Page 124 of Taste of Addiction

The Boyfriend: I am going to fuck you so thoroughly when you get home. I like you sore. So you have a constant reminder who you belong to. I ache for you, sweetheart.

As I type out my next message, I see an email alert pop up on my screen from the university. I open the app. At the top of my inbox list, I find a message from Dr. Williams. I hover my finger over his name and click it.

Miss McFee,

I am sorry to inform you that I cannot ethically allow you to move forward with graduation with a journalism degree. You did not meet the qualifications for this class. On a professional note, I advise you to search for work in the English field and take some basic journalism classes online postgraduation.

On a personal note, I would advise you to take responsibility for your actions and not push your own gender insecurities onto others. Society is already flooded with these false notions and accusations that lack the finesse that facts often bring to making a difference in the world. Accepting responsibility for your own inadequacies should be your first priority.

While your name will still go into the running for various internships if you submit your entry to the master link that I emailed you weeks ago, I would expect a denial based on the competition here at River Valley and the quality of work that you have submitted for review this semester. Enjoy your graduation and your future. You should be proud of the degree you secured, regardless of whether or not it was your end goal.

He is failing me. Dr. Williams is failing me. I read and reread the typed words. My second chance was wasted. I still did not achieve what I wanted to achieve.

“Miss McFee, are you in there?” Collins asks from the doorway. I catch some anxiety in his voice.

“Be right out!”

I stare down at the screen, as if somehow I can make the words change—myrealitychange—if I just pray hard enough. All of the work I put in. All of the hours I endured. Just to have the past four and a half years culminate to one final verdict—failure.

Fuck.

Sitting on the toilet, alone in my thoughts, I try to think of what I will do next. What my future will look like.

My head spins, and I crave the buzz that only the pills can give me. My taste buds crawl with need. My mouth dries with thirst.

No.

I have come too far to go hunting right now for a temporary fix to a permanent problem. The problem is I need to accept that life can be cruel. Fucking cruel. And the things I thought I want might not be the things I actually need.

My mind clouds with regret and grief and—

Heartbreak.

I feel utterly and thoroughly broken.

Dazed and a bit fuzzy, I focus my attention back to my screen to see that Graham is messaging me.

The Boyfriend: Baby? Everything okay?

Angie: I wan u to make me forget my name.

The Boyfriend: How much have you been drinking?

What’s that supposed to mean? Ironically, I have only had the bubbly at the start of the evening. For once, I am making better choices for myself, despite the fact that I really could use something to numb the pain right now.

Angie: Enough to think you are prettttty.

The Boyfriend: Thought so.

Angie: Why all the self-rightnessous?

I stare at my words as they blur along the screen. I think my brain is just confused and worn out from the realization that my future is now once again undetermined.

A few angry tears blot my screen, turning into little streaks. Graham seems as if he is ignoring me. So, I wipe and flush, exiting the stall. I wash my hands and fix my dance-crazy hair, trying to put the email news behind me. If there is one thing I am good at, avoidance is it.

“Miss McFee?”

I let out a groan. “I’m coming out now,” I promise. I wash my hands again, wipe at my eyes, and shuffle my feet out the doorway.

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