She stares at him. “Wow.”
He pulls his T--shirt over his head. “And yes, I’m perfectly aware of how you spend your Tuesday nights. Trust me: I’ve heard it.” He glances around the room for his sneakers. They were tossed near the dresser. As he yanks on his socks and shoves his feet into the sneakers, Carrie moves to the door. Hand on knob, she turns.
“So, this is the part,” she says carefully, “where I say ‘See you later.’ ”
He looks up at her. It’s a far cry from accepting his apology, but probably as good as he’ll get.
Then Carrie surprises him.
“But instead I think I’m going to say ‘See you never.’ ’Cos I’m done trying to explain basic shit to you.”
“You’re blowing this way out of proportion.”
She laughs. A short half laugh. “Am I? Richard, we’re always fighting.”
“Always? See, that’s an exaggeration. Right there.”
“Fine. Usually. We’re usually fighting. Whatever. I’m tired of being mad. And it’s not like this was ever going anywhere.”
Richard stops midlace. He straightens up and stares at her. “So that’s it? We’re breaking up? Just like that, over a stupid comment I apologized for?”
Carrie flashes him one of her vintage are--you--kidding--me? expressions. She turns the knob. “Breaking up? That assumes we were ever together.”
Richard has no words for this. If she had slapped him across the face, he wouldn’t be more surprised.
The door is open now, and he can see into the hallway. Mona walks briskly past, toward her bedroom. He wonders if she’s been listening. As she leaves the room, Carrie glances over her shoulder at him one last time.
Then the door closes with a soft click.
. . .
“Are you sure we can come?”
“Yes! He said to bring friends.”
“How do you know him, Jenny?”
“He’s in my economics class.”
“Brandon, right?”
“Brandon Exley.”
“Oh. Jenny. Wow.”
It’s not her dress. She doesn’t own anything like this. Black, with thick shoulder straps studded with rhinestones and sequins, a scoop neck. An airy fabric falls straight down in crumpled folds, floats around her body. Ends mid--thigh.
“Do you think I’ll be cold?”
“You look amazing!”
“Shoot, girl. I may have to let you keep it. Looks way better on you than on me.”
. . .
3
Haley
Haley’s seen these women before. Just not in her room.
The black woman with the super--short--pretty--much--shaved hair and the blonde. The pretty white--blonde she passes on Tuesday and Thursday mornings on her way to the gym. It’s a scheduling thing. You get into patterns, pass the same people who are retracing their patterns. Dining hall, class, library, dining hall. They tread invisible paths into the sidewalks, only to shake it all out and start afresh each semester when the schedules change.
Haley and the blonde have become smiling strangers. That’s how she refers, in her mind, to people she doesn’t know but sees every day. It would be unfriendly not to smile, but weird to actually speak. Haley assumes the blonde lives in one of the interest houses near the athletic center and she’s heading to a class on the days she passes Haley on her way to the gym.
Now she sits on Haley’s bed. The woman with the short hair sits on the other bed. With Jenny. With her arm around Jenny’s shoulders. As Jenny cries.
“Oh. Hey,” is Haley’s startled response. She’s not supposed to be here. She’s supposed to be on her way to history, but got hung up at the dining hall. Then forgot her notebook. And her phone. Haley keeps forgetting things. It’s her first day back at classes, almost a week after the concussion, and while the pain has been mostly replaced by pressure, the fuzzy--headedness persists.
The blonde, who recognizes her instantly, is equally surprised. “Hey,” she says back.
Awkward silence follows.
“Is everything okay?” Haley asks, which is ridiculous because it’s clearly not.
The two visitors look at Jenny, who blows her nose into a tissue.
“It’s my roommate,” Jenny tells them. They look Haley up and down.
“Do you need to get in here?” the short--haired woman asks.