Page 49 of Wanted You More

My eyes scan the crowd, squinting to get a better view of the group of people here to watch me graduate. When I see Dad’s face, I can’t help but let my lips lift from the rested scowl they’re in. I don’t think either of us thought I’d get here.

I’d told him a few different times I wanted to drop out and get my GED instead. I hated the people, the classes, and the suffocation that came with being at school for eight hours every single day.

Each time I brought it up, Dad would say the one thing that made me pull through. “Your mother wouldn’t want that for you.”

He’d suggested I go back to therapy whenever I’d bring up dropping out. I can see why, I guess. He was worried I would do something drastic that would impact my future.

So, I tried to be better. For him. For Mom. For me, too, I guess.

We were told during rehearsal to sit still and to try not to draw attention to ourselves until it was our turn to walk across the stage and shake each of the school board members’ hands before accepting our diploma from the superintendent.

But I’ve never been one for following the rules, so I lift my hand and wave at my father, stick my tongue out at my brother, and search the seats next to them. Each student got five tickets to give to family members. Aunt Mae couldn’t make it because she just had back surgery, so I invited Ben, Elizabeth, and Noah.

My hand stalls when I realize only four of the five people are watching.

Smile wavering, I lower my hand and search the other seats, wondering if Noah got here late and couldn’t find them. When I realize those blue eyes aren’t anywhere in the crowd, I drop my hands into my lap and fight the disappointment deflating my chest.

I’m not sure how long I sit like that, drowning out the yammering speech from the valedictorian about success and happiness and other nonsense that none of us care about listening to. Eventually, the person beside me elbows my ribcage and hisses, “Stand up. You’re next.”

Blinking, I realize our entire row is standing, walking up as our names are being called. Nearly stumbling, as I follow the lead of the boy in front of me, I straighten out and give one more glance to the crowd.

Dad is smiling, along with the Kingsley couple sitting beside him.

Wolfe is waving like a fool as he holds up his phone.

But it’s not their support I focus on.

It’s Noah’s absence that weighs every step I take as I walk along the stage. I don’t know if I smile once, even when I stop to look at my family and see them taking pictures and videos.

“Congratulations, Ms. Cole,” the older man says, passing me the green diploma holder with our school’s name engraved in gold lettering.

I think I murmur, “Thanks,” but I don’t know as I turn and start dragging my feet back toward my seat.

The only thing that brings me out of my head is the sound of the cheering and whistling coming from the people who are here.

My heart jerks, causing a sharp breath to fill my tight lungs. Other families laugh and clap along, but it only adds to the noise that feeds my anxiety.

When I’m sitting down, I suck in a big breath and count to ten, digging my phone out of my back pocket to send a text.

Me:You didn’t come

Noah and I haven’t spoken in months, so I don’t know why I’m surprised. I figured he’d be here because he knew how much it meant. Apparently, I was naive.

Noah:I’m sorry

Noah:I had to cover someone’s shift

My nostrils flare with disbelieving irritation. He could have told them no, but he didn’t. So, I don’t believe the excuse.

I don’t believe him at all.

Me:You should have been here

The texting bubbles reappear at the bottom of the screen, then disappear three different times.

Good. He doesn’t know what to say.

The superintendent takes to the podium again once everybody has their diplomas and announces, “Let’s give a round of applause for the class of 2023 graduates. Congratulations.”

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