Page 45 of My Cosplay Escape
“So we hate Adam now?” Gwen says.
“Passionately,” I say, picking my head up from my notebook. Rewriting miserable essays to even more miserable Econ 101 prompts is the worst. Doing it in long hand, because the only computer you have access to is being monopolized by your mom as she prepares for parent-teacher conference week, is insane. Gwen said she’d let me borrow hers if she had one. I took her up on the offer to study at her place at least.
“Is it the sexy hate or the disgusted hate?” Gwen asks.
I sniffle. “What’s the difference?”
“Sexy hate is like Demi Lovato’s sorry-not-sorry ‘I’m going to do my best to make sure you never forget how bad you want me. You’re going to want me always. I’ll enjoy watching you suffer.’ If not Demi, then Musetta and her ‘Quando m’en Vo’ fromLa bohème.”
“What?”
“Here.” Gwen casts an opera scene from her phone to her TV. “Laura Giordano’s version is my favorite.”
“Disgust hate,” Gwen continues while the aria plays in the background, “is like literally throwing up on him if he were ever to kiss you again. That’s the acute case. It dulls into just wishing he no longer existed and peters out into never wanting to see him again.”
“Sexy hate means wanting to see him again?” I clarify. The beautiful woman on the TV is standing on the counter of a bar and singing opera to an enthralled crowd.
“Yeah, it means wanting to confront him with what an epic cock-up he made and knowing he’ll regret it every time your paths cross.”
“I disgust-hate my ex,” I say. Truer words were never spoken.
“Yeah, me too. But Adam?” Gwen asks. The aria is coming to a gorgeous climax.
I look up from my paper and mouth, “Help me.” Gwen scoots my books out of the way and places a pint of rocky road ice cream in front of me.
“Adam lives and breathes #sorrynotsorry.” I groan, reaching for the spoon she offers me. “My life is getting really complicated.”
By some miracle, I manage to write and type three essays with different sources on efficiency, equality, and incentives. I have to use the computer and printer at the gym to print them out. It helps that Gwen came with me when I asked Tony for the favor.
* * *
The Santa Ana winds are bumping the temperatures into record-breaking territory. And while a hoodie would be comforting, it would also be ridiculously hot. I settle on a white dress that appeared in my closet after one of my mom’s thrifting excursions. Nothing saysI’ve been treated unfairlylike a cutesy white sundress. It is demure and sweet and the furthest thing I have from a Scarlett O’Hara red-sequined number, black catsuit, and well… hoodies.
Clearly, my hoodie days are over if I want to fly under the radar.
It still bugs me that Adam shared those emails with everyone. Why couldn’t he have just talked to me? Okay, maybe that is hypocritical. But still.
I have to park in a different lot and beat an entirely different path to lab hours. Arriving bright and early on Friday mornings meant getting a good parking space. Coming during the peak of morning rush means wasting time circling for a parking space or walking miles. I’d run, but then I’d risk being mistaken for a slut if I show up again in athletic wear.
I trudge down an unfamiliar set of stairs to the basement of the econ building. As I make my way down the bleak corridor with buzzing lights, I hear shouting coming from an open office door, and it takes me a moment to realize the voices are familiar.
“What the hell, Brenda?” Adam shouts. “She didn’t do anything wrong! She didn’t change a word of her essays, despite my one meaningless comment. Why would you make her redo all her work?”
“You’re lucky I stepped in to handle this,” Brenda screeches. She sounds completely pissed.
“Lucky? Lucky? You could have ruined her life. You could have gotten her expelled!” Adam sounds scary levels of angry. Rabid animals come to mind.
“You could have lost Dr. Burnbalm as your chair for something this stupid.”
I lean against the wall outside the office door, well out of sight. Not that it matters. “I said I would handle it,” Adam says. It sounds like he’s pacing now.
“Handle it how? By volunteering to be the first one here on Fridays so you can be alone with her?”
“I get here early because I have to leave early for my elective—”
“So how do you explain the nonstop staring during lecture? People were noticing.”
“And by ‘people,’ you mean you. I told you. I have a girlfriend.”
