Chapter 18
AT THE FACULTY CLUB AGAIN. REALLY?
Andie
The first sound is always the fridge, coughing from its corner like a dying animal.
It’s followed, a few seconds later, by the click and hum of the bathroom fan, set on a faulty timer that’s supposed to save electricity but instead just blinks on and off at random intervals.
There’s a leak in the kitchen sink—has been since day one—but the landlord says that’s “normal” and not to worry.
Every time it ticks, like a second hand, I count my own pulse. Sometimes it matches, sometimes not.
The blinds in my bedroom are pulled tight, the slats bent and yellowed, slicing the late afternoon sun into a series of narrow, slanting stripes.
The light never lands where it should. I keep thinking I’ll get around to replacing the blinds, but I don’t.
Instead I live in the perpetual dusk, the day never quite arriving, the night always hanging around the edges.
Two months in this apartment and my room is still filled with boxes.
They’re stacked in the corner, with the top one crushed from when Mary Kate sat on it during the first week, trying to impress us all by shotgunning a La Croix.
Half of what’s in them I don’t need, but I keep telling myself that unpacking means something is permanent, and I’m not ready for that. Not even close.
The walls are as thin as every cliché ever written about college apartments, but today the place is silent.
I don’t even have music on. The only sign that Stella exists is the smell of her perfume—something citrusy, too bright, it never settles—and the fact that she’s not home yet.
That’s the only time I ever relax: when her shoes aren’t at the door, when I can cross the common space barefoot, unobserved, and not worry about the shape of my face or the way I move.
I’m in uniform, the polyester catering outfit cut to fit an army of mannequins, not a real body.
The apron ties at the back, and the top button is missing.
I should sew it, but I use a tiny silver safety pin instead.
I like the way the pin feels when I run my thumb over it, a hard point under all that softness.
It reminds me to stay alert. It reminds me I can fix things, if I have to.
I sit on the edge of the bed, feet on the bare wood floor, hair down my back.
It’s gotten long again, a soft gold tangle that catches on my elbows and wants to float.
I pin it up, twist by twist, the way my mother showed me: tight at the nape, anchored with two bobby pins, never more than two or it looks like you’re trying too hard. My hands move by memory, not thought.
The mirror above the dresser has a crack running through the top right corner.
I avoid looking at it, mostly, but sometimes I catch the edge of my own reflection as I move.
The girl in the glass looks older than I remember.
She has blue shadows under her eyes—nothing some concealer can’t handle, but still—and her jaw is always clenched, as if she’s bracing for something.
I practice my neutral face every morning: lips straight, eyes level, nothing showing.
Today, the neutral face is almost perfect.
My phone is on the nightstand, face-down.
I keep it on silent. Sometimes I think about turning the ringer up, just to feel the vibration in my pocket, but I never do.
Not anymore. The last time I heard from Thomas was the day he told me to leave the key on the counter.
After that, nothing. Two months of total radio silence.
I don’t even text Stella, except when I have to because of rent, bills, and housekeeping. Otherwise, most days, I don’t. I keep my head down, do my job, pay rent on time, and pretend the rest of it is just static.
On my desk, the rough drafts from my writing workshop spill out in all directions, paper clipped in sets but never quite orderly.
I’m halfway through revising a short story about a girl who drowns in her own bathtub, but the instructor’s comments are all about “voice” and “arc,” never about what really matters.
I pour myself into these stories, because it’s safer than pouring myself into a person.
I check the time—5:48, almost late—and grab my bag from the hook.
It’s already packed: apron, black flats, three granola bars, and the notebook where I write down all the things I’d rather not say out loud.
I stuff the phone in the outside pocket, still face-down, and catch my reflection one last time in the mirror.
Chin up. Neutral face.
I exhale, the breath slow and cold.
The door to the common space opens with a sound like a scream, but it’s only the cheap metal hinges.
I step out, already bracing for the shift in air, the brightness of the hallway.
