Page 60 of Until the Ribbon Breaks

As we get closer, the noise grows louder, and my fingers twist anxiously.

“Don’t be so tense. I’m right here.” His voice is soothing yet utterly ineffective.

My palms are already tingling, and when I enter the cafeteria, I become hyper-aware of myself. I tuck my chin to avoid looking at anyone, but when voices hush, I know they all see me. I discretely tug the sleeve of my sweatshirt down over my hand to conceal the bandage on my wrist as I walk over to the trays.

Max almost knocks me over when she runs up and hugs me. I flick my eyes to Marcus in a silent plea for help. It’s too much: the hug, the attention, the humiliation of them all knowing.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Max. Give her some space.”

I avoid her eyes when she drops her arms.

“I didn’t know you were coming back today,” she says excitedly “How are you?”

Here we go with the dumb questions.

“Fantastic.” My tone mocks her assumption that there could possibly be any other answer besides sucky.

“Why don’t you go sit and let Harlow get her lunch?”

After she scurries off, I grab my tray of food. “Will you sit with me?” I quietly ask Marcus, hating how weak I sound.

“Yeah, no problem,” Marcus responds, picking up a tray for himself before following me to one of the empty tables in the corner. I make sure to take the seat that faces the wall so I don’t have to see anyone behind me.

Staring down at the chicken nuggets I desperately want since I’m starving, I hesitate to pick one up. I’m too self-conscience.

Marcus pops one into his mouth; it makes me slightly jealous. “Man, these aren’t half-bad.”

I quirk a brow at him.

“I mean ... it’s no Chick-Fil-A.”

“Wes would be mad if he heard you say that.”

“Why?”

“Because you shouldn’t eat hate chicken.” I get up the courage to pick up a nugget. “Like, ever.”

I appreciate Dr. Amberg selecting Marcus to be the one to stick by my side. He’s the perfect distraction as we eat our lunch. In a strange way, I feel a little lighter than I did this morning. After all the crying and talking with my mom ... I don’t know, I guess I was able to release some of the tension that’s been building inside me—a cleansing of sorts.

When lunch ends, I take my time throwing my tray into the trash so I can be the last one in the med line. I stand behind Kevin, who shoots me an uncomfortable glower and then gives me his back. One by one, each person gets their pills and then heads to rec. Stepping up to the window, the nurse sets the cup of pills in front of me, but they aren’t the same ones I normally get and there’s more than what there should be.

“These aren’t mine.”

“They are,” she drones without looking up from her checklist.

“I think there might have been a mix-up.”

She finally acknowledges me before returning to her clipboard. Flipping up a few pages, she stops and reads, “Fluoxitine, clonazepam, and cephalexin.” She drops the pages. “Dr. Amberg signed off on your medication changes this morning.”

Great. New meds.

I dump the pills into my mouth and take a gulp of water.

“Check.”

I open, stick out my tongue, and then lift it.

“Cough.”

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