Page 3 of Insincerely Yours
PRESENT
“Time to hit the road,Baby Cakes!”
“I hate you.” With my face still buried in my pillows, all my roommate can probably hear is something resembling a Wookie, but I don’t care. Not when a jackhammer drills into my skull and bright lasers sear my eyes out of their sockets. At least, that’s what it feels like when Maggie yanks up the window shades and continues talking a good thousand decibels louder than any hangover victim should have to endure.
“You can’t stay here forever,” she teases, plopping down beside me on the bed, and good God, that simple jostle makes me want to vomit.
“Remind me to never listen to you again.”
My roommate here convinced everyone on our floor last night to head to the Zeta’s frat house for one final going-away bash. Given the dragging feet and continual groaning from the hallway, it sounds like everyone else in the dorm is sharing in my post-drunken misery, save for Maggie. Seriously, she has to be an alien or something, because the girl was just as shitfaced as the rest of us last night, yet she’s peppy as always, her cotton candy pink curls bouncing about her shoulders as she skips about the room.
“Cheer up. All you need is some greasy food and H2O, and you’ll be as right as rain.” She pries my pillows away and hands me a water bottle in exchange.
I grapple for my glasses on the nightstand and put them on, seeing the room for the first real time this morning.What the hell? The entire space is stripped bare. “You already packed up everything?”
“Yep, the only thing that’s missing from the car is your bedding and our butts,” my roommate confirms, lugging me off the mattress.
The world only spins faster, and my head pounds so hard it feels like my brain might explode, but Maggie continues to ignore my protests, prying the sheets and comforter off my bed and packing them up before I even put on my shoes.
“Are you sure I can’t hide out in the library until the fall semester starts again?” I groan. “No one will ever find me in the German Philosophy section, and they leave the vending machines on during the summer.”
I’m completely serious, but Maggie just smiles and pats my head like I’m the cutest thing she’s ever seen.
“I’m going to check us out with our R.A. and the Residential Service Desk. Take care of your ritual, and I’ll meet you downstairs.” She spins on her heels, and just like that, I’m left alone to face the music. Or, in this case, the mirror.
They say it’s rare for children younger than eighteen to develop panic attack disorders, but wouldn’t you know it? I’m one of those beautiful and unique “snowflakes.” Since I was eleven, I’ve been visiting a therapist to help manage it, and one of her tools now takes up two-thirds of the space where my reflection is supposed to be.
Whenever I began stressing over something, my old therapist, Dr. Fritz, said I had to write it down. But instead of just venting my frustrations on paper, she insisted on that whole“You are your greatest friend” philosophy and had me only write down the silver linings to each issue in the form of a letter. I had to talk to myself the way I would with a friend.Positive reinforcement only.I honestly don’t know if it actually works, but it’s become a habit at this point. Hence, I now have thirty sticky notes clogging up the mirror that I need to peel off. The most recent reads:
Dear Me,
It’s only three months. You can make it without resorting to murder.
With Love,
Me
Admittedly, I take my sweet ass time getting down to the parking lot, but no amount of feet dragging can prevent the inevitable. To make matters worse, I spot six feet of British adorableness heading to his car as well. Having to think about the next three months of me not getting to drool over my Econ study buddy is slowly killing me inside. The knife is only dug deeper when he catches my eye, grins, and jogs over.
Unlike me, who looks like roadkill, Wes is fresh-faced, freshly showered, and clearly not hung-over. His normally wavy brown locks are still slightly damp, artfully lying across his forehead to frame hazel green eyes. He’s the epitome of All-American…until he opens his mouth.
“Rough morning?” he laughs.
That accent is warm enough to melt butter, but as lovely as that laugh may be, it rips into my skull with the ferocity of a chainsaw that I can’t help but grimace. And the car horn that someone blasts not fifteen feet from us may very well make my brain explode!
Wes wraps an arm around my shoulder, and sweet baby Jesus, he smells so good. A combination of citrus and cedarwood. “I know you said you were heading home for the summer, but if I recall correctly, you also said you sometimes visit the Hamptons.”
It’s a statement, but it sounds somewhat like a question.
“…Yeah,” I say, my own voice lifting in confusion.
“Well, as it turns out, my parents and brother will be holidaying there for the next few months, and I’ve decided to join them. If, by some chance, you happen to find yourself out there, I was hoping you might give me a ring.” Wes hands me—I shit you not—an actual business card.
Wesley Phillip Holbrooke III.
The display would be pretentious as all get-out, save for the fact that his occupation listed beneath his name reads, “Space Cowboy,” and there’s even a hand-drawn illustration of an astronaut wearing a Stetson and spurs.
The odds of me escaping my hometown this summer are abysmally low, but I muster up a smile and agree.
