Here I am again, standing before the five-story brick building that is my dorm, just like I did in September, but now I’m a little older and wiser—or maybe just weather-worn. The place is busy. Students are returning from home, clapping each other on the shoulders and embracing, glad to be back. I glance toward Garrett’s neighborhood, half expecting him to emerge from the shade of that tree-lined street like he’s been waiting for me. My stomach flips. I don’t know if I’m more afraid that he will call or more afraid that he won’t. I’ll feel lost if he doesn’t—I won’t know where to turn when the ugly thoughts file into my head to consume me.

I think he’ll call, though. Garrett’s abandoning a plaything would be like an artist leaving a painting half-finished. I think of Garrett’s spotless floors and pristine countertops and flawless sangria, and I know one thing—he finishes what he starts. Unless he’s already finished with me, and the girl with the white-blond hair is his new plaything. I get a chill at the thought, hug my hoodie tighter around myself, and head inside.

Daphne’s already in the room unpacking clothes from a new zebra-striped suitcase.

“Hey,” I say, dragging my cello case over the threshold. I’m not as shocked by her skinniness now, and I’m not sure if I’m used to it or she’s put on weight or I just don’t give a shit anymore. Maybe all of those things.

“Hey,” she says, turning and smiling, and I wonder what she’s so damn happy about.

“How was break?”

“We went skiing in Utah. It was fun.” She shrugs like skiing in Utah, like having the freedom, the money, to go anywhere, is no biggie. “You do anything fun?”

I picture Liza and I sitting in front of our sad Christmas tree laughing uncomfortably about our lonely gift exchange. “I practiced a lot.”

She zips up her now-empty suitcase and slides it under her bed. “Well, that’s good. You ready for your audition? What, like…two weeks, right?” She’s still smiling at me, but there’s a tightness in her face.

“Yeah, it’s coming up.” I set my duffle bag on my bed and sit beside it. “Everything…okay?”

“My mom…shit.” She sits on her bed, fiddles with her hands. Takes a nervous, shaking breath. “We didn’t go to Utah.”

“Um…”

“My parents sent me to a kind of…rehab. For eating disorders.”

Wait, this is good for her—something to be happy about. So I smile, though I can’t really feel the smile. “How was it? You look healthy. Healthier, I mean.”

“That sounds like ‘You look fat.’” Her face reddens. “Sorry.”

I pause a beat. “What is the right thing to say?”

“Actually…” She chews her bottom lip for a minute. “Nothing. Don’t say anything. Just be here. Call my parents if I get bad. They’d want me to tell you that. I mean…they literally demanded I tell you that.” A self-conscious laugh bubbles out of her.

“Did you tell them about…about you being—”

“No. No, I can’t. The eating stuff is bad enough. My poor mother, I thought she was going to have a stroke. It was awful. She threw a banana at me.”

We both laugh at this, because it’s impossible not to laugh at flying bananas, but it is an uneasy sound. She’s holding back, I can tell in the way she drops her eyes. We’re caught in the no-man’s land between lies and truth. I wonder if she senses how much I withhold. I never even told her about my mother.

I unzip my duffle bag to unpack. I haven’t been a good friend to Daphne, running around in the middle of the night and standing her up at the gym and screaming at her to eat hamburgers. And suddenly I can’t stand the awkwardness. I’m itching to get away, to sink back into my own mind and my own sickness. I’m practically vibrating in anticipation of my first meeting with Garrett, but he hasn’t messaged. I need to…run. I need to get out of here.

“Rome came by looking for you.”

I’m cramming clothes into dresser drawers, trying to hurry so I can escape the pressure of these narrow walls. Shit. I pause, afraid that Rome has given Daphne some idea of what happened before break.

“So…” she says. “Are you seeing him? Or…?”

“Just friends,” I say, and I make my hands move faster, shoving the last of my clothes in the dresser, stuffing my duffel bag into the back of my closet. I grab my running shoes, a sports bra, some shorts. Daphne watches me undress—should I be worried that she watches me?—but every cell in my body is screaming at me to run away. I can’t wait for privacy. My shorts are up with a snap, my bra is on, and now I’m tying my shoes.

“He really likes you.”

“You said he was a thug.”

“I was being a judgmental bitch. And maybe also a little…jealous.” I glance up at her and she quickly looks away. “Anyway,” she says. “Rome’s nice.”

My face is hot. “Doesn’t matter, I’m with…” I trail off because I’m not a hundred percent sure I’m with Garrett, or ever was, and if I’m not…I finish tying my other shoe and grab my phone.

