Love At First Night

23.

I'VE NEVER BEEN So hungover.

My Friday night shift at the library is brutal. Almost unrevivable, really. It has to be some kind of human rights violation to force a student worker to stare into the glare of a computer screen, drag around a cart of books (with a broken wheel that squeaks so loud it's like an ice pick to their frontal lobe), and argue with other students about their overdue books all while battling what is categorically the worst hangover of their life.

"Are you getting sick again?" Margie asks me when she catches me slumped over the front desk with my head buried in my arms. "Because if you are, just go home, kid. I can cover for you. Don't even clock out. I'll say you were here and they'll pay you for the full shift."

I almost take her up on the offer. But I'm stubborn, so I stay. That's why. No other reason. Not because I keep watching the front doors. Not because I keep imagining that I hear them creak open, see a glint of light off the glass, catch the movement of a tall, dark-haired girl coming inside.

Every time, my chest seizes up with panic. Because if Lisa walks into the library, then I'll have to face what happened last night. Which means I'll have to confront all the evidence indicating Lisa hooked up with me more for her friends' sake than for her own-the audience at Starbucks, Jisoo presenting me as a birthday gift, the kid at the bar trying to get us upstairs to Lisa's room, our unbalanced alone time (Roseanne, 1; Lisa, 0), my missing underwear-and, perhaps even worse, all the evidence that I might've read the situation wrong.

But luckily for me, I don't have to unpack all that tonight.

There's no sign of Lisa.

Of course there isn't, a horrible voice in my head whispers. She's already gotten what she wanted.

On Saturday, Clement has an away game. I only know this because I make the mistake of opening Twitter while I'm supposed to be reading Chaucer, and the first thing that pops up on my feed is a clip of Lisa triumphantly sinking a three-pointer. I slam my phone face-down on the kitchen counter. It doesn't help. When I squeeze my eyes shut, I still see her-her bare arms flexing, her dark hair against her sweat-dampened forehead, her mouth curled up into a cocky smile as the blurred crowd in the background jumped to their feet to cheer and applaud her.

Good for her. Glad she's doing well.

I snatch up my highlighter and recommit myself to wading through Chaucer and his archaic English, which is suddenly less painful in comparison. Joy, who's washing her weekly collection of water glasses and mugs in the sink across from me, arches an eyebrow.

"You good?"

"Fantastic," I mumble.

"I've been thinking about it," she says, "and you should reach out to Lisa."

I flip the page of my book a little too hard. It tears a little at the bottom, right along the seam.

"And why would I do that?"

Joy slaps the faucet off and sets another glass on the drying rack.

"Because your pity party has turned into a forty-eight-hour rage, and it must be getting exhausting. You did it. You stewed. Now can you please talk it out with her so you can either make up or, like, vandalize her car Carrie Underwood style? Anything but this sad girl hour shit."

"I am not sad."

"Right. Sorry. My bad-you're a coward."

The word lands like a brick.

"I beg your pardon?"

Joy smiles, just a little, like my reaction confirms it. "I'm not trying to insult you, but seriously. Look, we'll make this nice and simple. Do you still want to be with Lisa or not?"