Finding Felicity

  My phone keeps buzzing, so it’s a call. And only one person calls me. I slide the bar to answer.

  “Mom. Hi.”

  “Hi, Caroline. I wanted to check on you. See how the first day of class went.” She sounds breathless, and I hear the nasal tones of the hospital intercom going off in the background. She must be checking on a VIP patient.

  “It was fine, Mom.”

  “Do you think you’ll like the classes you chose?”

  “I don’t know. They’re all intro-level freshman requirements. I won’t get to take anything interesting until next semester.” The Sociology Department has a lecture series on fandom culture, which looked awesome. Probably better to keep that to myself, though.

  I yank the blue shirt out of my closet and hold it up to myself in the mirror.

  “And how is . . . everything else?” Mom asks carefully.

  “I’m not making people up, if that’s what you’re wondering.” I toss the shirt onto the pile on my bed.

  “Caroline, I didn’t say that you were,” she says, sounding wounded.

  No, that was just the entire purpose for the call. If I don’t shut this down, she’s going to be calling every other day until her visit.

  So I let the silence hang. The black tee, perhaps? Keeping it simple, that works sometimes, right?

  I pull it out and put it on top of my leggings. That’s a lot of black.

  My mom sighs. “All right, I’m sorry. It’s just . . . I can’t help but worry about you.”

  “I know, but—”

  “You are scheduled to check in with Dr. Wegman this week?”

  “I already did. On Sunday.”

  “And that’s helping?”

  “Mom!”

  Lexi walks in, carrying her laptop. “I need my charger. Have you seen it?” she asks without even glancing in my direction.

  “Mom, I have to go. I’m getting dressed for a party tonight, and Lexi needs me.” Desperate times, desperate measures.

  Lexi looks up sharply at me.

  “You’re going to a party tonight,” my mom says.

  “Yeah.”

  “You?”

  “Mom.”

  “No, I meant by yourself or . . .”

  “With a friend,” I say. If I mention Liam, this whole thing will fall apart.

  “Really?” She sounds both thrilled and skeptical.

  “Yes, really.” I turn away from Lexi. “It’s great here. Meeting lots of new people. New friends all over the place.” I have to clamp down against the long-ingrained urge to start throwing out names. People in my classes, on my wing, or ones that exist only in my head. But Lexi is listening.

  “Well . . . good,” Mom says. “Then I look forward to seeing them in a couple of weeks.”

  Is it me, or did she put an extra emphasis on the word “seeing”?

  “Okay, I have to go. Love you, bye.” I hang up before she can say more, and I flop back on my bed and the mound of clothing.

  Lexi is frowning at me, not even bothering to search for her power cord. Instead she sits on the edge of her bed, her laptop folded in her arms.

  “So PBTs again tonight?” Lexi jerks her chin at the leggings and shirt on the back of my chair.

  “Yeah.” I frown. “How did you—”

  “Tory,” she says with a shrug.

  “Oh.” Tory talks to everyone, apparently.

  “Not the black. It’s so close to your hair color and you’re too pale. You’ll look like you’re going to a funeral.” Lexi gets up and goes to her closet. “Here.” She pulls a shirt with thin red and white stripes out of her closet.

  “Thanks,” I say, startled. I take the shirt. It’s a simple, loose shirt, but with a deliberately uneven hem in a casual, effortless style. It’s nothing like what she wears now. A remnant of that earlier wardrobe, maybe?

  She shrugs it off. “Sure.” But she seems sad. Or, rather, angry-sad, as everything about Lexi seems to be one shade of pissed off or another.

  “You . . . you want to go?” I venture.

  “Fuck no,” she says, her mouth twisting into a sneer.

  “Okay,” I say, edging away. I cannot figure her out.

  On my side of the room, I shed my shorts and T-shirt and pull on my leggings and Lexi’s shirt. A quick glance in the mirror shows that she’s right. The red brings color to my complexion, making me look less like a consumption victim from the 1800s.

