Going to the cafeteria with Elliot makes me realize I haven't eaten a full-sized meal in weeks.
I've ventured out to grab dinner most days, if only so I don't have to lie to Mom when she asks me if I've been eating enough. But it hasn't occurred to me that my self-serve plate can't count as a normal portion in any universe.
That changes when I'm standing beside Elliot at the hot-food counter.
"What?" I ask, noticing him staring.
We both glance down at my tray at the same time. The small baked potato and side salad I've chosen don't even take up half the plate, but I already know I'll struggle to finish them. My appetite hasn't been right for months.
"Is that all you're eating?"
I check out his tray for comparison. The difference is stratospheric; it's piled high with a big serving of lasagna, two slices of garlic bread, mozzarella sticks, fries, and a salad twice the size of mine (for balance, I guess). Mine suddenly looks ridiculous.
"Yeah," I say defensively. "I'm not that hungry."
"Sorry. That wasn't meant to sound judgy." He grimaces, like he didn't mean to offend, and I feel bad for snapping. "I just figured—it costs one meal credit regardless of what you put on the plate, so why not scam them out of as much food as possible? It's only fair when they're scamming us with sky-high tuition."
I glance back at the counter.
"Sorry. I'll butt out," he says, picking up his tray and moving in the direction of the cash register. As he brushes past me, he adds, "But if I were you, I'd at least grab a few of the mozzarella sticks. They're really good."
Left on my own, I pause for a second. Then I reach over and grab a serving.
When the cashier swipes my meal card, I get a mild hit of rebellion. I know it's just mozzarella sticks, but it's a start.
Elliot is already halfway across the cafeteria when I emerge on the other side of the registers and scan the room. When he asked if I wanted to join him, he didn't say whether it would be just the two of us, so I'm not sure what to expect. But then he stops at a table where a guy and girl are already seated. A niggling voice in my head tells me I'm not in the mood for meeting new people, not after my outburst in the welfare office, but I can't run away now. Plus, I don't want to feel like I'm letting Elliot down.
So I take a deep breath and head in the same direction.
"Hey," he says, as I approach. "Come join. Guys, this is Morgan."
This is when I get my first real look at the two others at the table; Elliot's introduction gives me permission to stare. The girl has striking features, all of them perfect angles: her strong jaw and naturally arched eyebrows are the stuff of envy. Her dark-brown eyes are framed by the longest eyelashes I've ever seen, and the glinting silver stud in her nose complements the metallic detailing in her hijab. Beside her, there's an equally attractive guy, wearing a sports jersey, with long blond hair and a smile that makes me feel a little giddy. I don't notice until the last minute that he's in a wheelchair, and I hope the realization doesn't show on my face.
"Hey," he says, raising a hand in greeting. "I'm Adam. How's it going?"
Taking my seat beside Elliot, I smile politely. "Nice to meet you."
"How do you know Elliot?"
I'm not expecting the questions to start coming this quickly, so my mouth opens while I'm still trying to pull together an answer. The girl cuts in before I need to. "Give the girl a chance to breathe, won't you, Adam?" she says, rolling her eyes. "Sorry about him. I'm Fazia."
I'm about say hey, but Adam gets there first.
"What's that supposed to mean?" he asks indignantly.
"It means we know you'll flirt with any girl with a pulse, and Morgan deserves at least one meal in peace before you start."
"I was being polite!"
"And I'm sure something else was going to follow pretty quickly," she chides, but there's a softness to her tone that tells me this bickering isn't serious. "Sorry in advance, Morgan. You'll get used to him."
I smile hesitantly, unsure of my place in this exchange, considering I just met these people thirty seconds ago. It feels safer to steer the conversation somewhere else. "So, um, are you guys freshmen?"
Fazia nods. "Yeah, we're still new around the place. Still enjoying the novelty of being away from home. Though I'm really not a fan of all the laundry."
I laugh. "Yeah, me neither."
It doesn't go unnoticed that she doesn't ask the same question back; I wonder why. Has Elliot mentioned me already between our two accidental encounters? Do they know who I am, and of the controversial connection that links the pair of us together? Fazia is ice cool; her face doesn't give anything away. And Adam's still smiling pleasantly, with no obvious hint of discomfort. I'm left none the wiser.
"Still," she continues, with a nod toward Elliot, "we kind of knew each other before we started here, anyway."
"Oh?"
Elliot swallows a particularly ambitious mouthful of lasagna and nods. "It's true. I mean, we hadn't technically met, but we had a head-start on the whole making friends thing."
