My classes don’t start for another two hours. When Cass wakes up, I’ll move back inside, maybe change what I’m wearing. I think I deserve to dress pretty today.
Closing my laptop, I slide the lopsided paper heart on top, twisting it in a circle with my fingertip. I eventually give in, and turn it over to read Rowe’s note to me:
No heart is perfect. But yours…yours is big.
- R
I wipe the tear before it falls, then fold my only Valentine in half and slip it into the small pocket of my wallet behind my driver’s license.
My homework done for the week, I spend a little time sketching out drawings in my notebook. I’ve started drawing ideas for Leah’s room. I know I’ll never be able to do anything with these drawings—but it makes me feel good to pretend. The one I’m finishing now makes her room look like a castle.
She would love it.
My sister’s alarm sounds, so I get to my feet and move back inside the room. She’s out the door for running without much conversation, and I’m glad. I’ve had enough conversation for the day through the two sentences Rowe wrote on paper for me. Those words—they said a lot.
Rowe keeps her headphones on for the few minutes we’re both in the room together; she doesn’t say anything more than “bye” when she finally leaves for class. I pull out my yellow dress. It’s vintage. And wearing it always makes me feel stronger. I think today might just call for a little throwback muscle.
My hair pinned up, I leave our room before the lunch hour, walking slowly to my first class, stopping at the grocery stand in the center of campus for a fruit salad. I’ve been eating from this stand for five days, because I’m a big chicken. I know if I go to the store, I’ll see him. And if I don’t see him, I know I’ll feel sad that I didn’t.
I’m already torturing myself in enough ways. At night, I go to the library and sit near the window. I pretend I’m studying, but really—I’m only waiting.
He never comes.
He’s probably avoiding this place for the very reason I’m coming here.
Us.
I saw a group of Spanish students meet yesterday, and I was hopeful. It’s his second semester, and Houston is really quite awful at the language. But they worked in a group for an hour, and he never came.
I’m sad every time he doesn’t. And relieved.
A little pathetic.
My classes feel like a review, more than usual. Probably because I’ve done nothing but work ahead. I suppose my parents would be proud of my focus on academics. Of course, right now they’re kind of busy being shamed by my porn stint—however fabricated—so…
When my last class lets out in the late afternoon, I pass the library and pause at the steps, letting my backpack fall to my feet so I can lean forward on the railway and scan the expanse of windows. It’s the same every day. The same people every day. And it’s never him.
I usually come back later, but it’s Valentine’s Day, and I have a date with nobody—wouldn’t want to be late for that. I make my daily trip early. I won’t stay long. An hour. Maybe less. But if I don’t come, I’ll feel like I’ve missed him. It doesn’t matter that he was probably never here.
Slinging my bag over my arm, I throw my shoulders back and enter the library the same way I have the last four days—like I’m fine, like everything is fine. My heels are harsh on the concrete floors, and I notice a few girls look up from their books and scowling while I walk by. Lowering my eyes at them, I stare back, putting a little more force into each step.
Get over it; they’re shoes—and they make noise when I walk. Fuck, I’ll be on the carpet in a second.
I round the corner and move to the back, to the window desk I’ve now claimed as my own. As I come closer, I notice there’s something on the desk. It’s a book, and there’s a sticky note on it. I stop and look behind me, then peer down an aisle to see if someone is around. The desk really isn’t mine, but seriously, who would sit here on purpose if they didn’t have some crazy-ass ulterior motive like I did?
Nobody is around, and after I wait for a few seconds, I decide it must just be a book someone forgot to reshelf. It’s not like I need the desktop to study. I couldn’t possibly review another note. So I pull the seat back, then push the book to the edge of the desk, stopping when the words on the Post-It note catch my attention.
Happy Valentine’s Day, Princess.
I turn my head, my heart racing in my stomach. My throat is instantly dry. Leaving my bag at the foot of the desk, I pace up and down a few of the aisles in my lonely corner—again, my search coming up empty. I’m alone.