Page 84 of Office Hours
I pick it up, dreading what I’ll see.
It’s not Liam.
It’s Dylan.
Hey. Can we get coffee tomorrow? I have to talk to you about something. -D
I show the screen to Andie.
She snorts. “Two at once. You’re a heartbreaker.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s not like that. Dylan is a friend to me.”
Andie fixes me with a look. “Yeah, but does he know that? You know boys sometimes. They just hope and hope and hope and never give up unless you spell it out to them in capital letters.”
My friend’s right, and she isn’t. There’s no part of me that wants Dylan, not really. But it’s nice to be wanted. It’s nice to have something—someone—that isn’t so fucking complicated.
I shrug and decide to go for it. We’re friends. It’s fine. I text back:Sure. Library?
Dylan replies in under a minute:You’re the best. See you then.
Andie watches me type, then says, “You know, he’s in love with you.”
I laugh, but it sounds wrong. “He’s in love with theideaof me. It’s different.”
Andie shrugs. “Sometimes the idea is better. Cleaner. Less sharp around the edges.”
She leans back, tugs her braid. “You don’t owe anyone anything, Simone. Not even yourself. You can fuck up, you can change your mind, you can walk away. That’s allowed.”
The words hit me in the gut. “Is it really?”
She smiles, the soft, sad one. “It’s not easy, but it’s allowed.”
We get back to studying, but the mood is changed. I feel lighter, somehow, like the worst thing has already happened and everything else is just aftermath.
As we pack up for the library, Andie pulls me into a quick hug.
“You’re not broken or malfunctioning,” she whispers. “You’re just scared.”
I hug her back, hard. “Thanks, Mom.”
She grins, then pelts me with a granola bar. “Now let’s go pass American Lit so we can get matching jobs at Target.”
We laugh, loud enough to echo down the dorm hallway. And for the first time all week, I almost believe that everything might be okay.
We leave the room, the lights off, the desk still a mess. But we’re moving, at least. Forward, or sideways, or just out the door.
Maybe that’s enough for now.
The library’sempty except for the ghosts of finals week. Every surface is sticky with desperation and coffee residue. The old building has that distinct collegiate smell—dust, ink, ancient varnish, a hint of mold that the Facilities staff will never fully eradicate. The lights hum overhead, a low, persistent whine, and the only movement is the slow orbit of the reference desk librarian as she does another circuit to shush the invisible.
I’m in the stacks, hunting. There’s only one copy ofTragedies of Hawthorne’s Womenon the entire campus, and I need it for the final paper I’ve been dreading all semester. According to the online catalog, it lives in the sub-basement, in the “American Letters – 19th Century” section, a place so rarely visited it’s begun to decompose into its own taxonomy of dust bunnies.
I descend the tight spiral staircase, feeling each rung vibrate through my shins. It’s a dungeon down here, the fluorescent bulbs casting everything in an unflattering blue. The shelves are tall and close-set, the books old enough that they all have that papery, dry-moss look, their spines faded to near-anonymity. A single study table is shoved against the far wall, its surface carved with the detritus of decades: “Class of 1999 = LEGENDS,” “Confess your sins to the Chem Squirrel,” “Call Jenny for a good time—(218) 555-1212.”
The quiet is thick, but not comfortable. There’s the constant threat that someone will cough, or drop a book, or appear behind you with a request for the Dewey Decimal number you just memorized.
I find the right shelf and scan, squinting at the microscopic catalog numbers. There it is, wedged between two volumes so dusty I almost sneeze:Tragedies of Hawthorne’s Women, spine cracked and gold lettering half-flaked off.
