The Beautiful Truth

// 85

"See you tomorrow night, Ev?" Sal asked as he and Jenny made their way out of the lecture hall the Monday before final exams. We are set for one last study session before the last class on Wednesday. Our final exam was scheduled for 10 a.m. the following Friday.

"Yeah," I agreed without much enthusiasm. "I'll be there."

At this point, all things considered, I just wanted to get out of here. Out of Berkeley. Out of California. Micki had been gone for more than two weeks now. She was still a few days from being able to take phone calls or visitors. I missed her. I was lonely. And Michael's Mistress finished their tour tonight, this time back at 415.

I couldn't decide yet, if I was going to go. Of course I wanted to go. I wanted to walk in and have Barton greet me like nothing had ever changed—like the last six weeks had all been a bad dream and like he was back to make it all better.

But I knew that was an empty wish. Barton hadn't spoken to me since he'd called me a whore.

I tried, once, calling him, after Alex was here and let it slip that Barton was a wreck like me. I'd called on a night when I knew they weren't performing. He didn't answer. I didn't leave a message.

I missed Micki with a vengeance. I really wished I could talk to her about things. Normally, I'd've talked to Talyn instead, but we hadn't talked since Spring Break.

I didn't really know why that was, but I wouldn't have known what to say, anyway. I was sure it wasn't lost on him that I held him partly responsible for what happened at OU. But if I was honest with myself, I knew that was unfair. Talyn hadn't done anything wrong, that night, or any other. I should've called him.

Instead, though, after getting back to my room, I did the next most terrifying task on my list of things I had been avoiding. I sent my dad an email...with my script attached.

Dad,

You wouldn't write it, so I did. It's almost done. Let me know what I've missed.

Love you—Say

In truth, I'd been putting this off since the day I started writing. It was the end of the semester. I was days away from wrapping up my independent study. I never told him I was writing the thing.

Without thinking about it too much, I hit send and waited. It was pretty obvious by now that I was depressed. Instead of going on a run to pass the time while my dad read—as I was sure he was sitting right there at his computer that very moment—I walked over to my bed, let out a shaky breath, and laid down for a long, dreamless sleep.