fact I still have to clean my teeth and wash my face.
I’ve always loved my skincare regimen, a throwback to sitting in my mom’s bathroom, watching her take off her face at the end of the day, but tonight, I’m almost too tired to care.
Or at least I am until I catch sight of my racoon eyes and reach right for my eye makeup remover.
Damn it, why didn’t Alice tell me they were this bad?
‘Because she’s your friend,’ I tell my reflection. ‘She probably didn’t want you to stress about it.’
Ethan could’ve mentioned something, but since when did guys notice things like smudged eyeliner?
And I’m doing great, I think, as I squeeze toothpaste onto my electric toothbrush.
I’ve made friends, I have a job, I’m ready for classes to begin, and there’s even a guy.
So far, everything is going exactly how I hoped it would, better even.
The only bump in the road is eating some disgusting instant noodle meal in the room next door.
I feel a tiny pang when I hold my hair back to spit, remember how eager he was when I opened the door tonight.
I catalogue it next to the stormy look on his face when he walked out of the meeting this morning, expressions I’d never seen on Ethan Taylor before.
Curiosity gets the better of me as I rinse off my toothbrush and close the door to my tiny bathroom.
My phone is waiting for me in my desk drawer, fully charged and useless, and it’s only been a day but I really haven’t missed it at all.
Not having it in my hand was strange at first but after the first couple of hours, I kind of liked it.
Without a phone, people have to stick to their plans.
Without a phone, I have more time to read, talk, take in everything around me.
But that doesn’t mean I’m above a little online research right now.
Ethan and I don’t follow each other on Instagram but I find his profile fast enough.
Exactly what I expected, cutesy couple pictures of him and his alleged ex, shirtless summer pics with his bros on the Outer Banks, winter skiing in Vermont with his richy-rich family, action shots from soccer games.
And in every single photograph, Ethan Taylor is smiling like the sun revolves around him.
I go back to the top of the page to examine the most recent photo, hunting for evidence of his Hemden acceptance.
I hardly ever post, I am way more of a social media lurker, but even I considered moving to another country main-grid worthy.
But Ethan didn’t.
Ethan, who posted his new car, his family dog, the end of the school year, the first day of summer training camp, Breanna’s birthday, the anniversary of their first date and their first kiss, has not posted a word about Hemden.
Not even a single post about leaving the US.
I click on his most recent post, an inoffensive candid of him, Breanna and someone who has to be his brother.
Same black hair and green eyes, just as handsome but younger, with less well-defined features, jawline not so chiselled, cheekbones not so sharp.
The three of them are hanging out on a boat at some lake and it’s dated July 4.
But there’s no caption and the comments are turned off.
In fact, the comments are turned off on all his posts.
Moving Oliver’s iPod from the bed to my nightstand, I pull on my PJs and climb into bed to inspect Ethan’s Instagram again.
It doesn’t make any sense. Why would someone post almost every single day then stop completely?
Since I’m not about to knock on his door and ask, I swipe over to my messages, expecting the untended inbox to be full of junk as usual, and it is, but there are also a bunch of DMs from names I recognize.
People from school, not necessarily friends but kids I know well enough to say hi to.
I open the top one from Heidi, a girl from my modernist literature sophomore study group.
Hi Mia! How’s jolly old England? Is it true Ethan Taylor is over there too??
Hmm.
When I tap on the other messages, they’re all variations on the same theme.
Hi, how are you, is Ethan in the UK? Actually, that’s not true, most of them don’t bother to ask how I am.
There’s only one that catches my attention, a DM from Kylie Preiss, one of Breanna’s friends, someone I haven’t exchanged more than a dozen words with in two years.
Hey, I heard you’re at Hemden with Ethan. This is so random, but do you know why he’s there? Bre won’t talk about it.
Okay, this is weird. I stare at the message for way too long, hoping it might make some kind of sense, like one of those magic eye pictures, if I look at it for long enough.
But I’ve got nothing.
‘Sorry, Kylie,’ I say through a yawn. ‘Can’t help you.’
But when I turn out the lights, her message plays over and over in my mind, and I cannot stop wondering what the answer might be.