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“I’m saying she’s still sad. She’s been listening to Sondham the whole week.”
“Sondheim. What does he have to do with anything?”
He explains the levels of sadness that Jessie explained to him, except he doesn’t remember anything except the first one and the one where she listens to Stephen Sondheim.
“Did you just say she gets super drunk after a breakup?” I ask.
“Yeah, well, it might not have to be a breakup. I think it’s just, like, when she’s sad. I don’t know the specifics. You’ll have to ask Jessie.”
He checks the time on his phone. It may be lost on Mac, but that pattern of behavior sounds too familiar now that I know about Jade’s mother. It worries me, because even though Jade probably didn’t do anything reckless while she was drunk, how long will it be before she starts to if this is the path she’s taking?
I’m aching to reach out to her, to text her and see if she’s okay. Maybe I missed the point of what Mac is saying, but maybe Mac doesn’t know the whole story.
“So is she . . . okay? Like, is she still drinking?” I ask.
“I think she went out one night last week and got super drunk, but not since then.”
A knot in my chest eases, tension I didn’t feel creeping up suddenly releasing like a balloon losing air.
“But she’s still listening to her sad music?” I clarify.
“Yes, and that’s what I’m saying. Apparently, she’s never been like this after a breakup. And those are Jessie’s words, not mine.”
It feels taboo to get the best friend’s perspective, like some secret I shouldn’t have access to. I’m still not entirely sure what to do with this knowledge, but I can’t ignore the tiny spot of warmth—of hope—in my gut cutting through the cold insecurity that’s been my companion all week.
“What about you? How are you holding up?” Mac asks.
I don’t know how much he does or doesn’t know, but I’ll go with the honest answer. What do I have to lose?
“Um, ya know, I’m okay. I’m bummed, but I don’t regret anything. I’m glad I said what I said and that she knows how I feel. I think I would have regretted not telling her. I just . . . hoped it might go differently.”
Mac nods, understanding passing over his features. The doors to the lobby swing open, and another student I haven’t seen before flies in.
“Hey, Mac. God, sorry I’m late,” the girl says.
“No problem,” he says. “Gave me a chance to catch up with my friend.” Mac slaps my shoulder affectionately and looks me dead in the eyes. “Just give her time, okay?”
I hold my hand up in a sort of half-wave as Mac and his partner descend the steps to the black box theater.
I drive home in silence.Two and a half hours alone with my thoughts, bouncing between Mac’s words and my argument with Jade. He told me to be patient; she told me it was over. I can’t think of a time I was more grateful to be going home. My dad will know what to do. What to believe.
It’s 11 p.m. by the time I pull into the driveway, the warm porch light greeting me against the dark night. All the lights inside the house are off, except a living-room lamp I’m guessing someone left on for me. I sling my duffel over my shoulder and let myself into the house, where, to my surprise, someone is in the living room.
“Dad?”
“Hey, kiddo. How was your drive?”
My dad stands to hug me, and I nearly break right there, but I hold it together, swallowing back the feelings. It’s late; I can wait until tomorrow.
“I’m okay,” I say, but I don’t think that answer convinces either one of us.
“You hungry? We’ve got a dinner plate for you.”
I nod because I am hungry, and I know he’ll hang out with me while I eat.
Part of me feels bad for keeping him up, but I really need to talk to him.
I follow him into the kitchen and sit at the table in the dining nook, soaking in the comfort and familiarity of my dad heating up food for me, the beeps of the microwave, and the smells of my childhood home. I know so many students who dread going home for holidays, but I love to come home.
