"I can't remember what happened that night. I'm not talking slippery details or fuzzy-edged visions; I mean a complete and utter blackout. Like I wasn't even there. Except... I know I was."
Since the death of her boyfriend six months ago, Morgan Cai...
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The closest I get to professional help is a mandatory appointment with the welfare office.
Despite the name, it's essentially a glorified version of high-school guidance counseling—and had the word mandatory not been spelled out so clearly in the email invitation, I definitely wouldn't have bothered showing up this afternoon. It's standard procedure for all students who've taken a semester out, apparently. To check in, make sure I'm settling back into classes, and assess whether I need further support.
After what happened last night, the answer to that is a resounding yes.
But I've already made up my mind: they won't be able to tell from my brave face.
The appointment doesn't get off to a great start. I'm seated in the waiting room a full ten minutes before my allotted time, but there's no movement inside the office for twenty-five. Glancing down at my phone, I'm deliberating how long I have to wait before it's acceptable to skip out and declare it a no-show when the door bursts open and a frazzled-looking woman stumbles in. Her curly hair is sticking up in all directions, like she's stuck her finger in an electrical socket, and her face is flushed with color. She also smells faintly of cigarette smoke.
When our eyes meet, hers widen.
"Oh!" she squeaks. "Hello! Sorry I'm late. I was—well, I was elsewhere. Are you Madison?"
"Morgan," I correct her. "Morgan Cain?"
Flushed panic crosses her face again; I have no idea where this woman has been, but the longer this encounter goes on, the less I want to know. She tries to keep her cool, though, and nods like she's got the faintest idea who I am. "Morgan. Of course. Like I said, sorry I'm late, but well—yes. Let's not waste any more time. Please, come in."
She opens the office door and steps aside to let me in.
If I expect her organizational skills to improve once she's settled behind her computer, I'm about to be disappointed. She doesn't even look at me, instead tapping loudly on her keyboard—and her eyes dart from the screen to me and back again as she presumably scrambles to locate my file.
"So, Morgan," she says, distracted. "I'm Dr. Reyna. What can I do for you?"
"I'm not sure," I reply. "I took some time off earlier in the year, and the email said this was standard procedure."
"That's right." She's trying to look at me, but I can tell I don't even have half of her attention; the mouse clicks rapidly as she continues trying to find the file. Without her notes, she seems to be at a complete loss—although maybe that'll make this whole thing easier to bear. "So, do you feel like you accomplished what you needed to in your time off?"
What, getting over my dead boyfriend? Yeah, sure.
"Uh... yeah, I guess so."
"Good." More clicking. "And do you feel like this is the right time for you to come back?"
