Chapter Twenty-Two

"Wynnie? What's wrong?"

I'm curled on my bed, my phone tucked to my ear and covered with my pillow, blocking out any sound from the outside world. If Dara and Madison are home right now, I don't want to know.

I've been like this all morning, replaying everything that happened last night like a highlight reel of suck. Agonizing over Dara's and Madison's faces as they left my room. Trying not to think about Three, and how badly I wish I could talk to Hayes. To anyone, really.

I'm not embarrassed to say that when my mom's call came through, I almost sobbed in relief.

"Nothing's wrong," I say. "All I said was hi. Why would you think something's wrong?"

She must sense the lie, but she doesn't push. She's good about that. My family is all about feeling your feelings. It's why the three of us openly cried after our fight during winter break. Actually, calling it a fight isn't entirely fair—no one yelled except me, in the end. They wanted to go to a NeverEnding Story triple feature at the indie theater in town, and I said, "I just got over watching Artax die, like, two weeks ago. You really want to open that wound again?"

"You don't have to come," Mom said with a laugh. "We'll make it date night."

I could've let it go, but my long-building frustration hit a boiling point. "I'm sure you'd prefer it that way."

It's the kind of thing you say when you want to start a fight, but I didn't know until that moment that I was smarting for one. As soon as the words left my mouth, my parents' matching looks of shock were gratifying.

What came pouring out of me next was exactly what Hayes—what Three—called it. An airing of grievances. That, for my whole life, I've felt like a second-tier priority, and Thanksgiving only proved it.

In the end, they both apologized, which I'd known they would. But it didn't fix every problem. It just made them aware of the problem. Which makes sense why Mom is calling now—a general check-in to remind me that she loves me, and not because she felt my sadness from eighty miles away.

"Well, if you aren't busy, we wanted to talk to you about something important. I'm putting you on speaker."

"Hi, Wynnie," Dad says.

"Hi, Dad. Um, yeah, I'm not busy." I probably won't be for a while, since my friends hate me, and I plan to text Sabina that I'm too sick to come into the newsroom on Monday. I can't deal with Three yet. I don't even want to deal with myself.

Mom waits a beat, then says, "Well, Dad and I have been talking, and we decided we're going to skip the Ren Faire this year."

My pillow flings off the side of my bed as I sit up sharply. "What?"

"We've been thinking about what you told us while you were home, about how we've made you feel," Dad says. "And I know you said you forgive us for Thanksgiving—"

"I do."

Mom cuts in. "The bottom line is, we don't ever want you to feel second to anything else in our lives. So instead of working the Ren Faire, we thought we'd take this year off so we'll be home more for you."

"But—but the faire is in the fall. I'll be at school."

"And if you need to call or come home, we won't have our weekends tied up. We can be here for you."

"No. Look, I appreciate it, I do—" I break off, my throat tightening. I get what they're doing. This is the obsession that takes up the most of their time, and it's the biggest sacrifice they can make. It's a huge gesture, but not one I can accept—not when I know how happy it makes them.

When the ache in my throat eases, I say, "I don't want you to give up the Ren Faire. But maybe we can do something this summer? Like… take a real vacation?" I quickly add, "And I don't mean San Diego Comic-Con."

Mom laughs. "How about Florida?"

"Or Maine," Dad says. "Somewhere that doesn't have the climate of an armpit in the summer."

"We can do other stuff too," Mom says. "Like take a pottery class at the community center—you've always wanted to try pottery."

"I'll probably be bad at it. I'm not great with my hands." That is to say, I have no artistic ability whatsoever.

"It'll be fun either way though, won't it?" Mom says hopefully.

Tears press at the backs of my eyes. "Yeah. I think I'd like that." My voice cracks, and I dab at my eyes with the edge of my blanket. "And I—I'm really grateful you'd consider skipping the faire for me. But I don't want you guys to give up something you love that much, or to feel like you have to because of me."

"Wynnie, we wanted to. Not because of you, but because of us," Dad says. "Yeah, we love the faire, but there's nothing in this world we love more than you. If we can cut something out of our lives to make more time for you, of course we want to do that. Honestly, we're counting ourselves lucky that we got a teenager who actually wants to hang out with us."

I sniffle. "Hanging out this summer does sound fun."

I think Dad might be a little choked up as he agrees, and Mom exhales a small sound of relief.

"Hey, I have a question." I lean over the side of my bed and grab my pillow, curling up and placing it over my head again. "What do you guys think about me talking to a counselor?"

