Conversations were always reduced to the lowest common denominator and, in this case, I knew we’d turn from Classic Poetry to Campus Gossip in a matter of nanoseconds. Rochelle didn’t prove me wrong.

“Lord, did I ever hear the stupidest thing today!” she said, shaking her shoulder-length hair and getting comfortable on Erica’s bed. “Some boys are soooo obvious. Trish’s boyfriend is here again.”

Erica groaned. “That guy has to be such a sleaze. I’ve never met him, but she talks constantly about what they do together. It’s nauseating.”

Rochelle twisted a lock of her streaked hair and sent us a smirk. “Well, now he’s gotten her into stripping during card games. She was jabbering about it before he showed up. Then they disappeared into the sauna.”

I felt a blush begin at the base of my neck and knew it was creeping its way upward. “The sauna? Really?”

“Yeah, because Trish’s roommate studies a lot in their room and Trish’s boyfriend isn’t from this dorm. He’s a grad student,” Rochelle explained with a roll of her eyes. “But he hangs out here often enough. Like practically every afternoon for hours. I try to avoid him.”

“Oh,” I said. “Um, what’s his name?”

Rochelle bit her lower lip. “Brad — ”

I felt a tiny swell of relief.

“ — or maybe it’s Brett. I don’t remember exactly, but it’s something like that. Anyway, he told her they were going to play Strip Go Fish today. Can you believe it?” Rochelle rolled her eyes again.

I closed mine and tried to rein in the tears fighting to escape.

Duped again.

An idiot after all.

How much more proof did I need?

I heard Jane sigh deep inside my mind, but she didn’t berate me. She had to know my days of being naively trusting of men were over.

OVER.

“You okay?” Erica asked me, tilting her head to one side and studying my face.

“Yep.” I blinked and began gathering my things. “But I need to get to the library to finish a project for one of my MLS classes.” I forced a bright smile at both of them. “Good talking to you two. See you in lit, Erica.”

I waved and walked out the door fast, still grinning like the mentally deficient person I was.

And, of course I didn’t go to the library.

I clomped down four flights of stairs and camped out in their dorm’s basement, in the little study right across from their sauna room. Clearly, I was a glutton for humiliation, but I needed to be absolutely, positively certain.

After all, it wasn’t impossible that some other guy could use the same sex-getting tactics as Brent.

There might actually be a Brad or a Brett.

Maybe there was a group of grad-school guys who strategized together — as part of some morally decrepit team or something — and they’d come up with foolproof lines to use on their unsuspecting girlfriends.

It didn’t mean Brent cheated on me. Not for sure. Not yet.

I pretended to read one of my MLS books. The Dewey Decimal System: Selected Readings in Theory, Organization and Application. Second edition. Written by Someone Very Pretentious, PhD, and penned with all the humor and insight of a text on dental flossing techniques.

An hour and seventeen minutes dragged on. Then the door to the sauna swung open. I heard female giggling first, followed by a male laugh.

Brent.

So, all hope for our Happily Ever After ended right there.

The pain of betrayal burned down my throat as I swallowed, but I didn’t plug my ears or close my eyes. I didn’t run and hide. I listened. I watched.

I had my book open, its spine cracking, and I peered over its creased pages as Brent and a blonde I figured must be Trish walked out of the steamy room and into the hall. He was framed through both doorways, The Other Woman by his side. What a picture. What a con.

His gaze met mine, initially friendly, not comprehending. And then the eyes grew wide as recognition dawned. Four seconds, at most, split into subdivisions of time like an atom in a nuclear reactor, and equally explosive. Melodramatic emotions detonated in my brain.

“I — I gotta talk to someone,” I heard him say to Trish as he bid her a quick farewell. But not before she kissed him hard on the lips and grinned at him. He smiled tightly at her. His next glance in my direction was sheepish and utterly vulnerable.

That was when I closed my eyes.

When Trish was safely out of sight, he bolted into the study and stood by me, looking hurt and, unbelievably, like he was the one who’d been wronged.

“What are you doing here, Ellie?” He shifted his weight between his feet a time or two, then ended up leaning against the back of one of the chairs. “I mean, this dorm…it’s, um…I didn’t think you ever came here. Is it something you do often?”

