Isabel Sutter
But Elizabeth didn’t want to “mend this.” “This” wasn’t a beloved
sock in need of darning. “This” was a cheap pair of tights from Walgreens
that she’d much rather replace. “This” wasn’t going to be mended.
“I want to figure out how to feel calm when we have to be . . . together,” Elizabeth offered, hoping this would redirect the well-intentioned
counselor.
“Do you remember when you were younger?”
“No.”
“And you felt some growing pains?”
“No.”
“I think that’s what’s going on right now. These are growing pains,
Elizabeth.”
“I don’t think so.”
Her smile shaky, the counselor repeated her direction. “Now just
sit back.”
“I am sitting back.”
“And take some tissues.”
“I have some.”
“Take some more.”
Rigid against the chair back, Elizabeth didn’t move.
Through the paper thin cubicles, she could hear Trevor from her calculus class tearfully discussing his boyfriend over in the next counselor’s
office. His voice broke, and he stifled a sob as his counselor asked him
to “sit back and take some tissues.” As if the details of his personal life
hadn’t been enough to give away his identity, Trevor’s cologne seeped
through the partition and into Elizabeth’s nostrils. The magazine sample aroma meandered through the office and another scent—hair gel
and . . . yes, sweat. He was nervous, the way he was nervous when
Professor Donnelly called on him in calculus.
“Elizabeth, do you think you two will ever be friends?”
“No.”
“You can’t be sure.”
“I’m sure.”
“Maybe this is just the mourning of an end to a relationship?”
“Maybe it’s a lot of things.”
“What would you think of apologizing?”
“It wouldn’t help.”
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