Page 44 of Fighting Spirit

“I’ve got to go. I really need to finish this paper.”

“Ruth, come on, I’m just trying to look out for you.”

“I don’t need you to take care of me!” I burst out, a sob escaping me.

“Ruth, please-”

I hang up. How the hell did that get so out of control? Whatever issues Rowan seems to have with Marshall, it’s because he doesn’t know him. If he did, then he’d realize how ridiculous he’s being. I know he means well, that he’s trying to be a good friend, but I just wish people would stop acting like I need managing.

The sound of the alarm on my phone slices through the room, the screen proudly displaying that the study sprint is finished. My notebook stares up at me accusatorially, the unfinished paragraph like a beacon of defeat.

I toss it across the room, knowing I’m not going to get anything more done tonight.

Chapter Seventeen

RUTH

Miss Walcott,

Please see me in my office at 11am tomorrow morning to discuss your absence from today’s test.

Sincerely,

Professor Adams.

Fuck.

Shitting fucking fuck.

I think I might be sick. I think I might cry, and then be sick, and then maybe die? Just sink into the floor and become one with the earth.

When I got in at the start of the semester, I swore I was going to get my shit together. I had a system, routines. I was taking my medication and using all the tools I know have helped in the past. And yet, here I am, crying on the toilet because I thought this test was on Thursday instead of Tuesday, and now twenty percent of my psych grade for the semester is gone.

Why do I always have to be such a mess? I thought I’d got past all this shit. The ugly feeling of failure bears down so hardit might crush me. I tried so hard to do everything right, but still can’t seem to manage the things that are so basic for everyone else.

I stare up at the back of the door, at the checklists I was so desperate for Rowan not to see. Three sheets of laminated paper with squares for me to tick off each day of the month: brushing my teeth, taking my medication, making my bed.

How the hell did I miss this test?

Fresh tears trickle down my cheeks and into my mouth as I think about how hard I’d studied, desperate to try and make my professor hate me just a little bit less. Adams has been riding my ass since the start of the year, and I’d say only about forty percent of it has been my fault.

I didn’t disclose my ADHD at the start of the class, sure that if I just worked hard enough, I could manage it. I’ve had so many professors in the past who treated it like an ‘excuse’ or a ‘trend,’ not giving me any of the extra support that I need as a disabled student.

But all it meant was that when deadlines started slipping and I was struggling to stay focused in class, Adams had chalked it up to laziness. The day he called me into his office to tell me that I needed to put more effort into my education, I wanted to fall through the carpet. Even when I tried to talk to him about the problems I was having, he didn’t want to hear it, just telling me to ‘put my head down and focus.’

Sure. Because I’ve never heard that one before.

I storm out of the bathroom and throw myself face down on the bed, screaming my frustration out into the comforter. I’m so sick of being such a fuckup. I know I need to get up. I need to make a plan for how I’m going to fix this. It’s like I can hear my parents’ voices in my head, telling me to stop being so much, so emotional, but for now, I just want to wallow in this feeling.

For a moment, I debate calling Rowan, but we’ve not spoken since the fight we had. Honestly, it’s probably for the best. I don’t need any more distractions, especially not the grumpy man with the bright blue eyes who’s never said an unkind word to me. I’ve spent the last few weeks obsessing about him, letting my brain run over our interactions until they’re etched indelibly on my mind. Much to the detriment of everything else I’ve got going on.

I pull out my phone, scrolling back through our messages. Why have I been wasting my time on this? I’ve got so much I should be doing, but I’m really about to throw it away for some guy.

Rationally, I know that none of this is his fault, but fuck if I don’t need someone else to blame here. Even if it’s just for a minute, just so I can breathe for a second without the self-loathing killing me. Besides, it’s partly true. My brain will hook onto anything to distract itself, and for the last few weeks, that distraction has been a 6’2” football player. I can’t afford to keep giving myself the option of obsessing over him, and the only way to do that is to go cold turkey.

I mean, it’s not like he’ll miss me bothering him all the time.

The front door opens and voices flood the apartment, pulling me out of my stupor. I tuck my phone away and head out to investigate. To my surprise, Georgie and a couple of the girls from our economics class are sat around the kitchen table, opening textbooks and pulling out laptops.

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