  “You’re going out with that guy again, the one you went to high school with?” she asks, kicking the heel of her boot against the linoleum, creating black scuff marks.

  I look at her in surprise.

  “I saw you guys at lunch yesterday,” she reminds me.

  “You should have come over,” I say. “Liam is amazing.” Though he might not have been quite as amazing to Lexi.

  She stares at me for a long moment; then she scooches farther onto her bed and opens her laptop. Assuming the conversation is done, I grab my makeup bag—so slight compared to Tory’s box of miracles—and head for the door. The lighting is better in the bathroom.

  “You were friends with him in high school?” she asks. “Good friends?”

  I hesitate. “Not exactly. But our social circles overlapped.” In my imagination. “But I think we’re both kind of missing home.” Well, he is, at least. And I’m happy to help.

  “Mm-hmm.”

  Whatever. I grab the doorknob.

  “Just . . . be careful, Caroline.”

  “What? Why?”

  When she doesn’t answer right away, I look back at her. She’s fidgeting with the cracked plastic edge of her laptop cover. “Lexi?”

  “Townie girls are always an easy mark for Ashmore guys,” she says finally.

  I frown. “What does that have to do with—”

  “Especially when those girls are desperate to fit in. And when those guys are feeling less than the superheroes they used to be back home.”

  It takes me a second to put the pieces together. “Is that what . . . you and Jordan were . . .”

  “I didn’t say anything about me,” she says sharply, not looking up from her laptop.

  Except that has to be what she’s talking about, given what I’ve seen and overheard between the two of them. But why would she bring that up now?

  It clicks. “Wait. You think Liam is doing that? Using me to feel better about himself ?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “I’m just saying, be careful.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I say. “He’s not like that.” Is he? No, of course not! Yes, we talk about high school a lot, but that’s because we have that in common. And we naturally talk more about him than me in those conversations because, hello, I didn’t have a life in high school and he did.

  “I’m not saying it’s intentional . . . ,” Lexi begins.

  “He wouldn’t do that,” I say.

  “Okay.”

  She’s wrong. She has to be. Whatever happened between Jordan and Lexi is totally different and has nothing to do with Liam and me.

  But now that Lexi’s made the connection, I can’t stop thinking about it, and it snaps something inside me. “You know, just because you’re miserable here doesn’t mean you have to try to make everyone else unhappy too.”

  She looks up, surprised. “Caroline, I wasn’t trying to—”

  “I’m finally getting the life I want,” I say, my voice trembling. “You don’t get to—”

  “Because of him?” she asks, skepticism thick in her tone.

  “You don’t get to ruin it,” I say. “You don’t know him and you don’t know me. We’re not friends, remember?”

  Her mouth tightens into a thin line, and she holds her hands up in surrender. “You’re absolutely right,” she says flatly. “Sorry to hold you up.”

  But I’m already pulling open the door and then slamming it shut on her words. On her.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Slug is a metal sculpture, donated by an artist alum and situated
on a patch of central campus lawn on the way to Greek Row. According to the campus guide on the Ashmore website, it’s supposed to represent a wriggling butterfly breaking free of its cocoon: new life, new opportunities, etc. However, because of the “wriggling” position, it looks more like a slug that has somehow managed to defy gravity and stand upright on its narrow end.

  I hurry down the sidewalk toward it, and to my relief I spot Liam waiting, his head down while he checks his phone.

  “Hey,” I say, breathless from rushing.

  “Hey.” Liam doesn’t look up from scrolling on his phone.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask after a moment.

  He glances up at me then, seeming to register my arrival for the first time. “Yeah. Stella started school today.” He stares at his screen again, as if trying to divine some new information from what he’s already scrolled through.

  “Oh. Is she doing all right?” I can’t imagine Stella struggling with new people and a new location. She’s one of those people who moves through the world like she expects everyone else to step aside or fall in line behind her.