"Do you feel like you need to talk to someone?" Mom asks.

"Kind of."

"We are a positive mental-health household," Dad says. "You can always talk to us—about anything you're going through, okay? But if you also want to talk to someone else—if you'd be more comfortable—we can work that out too."

"We might have mental-health services through our insurance," Mom says absently, and I hear her rifling around in her overstuffed purse.

I let out a small, wet laugh, swiping at my running nose with my sleeve. "We have counselors on campus. I just… I'm wondering if I should go."

I didn't realize I was considering it until I was already asking them, but I think it's been on my mind for a while. Especially now, after everything that's happened. I might be on stable ground with my parents, but the landscape of the rest of my life looks tornado-ravaged. I need help.

"I think," Mom says, "if therapy will help you feel like the best version of yourself, then there's no reason not to try it."

The waiting room is quiet and surprisingly empty. Only one other student sits in the available chairs.

I guess this explains why it was so easy to make an appointment.

I gave myself the weekend to wallow. I grabbed take-out meals from the dining hall at odd hours so I didn't risk running into anyone. I texted Sabina that I wasn't feeling well and would be out of the newsroom for a couple of days. I don't know if she believed me after what everyone witnessed at the bar Friday night, but she didn't give me a hard time. Alone in my room, I threw myself into new ideas for the Torch, searching for heart and hope. But more than anything, I tried not to think about Three and our Dirty Four story, and how I might lose my spot on it now that things have gone so sideways with us.

Then on Monday morning, I made an appointment at the counselors' office for the following afternoon. Which brings me here, to this nearly empty waiting room.

I don't know where to start today. Whether it's with my parents, and what I really hope to gain with them this summer. If it's with my friends, and how much I've hurt them, and why. Or if it's with Three, and all my tangled, twisted-up feelings for him.

But when the door creaks open and someone says, "éowyn Evans," and I cringe at the sound of my full name, I realize something.

Maybe it needs to start with me. Not the situations I'm in, but how I feel about myself. More than how I look in a mirror, but how I look deep down—the slimiest, darkest parts of me, and how those parts have somehow touched all the good things I've found since I got to school.

I take in a bracing breath. "That's me," I say, standing. "I'm éowyn."

If this were a movie, the therapy scene would resolve all my problems. I'd know how to fix things with my friends, and what to say to Three. But as it turns out, I didn't leave my appointment a brand-new person. And even though I know I need to fix these things, no one is going to give me a guidebook on how to do it.

Apparently all your problems can't be magically fixed in a single session.

So I made another appointment. Not because I need a magical fix-it, but because it was nice talking to someone. Saying things out loud helped me clear my head. And I want to try what Mom said—to be the best version of myself.

Talking through the events of the last few days made me realize I need to fix things with Dara and Madison first. And maybe I didn't get a guidebook on how to do it, but I did realize that I know them. I know what's important to them. And I know how to show that I love them.

When Dara pushes through the glass doors to the auditorium lobby, she doesn't look pleased. But she's here, which has to count for something. It means she read my text, even if she didn't respond. She's still giving me a chance.

She stops just inside, eyeing me. "You brought flowers?"

I drop my gaze to the small bouquet in my hands. "Do you think it's too much?"

"Maybe." She sits beside me, leaving a good amount of space between us. "But it's nice."

A beat of silence passes. My stomach twists with nerves. In romance comics and novels, there's always a grand gesture. Showing up for Madison's audition feels like one. But as I thought about how to fix things with my friends, I couldn't come up with anything for Dara. There's nothing that feels as grand as the apology that I owe her—that I owe them both.

"I was hoping we could talk after this." I angle toward her, braving a look at her face. "But maybe we can sit in there together first? For Madison?"

A small crack forms in her stony mask. "I guess that'd be okay."

The auditions are open to the public, but I'm not surprised to find, when we get inside the theater, that the seats are empty except for the judges and other auditionees. Heads swivel in our direction. Madison's ponytail swishes as she does a double take, eyes widening.

I lift a hand in a small wave as Dara and I slip into the last row.

When Madison flushes, I worry this was a bad idea. Maybe I should have talked to her first, rather than force my way into her space.

Then she smiles a little, and the tightening in my chest eases.

I glance at Dara. "I really want to be a good friend to both of you. Way better than the one I've been."

Dara sniffles, glancing away. "I didn't mean that when I said it."

