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“Three hours will be fine.”
Sighing, I sink into my seat, rolling my shoulders in an attempt to get comfortable. My body is rigid, and my mind flies backward to the moment two weeks ago when everything fell apart.
2
EMILY
TWO WEEKS AGO
I was rushing backto the student housing to grab an extra tampon when I noticed my boyfriend Phil pacing just outside the building. He caught my eye, then dashed over to grab my wrist, telling me he needed my help.
It wouldn’t be the first time he needed my help. This was a practiced ritual that Phil had drilled down to perfection. He’d tell me his problem of the week and I’d sit down with him, reassure him that everything would be okay, and then propose a solution.
Most of the time, the solution meant I stuck my neck out for him.
So, I thought nothing of it when I took his hands in mine and told him that whatever it was, I’d be happy to help.
He told me that the campus police had found his stash in our room. I knew he had a jar of weed there. Not the best look for someone whose dad was one of the biggest donors to the university, but not entirely illegal either. It was just something against the code of conduct in the dorms. The university wantedto talk to him, probably to reprimand him. But he couldn’t risk his father finding out.
Which was where I came in.
I had no criminal history, he told me. The university was just looking for someone to blame, he told me. The cops wouldn’t even press charges, he told me. So, please, please, please, just take the fall, he begged. After all, with my perfect reputation and excellent grades, I would get no more than a slap on the wrist after a hearing with a disciplinary committee.
Please, Emily. Just this once.
But it was neverjust this once, was it? It always turned intojust one more time.
I should’ve told him that.
But instead, I agreed to cover for him, go before the disciplinary committee, and tell them it was a mistake. That the stash wasn’t his, but mine.
And only at the hearing did I find out that the stash they found wasn’t his jar of weed. It was cocaine and Adderall—enough that they could involve law enforcement if they really wanted to.
To make things worse, there were plenty of undergrads who pointed the finger thatourdorm room was where they bought the drugs from.
They gave me a choice: voluntarily ask for my expulsion from vet school, or the university could escalate this to law enforcement.
There was no debating my fate at that point.
When I went to Phil after the dust settled, he apologized profusely and made empty promises that he’d make it up to mesomehow. I hated how he said that … Like it was possible to soothe me with some sweet words. That was always his method when he did something wrong: crawl to me with sugary smiles and a shiny gift.
He did that when he crashed his car and asked me to sayIwas driving. I did, and suffered his parents’ scowls every time I walked into their home for dinner.
I should’ve recognized that he was using me to get what he wants.
That he hadalwaysjust used me to get what he wants.
The signs were all there from the start. I should have seen them. Maybe I did and ignored them.
But not anymore. Never again.
The only satisfaction I got out of this mess was the look of shock on his face when I finally broke up with him.
3
EMILY
PRESENT DAY