Now I'm curious. "How so?"
"And it wasn't a buddy system for minorities, if that's what you're thinking," Adam chips in.
Fazia glances at Elliot. "He's not a minority."
"He's a redhead." Adam shrugs. "He's got a few struggles."
"Seriously?" Elliot takes a swipe at Adam's arm, which is resting on top of the table. There's a faint tinge of color to his freckled cheeks. "No, it wasn't anything like that."
"Photography," Adam says. "Turns out, we're all insufferable dorks for it. Who would've thought? There's this big Facebook group, with thousands of members from all over the country, and it has a kind of daily competition—"
"There's a theme every day," Fazia explains. "You post your photo, people like them, and the one with the most likes wins. A lot of people wonder what the point is, since there's no real prize except eternal bragging rights. But it's fun. The quest for the perfect photo can lead to the craziest adventures."
My surprise must be obvious, because both Fazia and Adam pick up on it.
"You look confused," he says.
"No, no, I get it. I just—" I glance toward Elliot. "I didn't know you were into photography."
"You didn't?" Fazia asks incredulously. "God, Elliot, have you just met this girl? Or did you not tell her because you don't think the group's cool enough?"
There's a beat of awkward silence; Elliot and I don't make eye contact, but I feel the crackle of tension anyway. I almost feel like we need to take a minute out and smooth out the details—to work out what they know and what exactly he's told them—but of course that's not an option. I'm not even sure they know about Josh.
No... they must've seen Hanna's story; it's all anyone on campus can talk about. I've heard the freshmen on my corridor discussing it more than once, even though they were still in high school when Josh was around. There's no way the news hasn't travelled this far. And if they're friends with Elliot, they must've put the matching last names together.
They must know.
But I can't be certain.
"It just hasn't come up," Elliot says. Then he turns to me. "By the way, Morgan, I'm into photography."
He says it in such a robotic way, with a deadpan expression, that I can't help but smile. "Really."
"Really."
I don't know why, but suddenly I'm feeling a lot hungrier. The slightly cold baked potato on my plate has never looked more appealing, even though I've near enough eaten the same meal for two weeks straight. And I have to hand it to Elliot: the mozzarella sticks were an excellent choice. "So," I say, spearing one with my fork, "how many times have you won this competition?"
"Five times," Adam says.
Fazia: "Three."
I look expectantly at Elliot, but his face droops. "I haven't."
"It's a sore subject," Adam tells me. "He doesn't like to talk about it."
"It's not," Elliot insists. "The ranking is determined by an entirely fair, democratic process... and it just so happens that every person in that group hates me with a burning passion."
Fazia rolls her eyes. "Yeah, I'm sure that's it."
"It's the only reasonable explanation." Elliot pushes his glasses further up his nose. "How else could you have eight victories between you, and I've got none?"
"You're too much of a perfectionist," Adam tells him. "How many photos have Faz and I submitted compared to you? Now, I'm not saying we post any old garbage, because we're both very proud of our work, but... you gotta stop chasing the perfect shot sometimes, Elliot. Some days, it's not going to happen, and that's okay—but the rest of your work isn't worthless."
"I know," Elliot says grudgingly. "I know."
He stuffs a mozzarella stick into his mouth to stifle his misery, and my lip curls when I catch his eye. Before long, we're sharing a smile that feels remarkably personal, considering there's two other people sitting directly opposite.
"We've told you: we'll help you get the shot," Fazia assures him. "But you have to wait for the right theme. You've got a distinctive style, and when it works—God, it works. So you're going to quit feeling sorry for yourself, be patient, and wait for the right moment. Unless you want me to kick your ass."
"She makes a good case," I point out.
"I like this girl." Fazia nods at me in approval. There's a wicked glint in her eye that makes me like her even more. "You talk a lot of sense, Morgan. Feel free to grab dinner with us any time you want."
"I second that," Adam says.
"Thanks." In the glow of their unexpected approval, I'm surprised to find myself actually considering it.
This wasn't what I expected from today at all. Only a short while ago I'd been apprehensive about Elliot's company, let alone anyone else's, and now I'm so glad I didn't shy away. For the first time since arriving back at Davidson, being here doesn't feel like one huge mistake.
Fazia and Adam both have a late-evening class, so they have to head off before Elliot and I have finished our food. Fazia waves her fingers at me and Adam gets in one last wink over his shoulder as they leave. In any other situation, removal of the pressure of being in the company of strangers would feel like a relief, but I'm actually disappointed to see them go.
"Sorry about them," Elliot says, once they're out of earshot. "They're super nice people, but I know they can also be a bit overwhelming."
