Page 53 of Revenge Cake

“I take it from your lack of response that the answer is ‘yes’?”

My eyes dart to her face. “No. You were right from the beginning. She manipulated me. I should have seen it coming, but unfortunately I’m dumb and I make bad decisions.” I shoot her a half-smile. “I’m an easy target for her.”

She smiles warmly. “You certainly are that.”

“Thanks, Keira.”

She rolls her eyes playfully. “You’re not dumb, but you need to be careful with her. Leilani may look like Dawnstar, but she’s actually Lex Luther.”

I smile affectionately back at her. Comic book references are part of our bond, something unique to my relationship with Keira. Lani would probably think Dawnstar is a brand of dish soap. “Can we pick a Marvel villain instead? Can she be Thanos?”

Keira responds, and it’s something playful, but I don’t hear the words.

I’m seized by a memory.

That day on the beach, when Lani confessed all the ugly details about panic disorder… Everything changed after that day. I don’t even know what brought it to memory, but something about that day is the answer to everything. The answer to my misery. The answer to the crumbling mess of our relationship.

“…you’ll be careful?” I’m summoned to the present by the lilt of her question.

“Yes,” I answer decisively, though I’m not totally sure what I’m agreeing to. “I won’t fuck up again. I promise.”

***

Leilani

I stare at the packet on my desk. I pulled it out from my file cabinet yesterday so that its visual presence would prepare me for what I plan to do today. The thought alone would have made my palms sweat a few weeks ago.

I’m still not entirely at ease, but it has to be done. It’s crucial for my next move with Logan.

I haven’t heard from him in four days now, and I know he’s going to resist me even harder the next time I reach out.

I need something with an impact.

When the packet arrived a month ago—clearly an acceptance letter, since rejections always come in much smaller form—I shoved it into the drawer the second I walked into my room, trying not to even think about what was inside.

How could I go to graduate school when panic disorder was so crippling that I couldn’t even attend an interview in person? The hurdle felt insurmountable.

Indiana University was the one grad school that allowed me to do an interview over Skype. All of the others canceled my applications after I turned down their in-person interviews. One even offered to hold the interview at a later date if I changed my mind and they still had an open space—a sign that my application was strong—but I had no faith I’d be any better by the time that date rolled around. Plus, I didn’t want the added pressure, so I turned it down as well. The whole miserable process made me sick to my stomach. I felt like a dying woman making preparations for a world that would continue without her.

But I was able to do that one Skype interview after taking three Ativan. Since it was the most I had ever taken up to that point and I felt so relaxed during the interview that my eyes were half shut, I remember it mostly as a low point. I have a few hazy memories of perplexed stares from the professors conducting the interview, and one instance of dulled, distant panic after forgetting a question in the middle of my wordy, repetitive answer.

In essence, it was a shitshow, and I never thought anything good would come out of it. In fact, I vowed to forget it the moment those faces disappeared from my iPad screen. Thanks to my blessed Ativan, the vow was easy to keep.

I can feel the pulse in my neck as I pick up the packet. After a swooshing sound, the envelope is on the floor, the packet of paper exposed in my hand.

There’s no doubting the “I am pleased to inform you” at the opening of the letter placed conspicuously at the front.

I’ve been accepted.

I take a deep breath in through my nose and release it out of my mouth slowly, knowing it will take at least ten more of these to slow my pulse.

I’ll never forget Logan’s resigned pity on that overcast morning when I told him the application process was over, that I no longer had a plan. “You can always apply again next year,” he said, but I could hear the doubt in his voice. I knew what he was really thinking. I’ve been with you more than a year, and I’m only just now realizing how weak and pathetic you are. My chest ached as I watched all of his delusions about me crumble behind those perplexed eyes.

The memory propels me into action. Before I talk myself out of it, I sign into my account on the university website. I click through the prompts so impulsively I’m not even sure that I’m doing it correctly, but when it’s over I see “Welcome to the Indiana University Sociology PhD program!” on the screen in front of me.

It’s done.

CHAPTER 20