“What happened that night before break? You said you slept in Rome’s room.”

“That’s all we did, was sleep.”

“He seriously didn’t try anything?”

I snort-laugh. I’m not telling her I’m the one who tried something, that Rome had to push my slutty drunken ass off him, and she definitely doesn’t need to know what happened the next day. “We literally just slept side by side, Daph. Okay, I gotta run or I’ll lose my shit.”

I give her a wave before heading out the door, and she waves back but she seems small again, like she shrunk in her clothes while we talked. Gerta the hippo is lying on my bed staring plaintively at the ceiling as if she’s just completely given up on everything.

I run down Garrett’s street, making an effort not to look in the direction of his house. I know I’ll face him later, or tomorrow, or the next day…or never, if he chooses. I cross into the first bank of trees, my feet pounding the sandy ground, leaping over downed palm fronds and fallen tree limbs, my hands brushing away the leaves and branches that have inched their way over the path since the last time I ran here. The January air is chilly and refreshing, kissing the beads of perspiration that pop out on my brow, upper lip, and chest as I push my way further into the forest. It’s quiet today, not like when I first came with Garrett back in September, when the woods were hot and alive with the sounds of singing crickets and croaking toads and creatures skittering away. It must be the cooler weather. All I can hear is the crunch of my shoes on the dry ground and the laboring, rhythmic huff of my breath.

After a while I see the break in the greenery that tells me I’m approaching the water. I pump my legs harder, demand a little more of myself the way I know Garrett would, spurred on by the consolation that the end is near.

And there it is, that sharp-sloping embankment, and I can see right away that there are manatees swimming lazily beneath the surface of the dark water. It makes sense; I remember learning that they seek warmer waters during the winter months, and this inland waterway would surely be warmer than the waters nearer to the ocean.

Panting, I stand at the edge of the drop-off and look out over the glimmering river. God, this place is beautiful—even in the winter with everything all hushed, it’s so green and light-speckled and wild that it almost makes me believe in magic, like a wood sprite or a fairy might appear any moment in a shower of golden sparks. I almost expect Garrett to be here waiting for me, but I keep my eyes on the water. If he is here watching me, I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that I checked to see if he was there.

I pull off my socks and shoes, shorts, shirt, and sports bra, and tread carefully down the muddy slope toward the water. The ground is like ice against the soles of my feet, much colder than I expected, and goose bumps spread over me as the chill seeps into my bones, freezing out the heat generated by my run.

The water is even colder than the earth, lapping up over my feet and ankles, my shins, knees, thighs, and now I’m shivering and wrapping my arms around myself in a vain attempt to stay warm even as I slip further into the frigid water.

The first time I came here with Garrett, he intuited this secret vulnerability I was carrying around unawares, and he understood in a way no one else ever had. I thought he was sewing me back up, mashing all my jagged pieces back together. I thought he was giving me something I desperately needed.

But now…now I think he had a greater plan all along, that pulling me under with him was merely a test, one that I passed with flying colors. I always have been an excellent student.

The manatees float by slowly, languid gray blimps, peaceful in their respectful disregard for my presence. I sink deeper into the water, shivering violently as I draw in a breath, and then let the river swallow me whole.

---

The walk back takes nearly an hour and a half, and it’s dark by the time I reach the sidewalk leading up to the dorm. My bones are chilled to the marrow, and my feet are wrinkled and blistered in my damp socks.

Rome is standing out front with a group of students, and though he waves at me, I raise a quivering hand to say hi but keep walking. He is happy and smiling with those people, friendly Rome, everyone loves him, and their laughter rings out over the quiet campus. It is an easy happiness upon which I should not intrude. My gut rolls at the memory of how I let myself go with him. What am I supposed to do now? Pretend it never happened? The way I feel toward him is wrong—like he’s a security blanket or a medicine, there to fix me up whenever I let Garrett hurt me too much.

He jogs over as I climb the steps to the dorm. He’s wearing a blue hoodie I haven’t seen before, soft and warm-looking. “Hey, Mal, happy New Year!”

“Hey, Rome.” He opens his arms wide and I let him hug me, not even thinking about my damp clothes. He smells good—clean and herbal and solidly masculine.

“Oh, shit, is that sweat?” He’s smiling, the laughter of his friends still clinging to him like a residue of contentment. It’s so different from my own mood that I can’t make sense of it.

