I do a search for Dr. Kramer and find the message I’m looking for. His colleague and former student is named Tess Mehta. He thinks I’ll like her.

I pull up the PSU Student Counseling services website and scroll down to see if they have her listed. They do. Dr. Mehta looks to be about thirty years old, with straight, dark hair, dark-rimmed glasses, and a closed-mouth smile. I can’t tell whether she seems kind and caring or judgmental.

Hands shaking, heart pounding, I dial the office number listed on the website.

“PSU Student Counseling Center. This is Addison. Can I help you?”

Addison? It sounds like the name of a student. Is the receptionist’s position a work-study job? How can I explain to a student that I need to make an appointment with a shrink? What if she asks what the nature of my call is? It’s not like I can say I have a sore throat and need to see the doctor.

In order to make an appointment, I’ll have to state my full name. Probably give her my student number. I don’t want people to know who I am, and that I have “issues.”

And what if we have a class together? This Addison chick will know me, but I won’t know her. What if she’s a grad student and she types up Dr. Mehta’s notes? Don’t tell me that’s highly unlikely—it’s probably not even possible given medical ethics and everything—but my brain keeps going there. Who says fears are rational? Addison could sit in the back of my Comparative Lit class and point me out to her friends. “That’s the girl I was telling you about. She’s a fucking psycho. She thinks she may have killed her boyfriend, but get this—she’s got amnesia and can’t remember if she did or not.”

And then the rumors would start all over again. And the harassment. But this time from someone other than Aaron and his friends.

“Hello?” Addison says. “Are you there?”

I can’t do this.

I stab the End button, toss the phone on the bed, and wipe my clammy hands on my jeans. I’ve got a good thing going here at PSU where no one knows the real me, and I’d like to keep it that way.

Jon

There’s a big crowd of students at the Hardware Store tonight, so I’m lucky to get a booth. I don’t bother to look around for Kelly, Reese, and James, because they texted me a few minutes ago saying they were just leaving Kelly’s house.

As I slide in, two girls stop abruptly at the head of the table. A dark-haired girl with her hands on her hips gives me an angry scowl. “We saw it first.”

Before I can tell her that I’ve been waiting at the door to see if anyone was going to take it, her friend comes to my rescue. Great, it’s one of the students I’m tutoring.

“Oh my God. Jon.”

“Hey, Sara.”

Her face lights up even more that I remembered her name. “Are you here by yourself?” I start to answer, but she keeps going. “Can we share the table with you?”

Her boldness is borderline rude. “I’ve actually got friends coming. Sorry.”

Her face falls and her friend looks even more pissed off.

I look around. It is one of the big corner booths, though, and the place is packed. Chances are slim that another table will open up soon, especially since the band is getting ready to play. “Is it just the two of you?”

“We’ve got other friends here.” She points over her shoulder. “But they don’t want to sit. I was going to order something to eat, so I wanted a table.”

Is she talking about Ivy? Here at the Hardware? I jerk my head in the direction she’s pointing, but don’t see her.

I wish I could put my finger on what it is about Ivy that I can’t seem to shake.

“There’s probably room, then,” I tell Sara.

I assume that the two of them will sit on the opposite side of the booth, so I don’t move over. Her friend does, but Sara doesn’t. She slides in right next to me. I have to shift away to keep my arm from touching her.

“So, is Ivy here with you?”

With a big huff, Sara crosses her arms over her chest and dramatically rolls her eyes. “She’s supposed to be, but I haven’t seen her. It’s her birthday and one of the girls brought cupcakes.”

It’s Ivy’s birthday today? Now I’ll have an excuse to talk to her. I frown. Since when do I ever need an excuse to talk to a girl?

If anyone doesn’t look twenty-one, it’s Sara. She probably has a fake ID. “So I see you didn’t wear your Material Girl garb again.” She looks at me, a blank expression on her face. “Your Madonna look,” I add for clarification. Still nothing. I try again. “Your eighties costume from the party?”

“Oh.” She laughs. I’m still not sure whether she gets it. “No, but I do have this.” She unzips her hoodie and pushes out her chest at me. The word Parishioner is emblazoned on the neon pink T-shirt that’s clearly one or two sizes too small. “I’m your biggest fan,” she says proudly.

Great. She sounds like the stalker from Misery. I force a smile, but it’s hard because my face feels like stone.

Some guys might enjoy having girls show them their tits like this. I don’t. It reminds me too much of the women my father is attracted to.

“Uh, thanks.” I raise my hand and get the waitress’s attention. She nods. A pitcher of beer can’t get here fast enough.

“Great show on Tuesday,” Sara says. “Friday, too. When I got home from the party, I tuned in and listened to you in bed. They should have you do that time slot every weekend. I could listen to you talk all night.”

“Thanks,” I say absently as I watch the band finish setting up. There’s a cello. Interesting. “But if they did give me the Friday night time slot, I wouldn’t be here right now.”

She laughs. Only when she moves a little closer do I realize that she thinks my remark was meant to be flirty.

After a quick sound check, the band starts playing a strange mashup of hip-hop and folk/country. At first I don’t think I like them, but the cello player, a guy, is insanely talented and the lead singer, a woman, has a cool vibe. I’m tapping my fingers on the table top, watching everyone dance and before I can say no, Sara is pulling me onto the dance floor. We dance just the one song before I notice our pitcher of beer has arrived. “I’m parched,” I say, and head back to the table.

After downing half a glass, my salvation finally arrives at the door. I wave Kelly and the guys over.

Kelly and I met at the station, where she does the books. She’s an accounting major, and the job will look good on a resume. Reese is an engineering student who just got an internship this summer at a civil engineering firm in Portland. And then there’s James, my best friend. He dropped out of school for a while after his dad died, so it’s good having him back.

“Glad you guys finally decided to show up. I’ve been feeling like a loser, so these ladies took pity on me.”

We slide over and the three of them sit down. James reaches for the pitcher and does a waah waah fake cry of sympathy.

“Fuck you, Brettner.” I finish my beer and hope they’ll introduce themselves. And they do. I don’t want to make it look like I’m with Sara and her friend any more than it does already.

“Blame her for being late,” Reese says, inclining his head toward Kelly. “We got to her place on time.”

Kelly scowls and pushes her red hair behind her shoulder. “What? I can’t help that Dr. Bastion scheduled a test on Monday and all the beginning accounting students are freaking out. I had to stay late at the tutoring center and go over the material with like seven different students. I texted you, Reese. You could’ve come here without me.”

He leans over and nuzzles her neck. “I’m not complaining. I don’t mind waiting for you.”