"I think you were right, though. I've been selfish. But I'm really happy you came tonight."

Dara shrugs, still not looking at me. "It's for Madison."

"Right." I face forward, focusing on the stage. "For Madison."

Madison finds Dara and me waiting outside after her audition. She accepts her flowers, beaming and pink-cheeked.

"Thanks for coming." She shoves her nose into the bouquet and inhales. "This was really nice."

Dara adjusts her bag on her shoulder, her focus on Madison. "You did great. They'd be idiots not to choose you."

"No, there were a ton of good singers." Madison flaps her free hand at her. "And I have zero acting experience. I'll be happy just to make the ensemble."

"You didn't do any drama at all in high school?" I ask. We've started walking, heading toward home without discussing it.

"No way. My parents would have hated that. They didn't mind the musicals my school put on, but I didn't have time. I had small group and volunteering. My parents wanted me to do stuff for the church, not for myself." She winces. "I haven't told them about this. I don't think they'd be happy about me being in a musical with so much murder and adultery. I'll probably tell them eventually, but I don't know if it'll be right away. I've been, um, talking to someone in the counselors' office since you suggested it." That, she directs at Dara. "About my parents and my… feelings." She shoves her face into her flowers, hiding her expression. "It's been super nice."

"That's really great," Dara says gently, patting her back lightly. "I'm glad you decided to go."

"I—" I choke on a lump in my throat and cough. My cheeks burn as they both look at me. "I think it's great too. I… I'm also doing that. Talking to someone. I had my first appointment today." When neither of them speaks, I backtrack quickly. "Not that I'm—I'm not—This isn't about m—"

Madison takes my hand and squeezes. "I'm really happy you're doing that. It's helped me a lot. I've only been to a couple sessions, but I feel so much better afterward."

"Me too," Dara says quietly.

I swallow hard. "I'm sorry I waited so long to talk to you both. I should have come to you right away to apologize, but I think I was… scared. That I wouldn't say the right thing, or that you wouldn't accept it. But you don't apologize to someone only when they'll accept it. You do it when you're wrong, no matter what. I'm so sorry for what I said, and for the assumptions I made. I think… I think I don't really value who I am as a person. I can't imagine why people would want to be friends with me, especially people I really like, and especially when they already have other friends, because those people always seem way better than me. I have… low self-esteem, I guess. And that should be something that only negatively affects me, but I've let it affect other people. And hurt other people. I did—do—consider you both friends. The kind of friends I'd sort of die to have. And I didn't think I was worth that, and I ended up hurting both of you because of it. I never, ever wanted that. I think you're both incredible. I came to college wishing I could find people like you. I got hyper-focused on what I thought that friendship should look like, and I didn't realize that I've been really happy with the friendship we have, exactly as it is."

My eyes are stinging with tears when I finish. Madison is still holding my hand, and her grip has tightened.

"We all say things we don't mean, Wyn," she says, pulling me to a stop so she can face me. "I've said things that hurt you. You didn't hold that against me. I would never hold this against you. I'm really happy you consider me a friend, and that you've been able to forgive me for everything I've done wrong too." She releases my hand to hug me, crushing her flowers against my back. "I love being friends with you. And I know it's more important how you think of yourself, but I want you to know that I think you're worth the world."

The lump in my throat is so large, I can't even speak. I nod against her shoulder and squeeze her tighter.

I look up when I hear another sniffle, and my gaze lands on Dara. Her face has crumpled, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"I didn't like being mad at you either," she says, her voice wobbling. She covers her eyes with her hand. "I was just waiting for you to tell me you actually like me."

It's seeing Dara cry that pushes me over the edge, and I can no longer hold back my own tears. "Of course I like you!" I take a step toward her, even though I'm not great at hugging people—not the way Madison clearly is—and thankfully Dara reads it as an invitation, because she crashes into me.

"I'm sorry," I say, this time with the addition of tears and a wail in my voice. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it."

"I didn't either," Dara sobs, clutching me. "I don't think you're a bad friend."

Madison wraps her arms around both of us, and when I look over, she's crying too.

"Is this another traditional college experience?" she asks, sniffling. "Crying in public?"

"Yeah," Dara replies, hugging us both tighter. "It's just like New York City. You aren't a real college student until you've sobbed in the middle of the Oval."

When we've cried ourselves dry and started walking again, each with a tissue from the travel pack I keep in my purse, Madison is the first one to speak.

