Beth Hyland - Fall Into Forever

I can almost see a curtain closing in front of her face. “I’m going to sit up front. I can see better up there. Thanks, though.”

Hold on. Did she really just turn me down? Running a hand through my hair, I watch her walk down the aisle, her thick ponytail swinging and bouncing on her back, as if she’s happy to be moving away from me. I try to conceal my disappointment as I slump down into the nearest empty seat.

She was searching for something in me and obviously didn’t find it. I fell short. An old but familiar pang gnaws at my insides. I try to ignore it, but it’s too late.

You’re not good enough, Jon. Why can’t you see that? You’ve never been good enough. You were born a loser and you’ll always be a loser.

I grab a notebook and pen from my backpack and toss them on the table in front of me, not bothering to open up a blank page. The professor welcomes everyone and says some shit about how this class can change the way we look at the world around us.

I don’t give a flying fuck. Crossing my ankle over my knee, I pick at a frayed hole in my jeans.

I had Ivy pegged as a hot mess anyway. I’ve had plenty of those girls in my life without adding another.

Ivy

My fingers curl over the keyboard like claws. I’m trying to keep them from shaking. After taking my last pill, I don’t really have a choice. I have to do this.

I open and close my fists as if I’m doing some preparatory exercises before using the computer. I need to log into my old email account and get the name of the doctor here at PSU that my therapist recommended.

I take a deep breath and pull it up. I can’t believe I even remember the password.

Sure enough, pages and pages of messages from people and businesses I don’t know fill the screen, many of them porn-related. And there are dozens of invites for pages and private online groups with hurtful names.

You’ve been invited to like the page Ivy McAllister is a Psycho Whore.

You’ve been invited to the group Ivy M. Suks Big Cock N Wants To Suk Yours.

@MagicVaj_McAllister is now following you.

I experience a little satisfaction that Aaron needs to take a few basic English classes and learn how to spell—but then that’s me, the secret nerd, for you.

It was easier to abandon this email address and delete my social media accounts than to keep wading through this garbage.

I do a search for Dr. Kramer and find the message I’m looking for. His colleague and former student is named Tess Mehta. He thinks I’ll like her.

I pull up the PSU Student Counseling services website and scroll down to see if they have her listed. They do. Dr. Mehta looks to be about thirty years old, with straight, dark hair, dark-rimmed glasses, and a closed-mouth smile. I can’t tell whether she seems kind and caring or judgmental.

Hands shaking, heart pounding, I dial the office number listed on the website.

“PSU Student Counseling Center. This is Addison. Can I help you?”

Addison? It sounds like the name of a student. Is the receptionist’s position a work-study job? How can I explain to a student that I need to make an appointment with a shrink? What if she asks what the nature of my call is? It’s not like I can say I have a sore throat and need to see the doctor.

In order to make an appointment, I’ll have to state my full name. Probably give her my student number. I don’t want people to know who I am, and that I have “issues.”

And what if we have a class together? This Addison chick will know me, but I won’t know her. What if she’s a grad student and she types up Dr. Mehta’s notes? Don’t tell me that’s highly unlikely—it’s probably not even possible given medical ethics and everything—but my brain keeps going there. Who says fears are rational? Addison could sit in the back of my Comparative Lit class and point me out to her friends. “That’s the girl I was telling you about. She’s a fucking psycho. She thinks she may have killed her boyfriend, but get this—she’s got amnesia and can’t remember if she did or not.”

And then the rumors would start all over again. And the harassment. But this time from someone other than Aaron and his friends.

“Hello?” Addison says. “Are you there?”

I can’t do this.

I stab the End button, toss the phone on the bed, and wipe my clammy hands on my jeans. I’ve got a good thing going here at PSU where no one knows the real me, and I’d like to keep it that way.

Jon

There’s a big crowd of students at the Hardware Store tonight, so I’m lucky to get a booth. I don’t bother to look around for Kelly, Reese, and James, because they texted me a few minutes ago saying they were just leaving Kelly’s house.