“I went swimming,” I say, and it only hits me after the words are out how odd that sounds, to announce that I went swimming in January.

He’s still smiling, but his brow is knit with confusion. “Come again?”

“There’s a river if you follow the trail at the end of that street over there…” I gesture half-heartedly.

“Oh.” His shoulders visibly slump. “You went with Garrett?”

“Alone.” I look over Rome’s shoulder at the group of kids behind him, worried they heard. I feel protective of this secret. The river, the manatees, the magic, Garrett. Everything about Garrett.

Rome turns and looks too, then faces me again. “But, Garrett…are you still…?”

I nod even though I’m not sure.

He nods too, pursing his lips, flaring his nostrils a little—reluctant but unsurprised acceptance, like Well, what did I expect?

“I’m going to go upstairs now,” I say.

“It okay if I walk up with you?”

I shrug.

We take the stairs, and already I’m thinking I don’t want him here, I don’t want him being this great friend while I wait for Garrett to call. Because that’s all I’m doing: waiting for Garrett to initiate those last steps that will finally break me.

Rome follows me into my room. Daphne isn’t here. I pull my wet clothes off without even thinking, and Rome makes a little noise behind me, like a gasp, and I realize I’m behaving oddly, not caring about the right things. “Sorry,” I tell him.

His hand encircles my wrist and I swivel and face him, give his eyes my whole naked body just to see what he’ll do. Just to tease him. And he doesn’t even react, like, what is he, some kind of angel who can’t see the wrong in me? Can’t he stand up for himself? Can’t he demand to be loved in return? But no, I can tell by his face, he’ll let me hurt him and still he’ll stand there and stare at me like this, all imploring, his brown eyes shiny like a puppy’s though he’s not looking at my body—his eyes stay right on mine.

“Rome,” I say, pulling my wrist away.

“Something’s wrong with you. You’re…not right in the eyes.” His face is a cloud of worry.

“I’m fine.”

“Malory, I don’t know what to do here.” He sits on my bed and puts his head in his hands, and I just stand there in the middle of my room, naked, staring at him. After a few moments he lifts his head to look back at me, but, again, only at my eyes. “I thought the break might help, that going home would be good for you, but now I see you with this…emptiness, and you just ripping your clothes off like I’m not even here—”

I snort. “You’ve seen me naked before.”

“It’s different, and you know it. I know something is wrong, and I’m trying to think, trying to figure out what’s the best thing to do for you…”

I laugh, and it sounds maniacal—even I can hear how nuts I am. “Come on, Rome, it’s not your job to look out for me.”

He slaps his thighs. “Then whose job is it? Who else gives a fuck what’s happening to you? You sure as fuck don’t. Jesus Christ, swimming in the freezing ass river in the middle of January, what the fuck?” He takes his hat off and smashes it in his hands.

“Rome, I was running. I was hot.” But I’m thinking of the shivers that wracked my body as I sank into the water. I should have just stayed there and let myself slip away. It would have been peaceful. I pull on a pair of underwear, shorts, a T-shirt, and sit next to Rome. I want to say something reassuring, but I know there is nothing I could say to ease his fears. Because his fears are legitimate; he’s right to worry about me. So I just sit there pushing and pushing at my cuticles, rubbing away something that isn’t even there.

“Malory,” he says. “I hope you get that I’m not trying to…to have a relationship with you. I can accept being only your friend. But I thought what we did”—he crushes his hat again, almost punches it—“ah, fuck, I thought I could make you see that it doesn’t have to be Garrett’s way. It doesn’t have to be with me, but it doesn’t have to be the way it is…with him.”

I stare at him for a minute, trying to absorb his words. Trying to find a way in my head to crave him, or to crave someone else, or to crave anything else, besides Garrett—besides the pain. And I think maybe I could, maybe I could be this other version of Malory where I’m truly confident, and not just the high-achieving façade of some failure who only succeeds by flukes, who has to use sex to feel loved, who wasn’t observant enough to notice her own mother planning her death.

Who was not even enough reason for that mother to want to live.

But as I spin through these thoughts, I realize I’ve already lost the confident, happy, alive version of Malory. There is no other version of me. This deeply flawed, inherently bad version is the only Malory there is left.

I still haven’t responded to Rome. I must look vacant and ghostly to him, and as I look down at my own arms and legs, I realize that they feel vacant too—uninhabited, drained of life.

“God,” he says, laying his head in his hands with a deep sigh. “I fucking hate how I feel about you.”