"So, can I ask something super nosy? This probably isn't the right time, but…"

"Oh, thank god, because I wanted to ask," says Dara.

I look between them. "Ask what?"

"What is going on—" Madison starts.

Dara finishes, "With you and Three?"

That night, we have a sleepover. We drag my mattress into their room and set it in the narrow space on the floor between their beds. We stay up too late talking—about Dara and how she swears she's given up on Buckonnect so she can focus on the club she wants to start for other Black marketing students, about Madison and the part she really wants in the musical even though she thinks she's being greedy, and about me and Three.

And when the two of them drop off, their breathing evening out and Dara snoring lightly, I open my chat log with Hayes and scroll back to the very beginning. I read through our entire history, looking for clues.

I find them as far back as fall break, when we first started talking. There are traces of him everywhere—in the jokes he made and the way he talked. There were so many times I should have guessed. But what are the odds that out of the thousands of users and tens of thousands of students, I'd randomly match with Three that night all those months ago? I'm more likely to be hit by a campus bus.

"You should talk to him."

I gasp, dropping my phone on my face. I rub my stinging nose as I sit up, swiveling toward Dara. "I thought you were asleep."

She shrugs. "I was, but I think the sound of your brain whirring woke me."

I exhale a laugh, lying back down again.

"No, for real, it's because I have to pee." She climbs out of bed, stepping over me, and disappears into the bathroom. I'm reading over my messages from winter break when she returns, and she stretches out beside me on my mattress. She takes my wrist, turning my phone toward her.

"You know what I think?" she says after a while. "If I met someone on Buckonnect who talked to me like this, I wouldn't be lying around agonizing over whether or not to give him a chance."

"If it were anyone else, maybe." I release my phone, letting her have it to continue her scroll through my messages. "But I feel like I got tricked."

"Even after he told you he likes you?"

I hesitate. "It's hard to trust that too. And I don't know how this works if I don't trust him."

"Don't you trust him, though? You've been working together for months. He took care of you when you were high. He saved that goat and met your parents. He called campus security to deal with the library perv."

I muffle my laugh with my pillow. "Okay, god, have you been reading my diary or something?"

"I just wonder if this might be coming from somewhere else. Like maybe you're… a little embarrassed?"

"That I didn't guess it was him?"

"That you told him how much you liked him without knowing who you were talking to. And that makes it feel like there's a power imbalance. But that's life, right? No one is completely equal all the time when it comes to dating. At best, it's sixty-forty in either direction."

"That extra twenty feels like a lot of power when Three's holding it. I don't know if I'll be able to handle that."

"You haven't even talked to him long enough to find out. You don't have to forgive him. But I know you have stuff you want to say to him too."

After a beat of silence, she adds, "I should be honest that I'm not completely unbiased here. I'm kind of rooting for him." At my look of betrayal, she huffs out a laugh against her forearm. "Sorry. It's only because I'm rooting for you the most, and I think he's one of the good ones."

I lift my phone, reading through our messages again. Dara doesn't return to her bed, instead drifting off beside me. Before long, she's snoring in my ear.

She's right, of course. I have so many things I want to say to him. And even if I didn't, I don't think there's a chance in the world that Three will let me get away with never speaking to him again.

I don't think that's what I want either.

And I know he's waiting for me. He won't push it yet. He's giving me time. I don't feel ready, but how long do I want to wait? What good does waiting even do without talking to him first?

I could text him—him, Three—but that doesn't feel right. We should finish this how we started.

pomerene1765: are you free tomorrow?

I'm shocked when my phone buzzes with a response only seconds later.

hayes6834:yes

pomerene1765:can we talk?

hayes6834:I'd really like that

I stare at his message, my stomach turning with nerves. It's so strange to get such an honest, earnest answer from Three. I'm used to him being flippant, everything a joke. This is clearly Hayes, but it doesn't feel like Three.

pomerene1765:tomorrow night.

hayes6834:your room?

My stomach jolts. No. I want to meet him on common ground. Somewhere no one else will be.

pomerene1765:the newsroom

hayes6834:ok. 8?

pomerene1765:fine.

He doesn't respond, and I spend a long time staring at his messages before I finally flip my phone over and focus on the ceiling instead.

A few minutes later, my phone buzzes, and I grab it embarrassingly fast. Dara makes a noise of protest, rolling onto her back, and slides half off the mattress, still sound asleep.

I stare at the new message from Three, my chest squeezing.

hayes6834:thank you