As I slide in, two girls stop abruptly at the head of the table. A dark-haired girl with her hands on her hips gives me an angry scowl. “We saw it first.”

Before I can tell her that I’ve been waiting at the door to see if anyone was going to take it, her friend comes to my rescue. Great, it’s one of the students I’m tutoring.

“Oh my God. Jon.”

“Hey, Sara.”

Her face lights up even more that I remembered her name. “Are you here by yourself?” I start to answer, but she keeps going. “Can we share the table with you?”

Her boldness is borderline rude. “I’ve actually got friends coming. Sorry.”

Her face falls and her friend looks even more pissed off.

I look around. It is one of the big corner booths, though, and the place is packed. Chances are slim that another table will open up soon, especially since the band is getting ready to play. “Is it just the two of you?”

“We’ve got other friends here.” She points over her shoulder. “But they don’t want to sit. I was going to order something to eat, so I wanted a table.”

Is she talking about Ivy? Here at the Hardware? I jerk my head in the direction she’s pointing, but don’t see her.

I wish I could put my finger on what it is about Ivy that I can’t seem to shake.

“There’s probably room, then,” I tell Sara.

I assume that the two of them will sit on the opposite side of the booth, so I don’t move over. Her friend does, but Sara doesn’t. She slides in right next to me. I have to shift away to keep my arm from touching her.

“So, is Ivy here with you?”

With a big huff, Sara crosses her arms over her chest and dramatically rolls her eyes. “She’s supposed to be, but I haven’t seen her. It’s her birthday and one of the girls brought cupcakes.”

It’s Ivy’s birthday today? Now I’ll have an excuse to talk to her. I frown. Since when do I ever need an excuse to talk to a girl?

If anyone doesn’t look twenty-one, it’s Sara. She probably has a fake ID. “So I see you didn’t wear your Material Girl garb again.” She looks at me, a blank expression on her face. “Your Madonna look,” I add for clarification. Still nothing. I try again. “Your eighties costume from the party?”

“Oh.” She laughs. I’m still not sure whether she gets it. “No, but I do have this.” She unzips her hoodie and pushes out her chest at me. The word Parishioner is emblazoned on the neon pink T-shirt that’s clearly one or two sizes too small. “I’m your biggest fan,” she says proudly.

Great. She sounds like the stalker from Misery. I force a smile, but it’s hard because my face feels like stone.

Some guys might enjoy having girls show them their tits like this. I don’t. It reminds me too much of the women my father is attracted to.

“Uh, thanks.” I raise my hand and get the waitress’s attention. She nods. A pitcher of beer can’t get here fast enough.

“Great show on Tuesday,” Sara says. “Friday, too. When I got home from the party, I tuned in and listened to you in bed. They should have you do that time slot every weekend. I could listen to you talk all night.”

“Thanks,” I say absently as I watch the band finish setting up. There’s a cello. Interesting. “But if they did give me the Friday night time slot, I wouldn’t be here right now.”

She laughs. Only when she moves a little closer do I realize that she thinks my remark was meant to be flirty.

After a quick sound check, the band starts playing a strange mashup of hip-hop and folk/country. At first I don’t think I like them, but the cello player, a guy, is insanely talented and the lead singer, a woman, has a cool vibe. I’m tapping my fingers on the table top, watching everyone dance and before I can say no, Sara is pulling me onto the dance floor. We dance just the one song before I notice our pitcher of beer has arrived. “I’m parched,” I say, and head back to the table.

After downing half a glass, my salvation finally arrives at the door. I wave Kelly and the guys over.

Kelly and I met at the station, where she does the books. She’s an accounting major, and the job will look good on a resume. Reese is an engineering student who just got an internship this summer at a civil engineering firm in Portland. And then there’s James, my best friend. He dropped out of school for a while after his dad died, so it’s good having him back.

“Glad you guys finally decided to show up. I’ve been feeling like a loser, so these ladies took pity on me.”