The Culture of Hooking Up

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Every choice, every action, every word is dwindled down to a question.

     Did I do enough research?

     Did I narrow my thesis?

     Do I want to wear leggings or jeans? Does it even matter?

     What did I learn from doing ethnographic research?

     Do I want caramel iced coffee today? Or coconut? Or both? Does it even matter?

     How many summer internships do I have to apply for?

      How many summer internships have accepted me so far?

     Is that guy in the coffee line Jack?

     Do I have to submit my paper today?

     Did I just almost, sort of, not really, but it sure felt like it, have a heart attack?

     Answers:

     Yes, even though there's always more to be done.

     Yes, I think so.

     It doesn't matter.

     That people are fascinating, especially boys with dark floppy hair, who take floppy steps and send you floppy smiles.

     It doesn't matter.

     Apparently, not enough.

     None, which means I'll spend my summer before my senior year of college working at TJMaxx like I have been since I was sixteen.

     No, that guy isn't Jack, not even close, not even a little bit, not at all.

     Sadly, yes.

     Sadly . . . yes.

     After I press send on the email pdf of my final research and methodologies paper, the only question left lingering in my mind, the same one that's been permanently etched into my brain and tattooed on my heart, is "why?"

     As in, why are you leaving?

     Why do you always leave?

     Why do you always leave when every fiber in your being wants to stay?

     Why is it easier to leave than it is to stay?

     Why didn't I just stay?

     Does it even matter?

     It doesn't matter.

****

Half of my things are packed in totes and boxes, while the other half is still haphazardly scattered on my side of the room. My clothes are spilling out of the trunk at the end of my bed even though I've packed away almost all of my shoes.

     The rug I usually despise is rolled up and leaning against the end of Taryne's bed, leaving my sock covered toes cold against the grey cement floor. What makes it even more annoying is the fact that the jewelry I'm missing wasn't even under it.

     "Hey, babe," Taryne coos with her head still ducked into her phone. Her nails click away as she enters the room. She shrugs off her backpack, and it clanks against the floor beside her bed. It takes her a few more seconds to finally toss her phone and whirl around. "Whoa, oh my god, no." She digs her fingers into her temples as she squeezes her eyes shut. "No, no, no, this can't be happening. I cannot be a Freshman again. I won't do it. I won't."