Page 65 of Best Man on Campus

“Thirty percent isn’t great, but it’s enough. He’ll make it through,” I say. Firmly believing it. I slip my phone from my pocket and tap in his number. It goes to voicemail of course, but I leave a message, asking him to call.

“I hope he calls you. I’m sure you have a million questions that I can’t answer.” She stands. “I should be going now—leave you to your life, your friends, your dinner—”

“Stay. We can go out to dinner.” I want to comfort her, convince her all is not lost, convince myself in the process.

“No.” She walks to the door and opens it. “You have a lot going on and I feel guilty telling you, ruining your college bubble of bliss.”

“Don’t worry about that.” I don’t tell her the bubble’s been burst and this news only kicks the dead horse of my soul.

“You needed to hear the truth, all of it, so you can deal with it. There’s nothing worse than being blindsided by life, by lies.”

I nod and wonder if she’s read my mind, my soul, and knows more than I’ve told her. But that’s impossible.

“I’m going and you should call your girl. Jazzy will make you feel better.” She pats my stubbled cheek and leaves, hurrying down the back stairs before I can argue any further. I’m about to follow her, see her outside, when my phone rings. I check the screen. It’s Dad. Taking a deep breath, I answer the call.

“Ben, how are you? How’s St. Paul U? Sorry I missed your call before—”

“Dad, Mom told me about your XDR TB. How bad is it?”

He says he’s hopeful about the meds they put him on though he’s just started and it’s a long haul.

“The worst part is that I can’t work anymore. I feel useless. Absolutely useless without my practice, the clinic, my patients.”

“There’s more than one way to skin a cat, Dad. Maybe you can help me get into med school, help prep me for the MCATs.”

That brightens him, so it was worth putting it out there. The last thing I’m going to tell him right now is that med school is dicey right now. I don’t bother telling him hockey is shit.

We hang up and it hits me like a Zamboni ran me over. Dad is sick and he might not get better. And the one person I want to talk to about it is MIA. My fists ball up and I want to smash a wall, want to scream loud and hard and I understand Jazzy a little more right now, how the rage takes away the pain.

The truth sets my blood racing with urgency. I need her, I miss her, my heart aches with the strain of not seeing her, not knowing how she is. The strain of knowing her truth and not knowing if I should share it with her or how to do it, is killing whatever strength I have to deal with everything else. Knowing about the horror of her past, the demons she’s dealing with helps put my own issues in perspective.

Med school and hockey hardly matter. I could drive a Zamboni and be happy if I was with Jazzy. I snort because I’m not sure it’s true, but it feels true right now. Her life’s troubles even make my dad’s illness seem like a small burden. At least I have a father, know who he is, and know I’m going to help him fight like hell to get better, make sure he’s one of the thirty percent.

But Jazzy… what do I do about her?

Do I tell her what I found out about that night, about Killian, Sarah and her father, and chance bringing her down when I only want to get her past her past? There’s no guarantee of anything except that she’ll probably hate me for it.

But hate isn’t what I remember or what I see when I think of Jazzy, and how we are when we’re together. I see a seriously wounded girl limping along, trying not to need help, but reaching out to me anyway, not wanting to hope, but daring to hope that I can help her. She wrote a song for me, two songs counting the organic chem rap. I laugh remembering it. And then my chest squeezes tight, because I want her here in my arms so much it hurts like a motherfucker.

I text her again, ask if I can come over, but she says not today. At least she answered my text. That alone gives me a buzz of hope in spite of the fact that she won’t let me come over and barely talks to me.

I don’t press it. Because I’m not ready to see her, to talk to her, not with what I’ve found out. I don’t know what to do with the nuclear bomb of information I have from Sarah, not even sure whether it’ll hurt or help.

The one last obvious person I need to talk to, to get the full picture, is Jazzy’s mother. Ronnie Romano. If I can track her down. Fuck that. I need to track her down and talk to her about Jazzy’s father and Killian.

I give myself a reprieve on dropping any bomb on Jazzy, not that there’s any good time to do it. The need to see her and hold her wells up stronger.

It’s been five days, but it feels like five years because of the way she left me, because of the way she avoids me and the truth. And because of the lead ball of her past truth I have stored in my gut.

Putting that aside, I call Dooley. I’m not waiting any longer. I’m going to find out when and where she has class with him and wait for her outside until class is over.

It’s a bold move, but I won’t press her if she puts me off.

I pray to all the gods and the universe to let her let me back in her life.

Chapter 14

Jazzy