I looked at the seven other people studying in the room, their gazes ranging from seemingly absorbed by their own stuff to obviously irritated by our distracting conversation.

I sighed. “If I didn’t already know the answer, Brent, I’d ask you the same.” I got up and pushed my way past him to get to the door.

He chased after me. Down the hallway, up the stairs, through the first floor corridor to the dorm’s back exit (I couldn’t fathom walking through the crowded lobby) and outside into the winter chill.

As I stepped onto the wet sidewalk, avoiding the clumps of snow clinging to the pavement, he called, “Please, Ellie. Stop. I’m sorry.”

I stopped.

I swiveled toward him, my heart and my fingers already numb, and I realized with a clarity I’d never before experienced that I had no idea what I was doing.

I didn’t know who I was.

I didn’t know who I wanted to be with. Hell, after the past couple of hours, maybe nobody.

I didn’t know where I was going in life or even where I was walking to in the next few minutes.

I didn’t know anything other than I wanted the day’s nightmare to end. And that somehow, somewhere there had to be an easier way to meet a good man, and I desperately wanted to know the secret.

“It just happened once or twice,” Brent explained, as if fewer than five indiscretions didn’t count. “And I like you better than her. I — I really, uh, kind of love you.” He paused. “C’mon, Ellie. Say something.”

I studied his handsome face, so flushed with embarrassment — real or contrived — then turned my attention toward the quad, where scores of students milled around and chatted daily, regardless of the weather. About twenty yards away a lively assembly of females had gathered and several delighted giggles rose above the pack.

I pointed at the group and said to Brent, “Go fish.”

Chapter 4

They who are good-natured when children,

are good-natured when they grow up.

 — Pride and Prejudice


The rest of that year wasn’t much of an improvement as far as how things played out in my dating life. I saw the occasional date movie or action flick with a guy here or there and went out for a few uninspiring dinner dates at off-campus restaurants, but no man really captured my interest long term, nor I his. Can’t say I fared much better during the second year of grad school either.

So, a couple of months short of graduating, I ventured home for spring break and spent several lazy days ruminating on my single status and overdosing on pricey, caffeinated beverages.

Maybe, I projected, things would get better once I was officially in the workforce.

Maybe I simply needed to move across the country to find my man. Angelique, whose funny phone calls always seemed to brighten my day, kept telling me that California guys were the way to go, and she was getting increasingly serious about “her Leo.”

Or maybe making my brain move faster by drinking more coffee would provide me with the answer I sought.

I grabbed a windbreaker and bolted out of the house to test the latter theory. The day was sunny, though, so I left my jacket unzipped and inhaled deeply. The scents of late March pervaded the air of neighborhood Glen Forest. Crabapple blossoms. Wet grass. The distinctive odor of worms out for a squiggle after the morning’s rain. And I was walking the sidewalks like a tourist. Weird.

About two blocks from my parents’ house stood my favorite corner coffee shop, Brew Masters. I entered to the piped-in, vintage sounds of Echo & The Bunnymen. Appropriate enough, I supposed, for early spring.

Jane and I chitchatted silently about the differing musical styles of our eras (Beethoven versus the Beastie Boys — who proved more rebellious? Discuss…) as I ordered a cappuccino and wandered over to the condiments counter. I was deeply involved in the delicate process of flavoring my drink with cinnamon when I heard a voice from the past.

“Ellie? Is that you?”

I swung around to see none other than Jason Bertignoli (Oh, my God! We were both twenty-three. How did we get so old?!), sitting alone at a tiny table, reading a newspaper and sipping a small coffee.

Jane groaned and said, Oh, heavens. But I waved and walked over to him.

“Hi,” I said, trying to keep the surprise from my voice. It’d been more than two years since I’d seen him in town. “What’s up? I haven’t run into you in ages.”

“You either.” He stood and gave me an awkward hug. “Finished grad school yet?”

I nodded. “Well, nearly. Two more months. You?”

“Not exactly.” He pointed to the paper. “I’ve been job hunting this semester and have a bunch of interviews lined up for April.” He grinned. “A lot’s happened this year, Ellie.”