“I was studying.”
Andie raises an eyebrow, then gestures to the mess. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
She has a point. There are, I realize, four tabs of TikTok open on my computer and a not-insignificant amount of time lost to online quizzes about which American Novel Character I most resemble. (The answer is always Hester Prynne, which probably isn’t a good thing.)
Andie sips her coffee, watching me over the rim of the cup. “You didn’t sleep again, did you?”
I shake my head, then reach for the coffee and take a grateful swig. The bitterness is so violent it makes my gums tingle, but the aftertaste is pure, liquid hope.
Andie sets her cup down, folds her hands, and waits. There’s an art to Andie’s silences: not heavy, not judging, just open. She waits until you fill them yourself.
I fidget with the edge of my blanket, picking at a loose thread. “You ever feel like you’re living someone else’s life?” I say, not really expecting an answer.
She nods, solemn. “I feel like I’m playing a background character in a sitcom that’s been running too long. Everyone’s in season five, but I’m still stuck in the pilot.”
I laugh, and it feels less fake than anything else I’ve done all week.
We get down to the business of finals: comparing note cards, rehashing the finer points of Puritan shame, diagramming the love triangles inThe Great Gatsbyuntil it looks like a conspiracy board. For a while, it almost works. We’re two students, battered by the end of term, the whole world boiling down to bullet points and caffeine.
But Andie sees through me, as always.
After an hour, she leans forward and drops the hammer: “Do you want to talk about it?”
I keep my eyes on the notes. “Talk about what?”
She waits.
I cave. “I saw Liam yesterday.”
Andie’s face doesn’t change, but her fingers tighten on her mug. “And?”
“He said he was sorry. He tried to explain.” The words come out flat, like a recitation.
Andie waits for the rest.
I take a breath, try to organize the truth. “He told me everything. Why he did the surrogacy thing. Why he couldn’t just want me like a normal person.”
Andie purses her lips. “And do you believe him, whatever explanation he gave?”
I want to say yes. I want to say no. What comes out is, “I don’t know.”
The silence stretches, soft but absolute.
Andie tilts her head. “What do you want, Simone? Really.”
I stare at the window, at the sun lighting up the smudged glass, at the dust motes spinning through the air. I want to say I want to be done, that I want to torch all my feelings and start over.
But I’m so tired of lying, even to myself.
“I want him,” I say. “But I’m scared. I’m scared it’ll be like before. That I’ll just be another variable. That he’ll use me, and I’ll let him, and then I’ll hate myself for it.”
It sounds so pathetic out loud that I have to bite my lip to keep from crying.
Andie nods, her face calm. “You don’t have to decide right now, you know. You’re allowed to want him and hate him at the same time.”
She reaches out, covers my hand with hers. “It’s not like feelings are easy to explain, and they don’t go away just because you want them to either. You’re allowed to be confused.”
We sit like that, the warmth of her palm grounding me, until my phone vibrates again.