NOW

To: “Ambrosia Wellington” a.wellington@wesleyan.edu

From: “Wesleyan Alumni Committee” reunion.classof2007@gmail.com

Subject: Class of 2007 Reunion

Dear Ambrosia Wellington,

Let’s face it: you came to Wesleyan for the education, but chances are, the killer parties were your real learning experience. Tonight will be no exception. We encourage you to stay after the reception to continue the fun you’re bound to be having.

Sincerely,

Your Alumni Committee

I know Felty is watching me, the same way I feel Flora’s eyes on me, wondering what I’ll do next. It’s like a time warp straight back to Dorm Doom, everyone noticing my missteps. Exactly what I wanted when I started at Wesleyan, but for the absolute worst reason. The spotlight I ended up under was more like a torch.

The whispers, the ACB messages, ticker tape in my head. I saw her in the bathroom. I saw her with him. I swear it was her. I saw her running from the Butts after.

I stick close to Adrian’s side, sneaking glances around for Felty but landing on everyone else instead. Lauren and Jonah are talking to someone who looks vaguely familiar—Hunter, of the crooked dick and inability to learn girls’ names. His arm is around a tiny black-haired woman, and when she brushes a thick fringe of bangs off her face, I realize she’s Clara from Butts C. She gives me a tentative wave, which I return with a forced smile. Even all these years later, something inside me stiffens. None of them ever picked me, even the ones I didn’t want.

I don’t see Sully—or more, I don’t feel her. I know, with a sick rush of disappointment, that she isn’t here. Her absence takes up more space than anyone else’s presence.

“Babe, you’re not being very social.” Adrian gestures around. “Aren’t we here so you can catch up with these people?”

“I’ve already said hi to everyone I cared about.” It’s technically not a lie. I keep talking before he can say anything else. “There’s Monty.” I point to the bar, grateful that Monty’s heavy drinking makes him predictable. “Why don’t you go talk to him? I have to go to the bathroom.”

I make sure before actually leaving that he’s deep in conversation with Monty and not talking to anyone he shouldn’t. On the way into Hewitt, I get ambushed by Tara Rollins, who thinks now is an ideal time to plan a potential girls’ trip with Hadley and Heather. In my peripheral vision, I keep glimpsing Flora’s white-blond hair, but when I turn, she’s not there. I’m sure everyone has been approaching her tonight, forlorn eyes and artificial smiles. I won’t be one of them. She doesn’t want to hear from me.

When I finally get to the Hewitt bathroom, I duck into a stall and text Billie. I forgot how much I hate these people. This was such a bad idea.

LOL comes back almost instantly, along with a smiley face with its tongue sticking out. I’m sure it’s better than my night. The kids won’t sleep and Ryan is in front of the TV as usual.

I’d trade if I could, I write back. Seriously, being here has made me sick.

Maybe you’re pregnant, she says. Billie’s canned reply to everything. If I have a headache, I’m pregnant. If I don’t immediately reach for the bottle to refill my wine, I’m pregnant. If I don’t want to go for sushi, I’m pregnant.

I’m not, I type back.

Boooo, Billie writes. It’s funny, how she always wants me to be pregnant, even as she tells me what a horror show her kids are. She assumes Adrian and I have been trying. As much as Billie acts like a free spirit, she would think it was vile, what I did. That the day after I made a big show of getting on board with being a mom and flushed my birth control pills down the toilet, I went out to the pharmacy, refilled my prescription, and hid it in my purse. That was six months ago. I know I should feel guilty, but I would feel guiltier actually going through with it. Some people aren’t meant to be mothers.

I stare at my phone. My period actually should have arrived yesterday, but I’m used to its being a day or two late. I take my pill at the same time every evening, always diligent, never forgetting, just like I have every day since I was sixteen.

There’s a chiming sound—an incoming text message, but not to my phone. The chime comes from the stall beside me. I ignore it, until the phone starts ringing.

But it’s not a ring at all. It’s a song.

The opening bars to “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing.”

I stiffen, my skin tightening like concrete. Flora, snatching her phone apologetically. Sorry, it’s Kevin again. But it’s impossible. Kevin couldn’t be calling her.

“Flora?” I practically whisper. There are no shoes under the door. Nobody answers.

The phone stops ringing and I push my door open, then step in front of the stall next to mine. I nudge the door ajar with my boot. The phone sits neatly on the toilet paper dispenser.

I should leave it there. But it’s a silver flip phone. Nobody has a flip phone anymore. I pick it up and open it, which is exactly what she wanted me to do.

Because the image on the screen was meant for my eyes.

I slam the phone down and dart out of the stall, grappling for the bathroom door, tearing into the hall. When I’m back in the courtyard I don’t lose myself in the crowd. I run back to the Nics. I need to know if Sully is there. I need to tell her what I just saw.

I’m about to barge into the room when I hear a voice. I walk in quietly, the same way I used to tiptoe past sleeping Flora when Sully and I thundered back from a party at three a.m. The inner door to Sully’s room is closed, but a harsh bark makes me jump—Sully’s laugh. She’s talking to someone. I hold my breath, listening with my ear to the door.

“She has no idea,” Sully says. I don’t hear another voice—she must be on the phone. “She doesn’t suspect a thing about us. I know her.”

She has no idea. I know her. There’s only one person she could be talking about.

Me.

My bag is sitting on the bed where I left it. I could grab it and go. The fear building like a headache is telling me I should, but I need to know who Sully is talking to, who is the newest member of her sacred us.

Somebody replaced me, and I know what Sully demands from the people she lets get close.

I back away and silently leave the room. Outside the Nics, my heart almost stops when I see Flora, wearing the same headband as earlier. It’s like she knew I would be here.

“I don’t know what you expect me to say.” I swallow. “I’m not the only one who was involved.”

She doesn’t have a response, just the same icy smile. She holds me responsible, and she’ll never forgive me. She’ll never talk to me again. I walk faster. Away from her, away from Sully and whoever was on the other end of that phone call.

I’m almost back at Hewitt when I see him, a shadow with a lit cigarette, a habit I never expected he had. Felty doesn’t say a word to me. I pass by him, keeping my eyes on the ground. It’s only when I’ve slunk away, gratefully unnoticed, that he speaks.

“Miss Wellington.” His voice is the same, low and clear. “I thought I might see you back here this year.”

I freeze. I don’t have the perfect thing to say, and it doesn’t matter anyway.

“I trust that life has been kind to you,” he says. Now I turn around, my shoe dragging a semicircle in the dirt.

“Things are good.” I try to disguise the shake in my words. “How about you?”

He doesn’t answer, just asks another question. “Will I be seeing you tomorrow?”

“I don’t think so,” I answer, defiant. I know what he really means, but I won’t acknowledge it. “I have a pretty busy schedule.”

I can’t read his expression. He lets the butt of his cigarette hit the ground and rubs his boot over it. Felty smokes and litters. I doubt he’s as righteous as he wants people to think.

“That’s too bad. I’m sure I’ll see you around this weekend. Maybe we could grab a coffee. Like old times.”

“I don’t think so. My husband and I have a full day tomorrow, then we’re leaving Sunday morning.” My husband, the best possible shield, proof that somebody cares enough to protect me. A sense of warmth for Adrian shudders through me.

Felty’s eyes bore into mine. He’s too intense, always was. “You owe her that.”

I cross my arms, my leather jacket riding up around my wrists. “What did you say?”

“I said, I understand that. What did you think I said?”

I’m not going to argue. When I walk away, I’m afraid he’s going to yell after me. He doesn’t.

Felty wanted me in a very different way than any of the boys I met at Wesleyan.

He wanted me behind bars.