18. Josie

18

Josie

" F or the love of god, Josie, you have to talk to him. If for no other reason that the fact that I'm going to die of curiosity if you don't."

I'm sitting in Drip with Mel, eating an oatmeal raisin cookie and trying to live my best life. But that seems impossible now that Van is back in my life.

Mel takes a sip of her coffee before leveling me with her red-rimmed gaze. "I'm serious, Josie. Have some pity on me. I'm a broken-hearted spinster and I need to live vicariously through you."

Mel and Will broke up a few days ago and my best friend has been out-of-sorts. I can't blame her. Van and I aren't even together, and my brain feels like goo.

"You're hardly a spinster, Mel. And all hope is not lost. You asked for space and he's giving it to you. That's a good thing, right?"

Mel shakes her head and signals Theo for another latte like we're at a bar and it's last call. "It's a fucking miserable thing," she replies, "which is why I need you and Van to get your shit together. Make my cold, dead heart believe in love again."

"I'm not looking for love," I remind her (and myself). "I'm looking for closure."

Theo drops off more provisions and I offer a grateful smile. I think he'd ply me with a dozen cookies right now if that meant I'd be Mel's sounding board so he wouldn't have to.

"It's just so confusing, Mel. I can't make sense of it. When we're together, it feels right, easy, natural. But we're not together. We're just forced to hang out. So that's why I need closure. I'm going to do it. I'm going to talk to him tonight. That's a good plan, right?"

"Mmhmm," Mel agrees, taking a bite of her scone. "Closure. That's what you need. Or sex. Sex would work, too."

My big plan was to talk to Van and seek some sense of closure. And yes, I realize that's probably why he's been trying to talk to me for weeks.

But it doesn't look like that conversation is happening tonight.

We've been making steady progress these last few weeks, but tonight is different.

Van's in a grumpy mood, and I can understand why. He's worked so hard lately, and his grades are starting to improve, all except for one.

"This class is gonna do me in, Josie. I'm serious." He pushes his laptop away in defeat, his shoulders slumped. Van's exhausted and overwhelmed right now. I get that.

Dr. Schoenbauer's lit course requires in-class, handwritten timed essays. Her reasoning is simple: if students are divested of electronics and AI tools, then the work they produce will be entirely their own.

The problem is that Van has bombed every single essay, even the ones we've brainstormed ahead of time. Of course, I have no way of knowing exactly what her questions will be, but we've mapped out ideas for dozens of possible prompts. He's verbally demonstrated his understanding of each work to me, but when he walks into that room and the timer starts, it all falls apart. At least, I'm guessing that's what happens.

"I'm here to help you, Van, but I really need to know what you are doing in the actual essay."

Van sighs loudly. "Um...I'm failing it, Jos. What else do you need to know? Besides, if I ace the quizzes and the take-home stuff, I can pass. That's all that matters."

Technically, that's true, but it feels dicey. "But…what if you get stumped on a quiz? Or run out of time. Taking Fs on all the timed writes might work out, or it might not. It's a risky move."

Van leans back in his chair. "And you're not a risk-taker, I know. But sometimes that's what life requires. Take a chance, lay it all out there. That's my plan."

"Just the thought of that makes me nervous. Besides, it might not be that tough of a fix. Seriously. A student last year was bombing Schoenbauer's timed writes because of run-on sentences. As soon as we fixed that, he was getting Bs. It might really be that simple."

"Trust me, Jos. It's not."

There's a finality to his words that has me worried he's giving up.

I take a calming breath and aim for positivity. "Van, I've read your other essays. You have great things to say. They just need a little clean-up, a little polish. I'm sure these can't be far off. I'm betting you just don't finish them and lose the bulk of the points that way. Are you sure you didn't bring your essay along? I know we talked about it last week."

He shakes his head, refusing to meet my gaze. "Like I said, I left it at the house. We'll do it next time, okay?"

"Van—"

The look he gives me is a heartbreaking mix of frustration and hopelessness, so I drop the subject. For now.

"I might have a pop quiz in Philosophy, so can we work on those French guys?"

He pulls up the slideshow notes and begins to listen. Since Van's tuned in, I feel like I have a few minutes to puzzle this out. He's stalling and I don't know why. I can't shake the feeling that there's more here than he's letting on, but I can't think of what it would be. I've read the essays he's submitted. They are a little rough, but nothing that would outright fail. How bad could these be? Does he have test anxiety? I don't know and I won't be able to help until he lets me in. But he's clearly put a wall up that he doesn't want me to scale.

The rest of the session is fine. We even have some time left over, which gives me an idea. "Hey, if you want, we could swing by your house, and I could look at your timed write. That way I could give you ideas for how to improve your next score."

A look of sheer panic crosses his face. "No, Jos, I'll bring it next time." His eyes dart away from me as he pulls his phone out. He barely glances at it before turning back to me. "Sorry, that was Norris. He wants to work on blocking shots since we're playing Woodcock again this weekend and Dutton Wagner's wrister is fucking wicked. But I'll bring it next time. Promise. Unless I threw it away...don't kill me, ok?"

Van flashes me a smile that has likely gotten him out of nearly every jam he's ever been in. It's a great smile and I'm pretty susceptible to it. But thanks to raising four kids, my bullshit meter is top-notch.

He palmed his phone, but didn't open any app or tap any messages. He just glanced at a lit screen. But maybe I'm being suspicious for no reason.

Since our time is just about up and Van has other plans, we pack our stuff up and walk to my dorm. It's a habit we've gotten into, and I don't mind it, but I have to admit it feels a little off tonight. Van was moody and reticent, which is so unlike him. I know the failing grades have him frustrated, but I can't shake the feeling that something else is going on.

There's nothing I can do about it now, so I step inside my building and check my mail. As I head toward the stairs, I see my friend Leah stomping her foot in frustration on the other side of the door. She forgot her key, so I hold the door open for her.

And when I do, my suspicions are confirmed—Van's walking toward the hockey house—away from campus, away from the arena, away from his supposed practice with Norris.

But why would he lie to me?

Is he going to meet some girl?

I mean, do I hate that? Yes, but I can't be mad about it. I do feel like a fool, though.

I wanted to get closure tonight, but now I have even more questions than I did before.