I uncharacteristically squirmed in my seat. “I’ve just been really busy—”
“You’re a student, Ms. Collins, your first job is to be present in your classes and turn in your assignments.”
I nodded and swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Davis, I’ll get that essay done and try harder.” I stood to leave, pleased I’d seemed to pull it off—when she continued.
“Your mother sent me an email, Natalie . . .”
She what?
“I’m sorry, she what?” I asked as I sat back in the chair.
“Now, of course I can’t share any of your academic information with her, but she told me your boyfriend is in Afghanistan.” Her eyes flashed with something that could have passed for compassion, but it didn’t last long.
I hadn’t told any of my professors about Ryker. I didn’t want any pity or animosity directed my way, and I certainly wasn’t in a position to judge who would give me either. My mother went behind my back as a means to keep tabs on me. We’d be having words about that.
“He is.” My voice was almost a whisper as I tried to appear strong—like the wives and mothers I watched on the news.
“I appreciate the sacrifice he’s making, Natalie, but it doesn’t do you any good to sacrifice your schoolwork while you wait for him to come home.”
I nodded, my voice silenced under threatening tears. In retrospect, I could have—should have—used that window as an opportunity to ask for help in dealing with my stress. Asked the woman in charge of overseeing my academic experience for a phone number, a name, something for me to deal.
But, who? What would I say? Hi, my boyfriend is in Afghanistan, like thousands of other people, but I seem to be having an extra hard time with it. Please help me? Yes, that’s exactly what I should have said. I didn’t. Instead, I murmured a polite “thank you,” to Angela Davis and fled to my dorm room.
Once inside, I burst into tears and walked right to the bathroom.
Screw trying to hide it.
I didn’t want to use the pin again. That seemed wrong, somehow, so I reached for the cheap razors Tosha and I used because, well, we were cheap. I felt weak. Weak that my boyfriend was voluntarily in greater danger than I’d likely ever find myself in, and I was crumbling. I needed to punish myself for being so pathetic, and I needed to feel better.
I held up my left forearm, where I could just barely see the lingering reminder of the last time I cut. I pulled the razor across my arm, but nothing happened. I angled both the razor and my arm and tried again. A little nick, but nothing satisfying. Fucking safety . . .
Breathless from anger and anticipation, I worked to bend the safety plastic underneath the blade until I heard it snap. After tossing the piece in the trash, I now had a wide open blade and nothing to stop me. I started haphazardly flicking the blade across the skin over the inside bone of my forearm.
God, it hurt like hell. It was a shocking pain, the kind that screamed, Wake up you pathetic, spineless, little girl, things could be worse! It took my breath away and flooded me with relief when it was over; relief I wasn’t feeling anywhere else in my life. Relief that I would only feel when Ryker came home for good. I wanted to feel that immediately. So I did, over and over again as the razor did its best job on my arm.
Just as I decided I was done for now, my phone rang.
Unavailable.
“Ryker!” I chanced it. I was right.
“Natalie, are you okay? You sound all shaky or something.” He sounded strong. Sure. Ryker.
I dropped the razor to the floor and stared at the fear and insecurities slashed across my arm. I crumbled into more tears. “I miss you, Ry. So much. I know it’s only been four months but—”
“Hey, hey, it’s okay, Nat. I miss you like crazy, too. Before you know it I’ll be home.”
Little did we know, he was right. I know he’d take back that promise if he could.
“I’m sorry,” I sniffed, “how are you?”
“I’m fine. Tell me something good.” I could hear the smile in his voice and it broke my heart all over again.
“Um, well, I threw a beer in some girl’s face a few weeks ago.” I laughed, not thinking that I’d have to tell him the story.
Ryker let out a full-chested laugh. “What?”
“Yeah, she got all pissy about the yellow ribbon on my coat, so I soaked her.”
“That’s my girl. Don’t beat anyone up, though. I’d hate to come home to you in jail.” He sounded proud of me. I liked that.
“I won’t. Promise.” We spent the next few minutes in a place where neither one of us were lonely. I felt like, with Ryker, I would never be lonely. No matter what.
After we hung up, I stared at my arm—immediately feeling ashamed. The bitch of it is, it didn’t make me throw the razor away—it made me cut a few more times before I heard Tosha come through the door. I hopped in the shower as an excuse to walk into our room with my arms crossed over my towel around my body. I didn’t know how long I’d be able to hide it from her.
*