Page 90 of My Cosplay Escape
“Why not text her? Call her? Maybe she’s stuck in traffic. Maybe she woke up with food poisoning.” Maybe she’s sitting right across from you, and it took everything she has to show up today, and now there’s nothing left. I kick my backpack under my chair with my heel. Not that it matters.
Adam pushes away from the table. His chair makes an awful screeching sound, and heads turn toward us for a moment. “You know I liked you, Sarah. I did. Drama and all. I liked you. But you are crazy. I get it. It’s hard to move on—”
I am about to object, but he plows on, and what he says next breaks me.
“I was hoping I’d be the one who made you want to. Now”—he shrugs—“I’m just lucky I got out alive. Go live your life. But leave me alone. Okay?”
I’m trying to blink back tears. “You’re right. Have a nice life, Adam.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Adam: I was really looking forward to meeting IRL and dropping the act.
Adam: You stood me up.
Sabine Kennedy: You double-booked.
I’m not about to invent some sad little story about traffic for the sake of his ego.
Sabine Kennedy: I came. I found you chatting up a pretty little blonde.
Adam: I don’t think we’re even friends anymore.
Sabine Kennedy: Really. You looked friendly.
Adam: Wait.
I see ellipses on my screen. Then, all at once, my phone pings with a bombardment of texts.
Adam: Wait. You think I was playing you?
Adam: Oh no.
Adam: Nonono
My phone lights up with frantic texts.
Adam: I swear I’m not that guy.
Adam: Let me explain.
Adam: Give me another chance?
Sabine Kennedy: I’ll think about it.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The fountain in the little waiting room of the student wellness center aggressively fountains. No gentle trickle here. No babbling-brook associations. If anything, this fountain is a faucet that was turned on to full and left running.
A fake ficus tree in the corner collects dust, and the carpet tiles near my chair are no longer meeting at right angles. I’m pretty sure this waiting room is a metaphor for my life.
The door to the office swings open. “Sarah?”
Why is it that all dudes in the mental health arena have beards? Did they sign something that said they must honor the legacy of Freud by growing facial hair?
“Hey,” I say.
“I’m Brad,” the bearded one says. “Come on in.”