I shake my head. "Not at all. They're really funny. I like them."
A smile creeps onto his face and I can tell he's genuinely glad about it. "Great. And I'll echo what Faz said. You really are welcome to eat with us whenever you want. We're usually here at a similar time most days."
"Thanks. I might take you up on that."
There's a pause. I'm still looking at Elliot, and it's obvious from his expression that there's something playing on his mind.
"Are you okay?" he asks. "After earlier, I mean."
I know what he's talking about. My face flushes at the recollection, even though he didn't see the worst of it: me throwing those copies in the trash. I know it was an overreaction, but in the moment I lost control—and now it seems worse, sat here with Elliot, who comes across so calm and introspective when it comes to his brother. Although I don't know him that well, it seems unlikely that he'd ever resort to that kind of impulsive outburst.
"Yeah," I say eventually. "Now I am. I don't know why I didn't think about seeing the magazine in print, but... it was unexpected."
He nods. "I know."
"I guess I was hoping the attention was dying down," I continue. "The online version was a while back, and I've been seeing it on social media less and less... but I should've known it would make a reappearance in print. Hanna wouldn't miss that kind of opportunity."
Elliot frowns. "Hanna?"
I realize too late that he doesn't know about her. Doesn't know by name the editor-in-chief of GXRL magazine, and certainly doesn't know that up until last year we were inseparable best friends. But it's out there now, and dodging the question will only make him more suspicious.
"Hanna Griffin," I say. "She's the editor of the magazine. The one who carried out the investigation and wrote the article. And, uh... we used to be friends."
"Used to be?"
"It wasn't just this," I tell him. "We'd started drifting apart anyway."
I don't even know whether it's a lie or not; there are some things I've repeated to myself so often in the last few months that they've become tangled with old truths. There's no arguing that the lack of contact between Hanna and me this summer was my fault. She'd tried to reach out so many times, and I'd ignored every advance. But perhaps that rift hadn't been irreparable. If that was all, maybe we could've smoothed things over this August, with a lengthy and sincere explanation about why I'd pushed her away.
If the article didn't exist, we would probably stand a chance.
But it does, so we don't.
"I'm sorry," Elliot says.
I shake my head. "It's fine. I guess our friendship wasn't as strong as I thought... which means it probably would've happened sooner or later, anyway."
Except that's the thing: I don't think it would've. Never once had I imagined the world without Hanna by my side, because I assumed I'd never have to live in it. It'd always felt like such a concrete certainty that we'd be friends for years to come—maybe even for life. To have that ripped away feels like losing my sense of stability, sending the earth off kilter, and I'm still struggling to adjust to life from this new angle.
Elliot hasn't said anything, but the way he's looking at me tells me that something weighty is coming. He chews his lip. Blinks a little too often behind his glasses.
"I have to ask," he says.
I know what's coming.
"You don't have to answer if you don't want to."
There's no stopping him.
"But it's something I keep thinking about..."
The question is inevitable.
"Did Josh... hurt you?"
The breath rushes out of me all at once. I knew what was coming, and yet it manages to shock me anyway—like a punch to the gut that leaves me winded. And I hate myself for reacting. I hate myself for being so affected, because I have no real reason for it. There are plenty of people in this college that probably see me as the poor victim girlfriend, finally breaking free from the shackles of an abusive relationship, standing blinking in the light. It might even make things easier. It might make the stares less intense and give me the cushion of other people's sympathy—but it's also not true.
My relationship with Josh was totally normal. We had our disagreements, but never anything serious. There were so many more good days than bad days. When I told him I loved him, I meant it every time.
I know he didn't do anything to me.
And that's what makes the revelation so hard to process.
"No," I say to Elliot. "He didn't."
No trace of emotion crosses Elliot's face. Not even a hint of relief. Instead, he just nods, taking in the statement objectively, rationally. And I'm not sure he realizes it—especially as I don't until it's right in front of me—but it's exactly the reaction I need.
----------------------
Here we are: an introduction to Elliot's friends! You know when a group of characters just... click, and scenes with them just seem to write themselves? The more I write Fazia and Adam, the more I'm getting that vibe. And I LOVE it. So I'm intrigued---what are your first impressions?
Thank you so much for the response to the last few chapters. I'm loving the discussion going on in the comments, and it's working wonders for my motivation. So keep it coming, and the faster the chapters will keep coming!
(Side note: I'm also considering Camp NaNoWriMo to speed up my progress on this story. Anyone else crazy enough?)
- Leigh