But there’s no one there. Just the smell of something fried from a neighboring unit, and the low rumble of a distant TV.
I make it all the way to the elevator before I realize I haven’t spoken a word in hours.
Downstairs, the street is hot, the sunlight mean and flat. I slide my sunglasses on, tuck my hair behind my ear, and keep walking. Each step is measured, deliberate, as if the world is just waiting for me to slip.
But I won’t. Not today.
Maybe not ever.
I keep going, the apartment complex receding behind me, the city folding itself open like a new chapter. For a second, I want to turn around and look at the apartment—see it from a distance, see if it looks as different as I feel. But I don’t.
Instead, I walk forward, into the gold dust and the heat, my bag heavy with everything I haven’t unpacked.
The catering shift is waiting. The night will be long.
But I am ready for it.
Even if I have to fake every minute.
The Faculty Club’s ballroom is all understated glamour: every inch waxed, every surface polished to a sheen.
The chandelier is a monster of polished brass, heavy with teardrop crystals that splinter the light and paint gold across the ceiling.
The carpet is thick and ancient, in some shade of maroon so deep it eats the shine off patent leather.
There are at least a dozen buffet tables, each set with mirrored platters, pyramids of fruit, and the kind of imported cheese that sweats under the heat of a hundred bodies.
Nothing ever tastes as good as it looks, but that’s not the point.
I move through the crowd like a rumor—quiet, fast, unobtrusive.
The black-and-white of my uniform is so severe it turns me invisible, just another piece of the night’s machinery.
The tray of champagne flutes I balance on my palm is a disc of pure anticipation; the stems are so thin I’m half sure they’ll snap if I look at them too hard.
It’s the same brand of sparkler they always serve at these things—dry, sharp, not really sweet, but I never get to drink it. My job is to move it, not to want it.
There are more people than usual tonight.
The fundraiser is for the college’s new science building, which means the room is thick with money.
Men in tuxedos and women in glossy sheaths, laughing with their teeth out, hands landing a fraction too hard on each other’s arms. The air smells like white wine, narcissus, and that fake “new carpet” chemical the cleaning crew uses after hours.
The sound is a low, rich hum: voices, glassware, the metallic scrape of silver on chafing dish.
I keep my head down, eyes skimming just above the level of the tray, but even so I clock everyone. That’s another part of the job—anticipating the needs of the room, the hunger in the guests, the thirst, the boredom, the thin places where the mood could tear.
I’m on my second circuit around the grand hall when I see him.
He stands with his back to the balcony, a wall of windows at his shoulder, the city glittering dark and far-off behind the glass.
The tuxedo fits him perfectly, the sharp lines echoing the cut of his jaw, the set of his broad shoulders.
His hair is dark, longer than the last time I saw him, and when he turns to say something to the woman beside him, I see the silver at his temple. Thomas.
The woman is a redhead, her hair twisted up in a coil that looks engineered.
Her dress is the color of emerald so deep it almost swallows the air around her.
The back is bare, all the way to the base of her spine, and Thomas’s hand is on her there, splayed with the authority of ownership.
She leans into the touch, tips her head back and laughs, the curve of her throat luminous in the chandelier’s reflection.
My mouth goes dry. I stop breathing.
I focus on the tray. I move to the next cluster of guests, two deans and an athletic director, their faces ruddy with the first bottle of the night.
I offer the champagne, smile just enough, and ignore the way my left hand is trembling.
I picture it—Stella’s father, a thousand miles away from the man who held me in his bed, who kissed me like there would never be another day, who called me his.
He doesn’t see me, not at first, and for a few minutes, I convince myself it’s fine.
That I can get through this entire night without being seen, just one more anonymous server in a line of faces.
But the thing about Thomas is that he always notices.
He doesn’t look up when I pass, not at first. But after a second or two, I feel the heat of his stare on my neck, prickling just under my hairline.
I keep my eyes front, but the air shifts—just a little, just enough—and I know he’s seen me. Maybe he always did.