Page 122 of Fighting Spirit

“You make me want things, Ruth.”

Chapter Fifty

RUTH

“You got this.” Rowan leans over the console and presses a kiss to my cheek. “Call me when you’re done and I’ll pull back around.”

“Okay,” I whisper, more to myself than him. I square my shoulders as I look out at the grey frontage of the academic services building, trying to steel myself for what’s coming.

“It’ll all be okay. They’re on your side.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.” The replies I received in answer to my email were terse at best.

He takes my hand and holds it against his lips. “I’m so proud of you. You’re gonna kill it.”

I take one more deep breath before I reclaim my hand from his grip and slip out of the truck, trying not to talk myself out of it. With each step toward the glass doors, my heart works its way further up my throat until I can hardly breathe around it.

After my talk with Rowan a few weeks ago, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about how I want to try and manage my ADHD better. When I first mentioned reaching out to academic services, he was all for it. I sent the initial email while tucked up in his bed, his body curled around mine and his thumbs rubbing reassuring circles into my waist. It took a bit of pushing, but I’vefinally got a meeting. Except now, all I want to do is get back in that truck and have Rowan take me back to his apartment, where we can pretend that none of this is happening.

The smell of pot pourri and old paper hits me as I push through the glass front door and my stomach clenches. I should have no reason to be nervous, this meeting is so that I can find out what support options are available, but I can’t help but feel like I’m about to be judged.

It’s like I can’t win. On the one hand, I find it hard to talk about all the ways I’m struggling, my mother’s voice ringing in the back of my head telling me to stop making excuses and just make more of an effort. But on the other, I feel like I have something to prove, that I need to show them I’m ‘disabled enough’ so they’ll help me.

I check in at the front desk and take a seat in one of the plastic chairs lining the walls of the lobby. I tried to dress nice, even having Rowan go back to my apartment to pick up some clothes, but the scuffed toe of my black Mary Janes glares at me like a beacon screechingirresponsible, irresponsible.

My mom bought me these shoes for some fancy dinner, she chewed me out so hard when she found out I’d walked into a stone step the first time wearing them. I try not to fidget as I wait to be called through, but I can’t stop the bouncing of my knee, which rocks my whole body.

I check my phone, two unanswered texts from Georgie. She’s just checking in to see if I’m alright and when I’ll be back, but I have no idea what to say to her. I know I need to reply, we need to talk it out if we’re ever going to be able to cohabitate, but I’m not ready yet.

“Ruth?” My head shoots up at the soft question, and I meet a tall Black woman with silver braids and a gentle smile. “Come on through.”

I follow her down a long corridor, fluorescent lighting creating a garish glow as we reach her office door. The nameplate on the front reads Christina Wilson. When we enter, the space is taken up by a large desk with rolling chairs on either side and stacks of paper scattered across the surface. Almost every inch is covered, but there seems to be some kind of order to it, a system only she can decipher. “Take a seat,” she says, gesturing to the chair in front of the desk.

I awkwardly drop my bag and sit facing her, feeling like she’s looking right into me. She has one of those stares that while being kind, seems to completely assess everything about you in a single look.

“I’m Christina, one of the counselors here.”

“Hi,” I say nervously.

She doesn’t talk around the subject, cutting right to it. “So, I’ve read over your file and the emails you’ve had with my colleague.”

Okay, so learning that the frosty emails I’d received didn’t come from her definitely makes me feel better, but I’m still not ready to let my guard down.

“Okay?”

“You got your diagnosis a little while ago, right?”

“Yeah, when I was fourteen.”

“That’s great.” She clicks a few things on her computer and then turns to the desk, pulling out a sheet of paper from deep in the stacks. “Am I right in thinking that you don’t currently have any accommodations set up?”

“Uh, no, not really.” I scratch at the corner of my thumbnail, the skin turning red from the abuse.

Christina doesn’t say anything, obviously waiting for me to expand. I shift in my seat, wondering if I can wait her out, but she just gives me the tiniest raise of an eyebrow, not budging.Something about her makes me want to spill all my secrets. I sort of hate it, like she’s unspooling me for inspection.

“I mentioned it to the university when I was a freshman, and they told me that I could come here if I needed support, but I just…” I trail off, fussing with the ends of my hair. “I just didn’t.”

“Can I ask why not?”

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