  “I’m sure she is,” he says. “She’s with Braden and Tyler. And Martina, I guess.”

  In other words, most of his friends.

  He tucks his phone into the front pocket of his jeans. “Ready?”

  “No,” I admit.

  “Oh, come on, it’s going to be fun,” he says, nudging me with his elbow as we start walking toward Greek Row.

  I force a smile. “Sure!” The thing is, though, I don’t think I like parties. This is a revelation to me. I spent so much time in high school wishing I’d been invited; it never dawned on me to wonder whether I’d actually enjoy them.

  I never knew how overwhelming they were, in reality, until the other night. Yet one more thing that looks and sounds—and probably smells—better on television and in movies. Not that I’m going to tell Liam that.

  He seems to know anyway. “Keep an open mind,” he says. “That’s all. I think it’ll help. You have to go out to meet people.” He gestures in the direction of the party ahead. “You won’t make friends staying in your dorm room by yourself like a loser, right?”

  He says it with a smile, but the words still sting.

  “Right,” I manage.

  The mannequin is no longer on the roof, but otherwise the Phi Beta Theta house looks the same as it did the last time we were here.

  Liam leads the way up to the front door and gets us in even faster than Tory did.

  Inside, the girls are wearing regular clothes this time, and I don’t see any fedoras on the guys. But there’s still the stale beer smell, and the music from below that makes my feet tingle with the vibrations through my flip-flops.

  The party is apparently in the basement again.

  Ducking between two very large guys fist-bumping over my head in the hallway, I follow Liam down the stairs.

  It is less intimidating this time. Maybe because I know what to expect. I don’t recognize anyone, but Liam is greeted with handshakes and backslapping.

  Liam gestures to me, and probably says my name, each time, but I can’t hear him or what anyone says in response. I wave hello at them and they wave back, but most of their attention is reserved for Liam, which is good.

  The keg in the corner is not manned by anyone—I don’t see Jordan anywhere—so Liam fills the cups and hands one to me.

  I take it and shift out of the way, moving to stand behind him. He smells so good.

  But he turns and pulls me forward. “No,” he says, leaning to shout in my ear with a smile. “No hiding in the corner.”

  Reluctantly, I stand where he’s placed me, trying hard not to fold my arms over my chest. I feel so much more exposed without him in front of me, even though no one seems to be paying the slightest bit of attention to us.

  “So now what?” I ask, raising my voice to be heard and fighting the urge to inch closer to the wall.

  He takes a swallow from his cup and contemplates me with a thoughtful expression. “Talk to someone,” he says.

  His words send a cold spike of fear through my middle. “Who?”

  “Pick someone.”

  “But I’m talking to you.”

  He rolls his eyes, leaning closer to me, his hand on my shoulder pulling me in so his words will be audible. “It’s not that hard,” he begins. “You just . . .” Then he pauses, probably seeing the panic in my expression. “It’s small talk at first, nothing big,” he says, and takes another swallow of his beer. “Talk about how hot it is down here, or ask where you can get a beer.”

  “How many?” I ask.

  “How many what?”

  “How many small-talk things do I need to say?”

  “Jesus, Caroline.”

  “I told you, I’m not good at this!” And it’s even harder with him judging me and finding me lacking. This was a terrible idea.

  Tears prick my eyes.

  He sighs and steps closer, until my cup-holding hand is brushing his chest, and then he bends his head down toward mine, like he’s going to whisper something to me.

  But he doesn’t.

  I’m confronted with his face, inches from mine. The longer-than-they-should-reasonably-be eyelashes. The tiny scar along the bottom of his chin. The intense blue of his eyes. His mouth quirking upward in a smile.

  Then his gaze drops, and for one horrible, wonderful, endless second, I think he’s going to kiss me. Oh God. Yes. Please.

  But instead he pushes my shoulder, not too hard, but enough that I’m forced to take a step back and bump into something—no, someone—behind me.

