Page 87 of Catch and Cradle

Halloween is on a weeknight this year, but that hasn’t stopped the whole campus from turning into a giant party. I’m sitting on the edge of a saggy couch in some sketchy rental house a few streets over from ours. The room is packed with drunk UNS students in costumes that range from elaborate creations to cowboy hats and bunny ears worn over normal clothes.

We’re still in the team’s no-drinking season, so I’m stone-cold sober while I sit here watching the party get sloppier and sloppier as the night goes on. The music is loud enough that it feels like it’s rattling my skull, and every part of the couch except for the tiny square of cushion I’ve claimed is taken up by a couple whose make-out session looks like it’s about to reach the ripping-off-clothes phase.

I shift another half-inch away from them and glare as I sip my ginger ale. They don’t notice. The guy is now fully on top of the girl.

“Why is there no furniture in this room besides this couch?” I ask the room at large. It’s too loud for anyone to hear me.

We’ve been party-hopping for a while now so I can’t be sure, but I think this house belongs to some guys on the football team. The typical ‘jock college boys who don’t know how to furnish or decorate their house’ vibe fits. There aren’t even real curtains, but I guess I’m not one to talk. We’ve been known to use UNS flags as window coverings in the Babe Cave.

I still shoot a judgemental look at the fleece blanket tacked over the front window anyway. I shoot a judgemental look at the whole party. The room smells like sweat and cheap beer, I have no idea where my friends are, and I’ve now got some girl’s foot in my lap while her boyfriend dry humps her on the cushions.

“Fine! I give up! You can have the couch.”

I remove the offending foot, and the two of them seem to notice me for the first time. They blink at me like I’m some kind of alcohol-induced mirage as I get up off the couch. Then they go back to making out.

I clutch my ginger ale can to my chest and edge my way through the tightly packed crowd, dodging sloshing Solo cups and waving arms. Normally I’d be in the thick of it all, shaking my ass with my friends and living our best college lives, but I’m not exactly in a partying mood.

I haven’t been in what I’d call a ‘good’ mood since Thanksgiving. It’s been over two weeks since that fiasco, and every day that goes by just leaves me staring at my phone for longer and longer, looking at the few texts and missed calls I’ve gotten from Becca since then.

All I’ve told her is that I’m not ready to talk. I don’t even know if that’s true. I want to talk to her—so badly I even dream about it most nights—but I’m scared she won’t say what I need to hear. I’m scared to feel like I did that night: like I was asking and asking, and she just stood there giving me nothing. If I don’t face her, I don’t have to face the possibility that she might not be who I thought she was.

If I don’t face her, I don’t have to face the possibility of losing her.

That’s what it will come to. I’ve spent the past two weeks realizing I’m never going to be with someone who makes me feel small ever again. I want someone who makes me feel equal in every way, who makes me feel like I’m worth trusting and relying on. I’m not going to be treated like the stupid girl who can’t handle things.

That’s not who I am. It doesn’t matter how much I like Becca or how much I miss her; if she can’t convince me I’m enough for her to trust me, I’ll end this for good.

That doesn’t mean I want to, and that’s why I’ve been putting things off way longer than I should. The whole team is suffering. Even my friendships are suffering. I forgave my housemates for keeping things from me. Forgiveness seemed like the only way to get some normalcy in the house, but there’s still tension lurking in every room I walk into. There’s still something pulled so tight it feels like it could snap at any second, and I think that thing might be me.

Things can’t go on like this forever. They just can’t.

“Whoa, a turtle!”

A super drunk guy in a cowboy hat and a plaid shirt steps in front of me and blocks my path when I’m only a few feet from the front door.

I almost forgot I was dressed like a ninja turtle—a sexy ninja turtle. The Babe Cave is famous for our group costumes every year, and this time we settled on slutty Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I wanted to be Mikey, but Iz called dibs, so I ended up with Leonardo to match the teal ends of my hair. I have a blue bandana with eye holes cut in it tied around my head and a matching blue bustier top on, along with elbow and knee pads. Jane went full craft mom on us and made four papier-mâché turtle shells with backpack-style straps attached to them. Mine has two plastic swords tucked behind it.

“A hot turtle!” the guy slurs. “With swords!”

He’s teetering on his feet and squinting at me. I might be bothered if I thought he could do more than that, but instead I roll my eyes and step past him.

“Turtle, waaaaait!” he calls as I yank the front door open.

“Turtle byeeeeee!” I sing-song.

Some of my grumpiness rolls off me as soon as the cool night air hits my skin. I didn’t realize how boiling hot it was in there. The din of the party is still assaulting my eardrums, but it’s less overwhelming now that I’ve got the door shut. There’s a tiny front yard with a few people milling around in it, and more are gathered on the sidewalk. The whole street is a constant parade of students heading from party to party like boozed-up trick-or-treaters.

I spot a miraculously empty lawn chair a few feet away from everyone else and plop myself down on it, ignoring how decrepit it looks. The legs make an ominous creaking sound, but they still hold my weight.

I pull my phone out of my purse to send a group text to the Babe Cave chat, letting everyone know I went out for some air. I don’t think they’ll miss me, which is only fair. I haven’t exactly been a pleasant person to be around tonight.

I look up as a half dozen people stumble their way off the sidewalk and up the path through the lawn. Most of them seem to be dressed as Game of Thrones characters. They’re laughing and shouting about whatever party they were just at. I look down at my phone and start scrolling through Instagram once they reach the door.

Light from inside floods the lawn for a moment, the noise reaching maximum volume again, but I can still hear someone say, “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be there in a minute.” Then the door shuts and relative quiet takes over.

I hear footsteps coming to my side of the lawn, but I only look up when someone says, “Hey. You’re Hope, right?”

“No, I’m—”