  I spin around, mortified. The someone in question is a tall guy wearing the Phi Beta Theta letters. He’s adorable in a kind of dorky way, with floppy dark hair and glasses. And he’s shaking spilled beer off his hand onto the floor.

  “I’m so sorry!” I blurt.

  He waves my words away with a smile. “No harm done. It’s crowded down here.”

  “Yes, but my friend—” I cut myself off before I can explain that Liam pushed me into this guy, because how, exactly, can I explain that without sounding like a crazy person or a loser or both? Behind me, I can feel Liam watching, as if his gaze has weight.

  “Sorry,” I say again instead.

  “I’m Del.” He holds his hand out.

  I shake it automatically, realizing only belatedly that he’s looking expectantly at me for something.

  Oh. My name.

  “Caroline,” I manage after a second of throat-gargling awkwardness, which I hope he can’t hear over the music.

  “Nice to meet you, Caroline. I’m one of the brothers here. Welcome. I hope you’re not partial to ever hearing again.” Del rolls his eyes.

  I laugh; I can’t help it. But in spite of that, the horrible conversation gap is coming, I can feel it, and I don’t know how to stop it.

  “So . . . ,” I begin, with no idea what word should come next. My mind flips through scenarios, growing more panicked with each one dismissed. I can’t ask him about getting a beer because I have one in my hand. We’ve already talked about how crowded it is. Well, he has. What else? What else do I know about him? That he’s in a fraternity, but I’m betting that he can’t say much about that because secrets and rituals and whatever. What’s your major? That’s so lame.

  “I should let you get back to your boyfriend,” Del says after a beat of silence.

  “Oh no!”

  He looks startled by the force of my exclamation.

  “He’s not . . . we’re not . . . I . . .” Only wish he were my boyfriend? “We went to high school together,” I manage. Is this small talk? Or helpless babbling? It feels more like the latter.

  “Oh. Okay.” Del pauses. “Well, that’s his loss.” He gives me a shy smile.

  My face goes hot, but not with embarrassment, at least not the same variety I’m used to experiencing. “Um, thanks.”

  “See you around, Caroline,” Del says before walking away to cal
l to someone across the room, perhaps one of the brothers.

  When I turn around, I find Liam smiling at me.

  “Told you,” he says, tilting his cup at me.

  “That was . . . that’s just . . . ,” I sputter.

  “A success?”

  “So that’s your plan?” I ask. “To walk around forcing me to bump into other people unexpectedly?”

  “It worked, didn’t it?” Liam asks. “Sometimes you gotta break it down to the most basic element first. Like practicing free throws or running laps to build up endurance.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “It’s going to take a very long time if you intend to push me into everyone on campus,” I say.

  He laughs. “Fair enough. I won’t do that again. I thought it might help you to have a win under your belt. To feel good and know that you can do it.” He pauses. “He thought you were cute.”

  I have no idea what to say to that.

  “He’s right,” Liam says with a wink.

  That loud whooshing noise in my head? The rush of air flooding in to fill the space where my brain used to be. Before it exploded. Because Liam Fanshaw called me cute. And winked at me. Again.

  “Come on. This way.”

  He leads me to a beer pong table in the corner, where a game is nearly finished. One side is completely clobbering the other. Only two cups are left for them, while the other still has all ten in place.

  I wait, bracing myself, not sure what’s coming next.

  “We have next!” Liam calls, when there’s a break in the action.

  One of the guys on the winning team nods in acknowledgment and then shouts, “Freshmen coming up!” His statement is greeted by a variety of derisive noises.

  I gape at Liam, and then pull him back a step, away from the table. “Are you kidding me?”

  “What? It’s perfect for you,” he says, leaning down. He’s so close to me. “Gives you something to concentrate on. Plus, the alcohol takes the edge off.”

  “I’ve never played before!”

  But before we can argue further, the team that’s ahead sinks the last shot, and the people around us shout and jeer. The losing team, a guy and a girl, groans and starts protesting about something.