CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT | NANCY WHEELER

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

          Speaking to Emma's parents is something that requires plenty of mental preparation coming from me, so I decide to postpone it until after the new year, when I'll finally see Doctor Albott again. Naturally, this also gives me yet another excuse to avoid talking to Xavier, which we're both secretly glad about, but it also leaves me terrified of Betty and her reaction to this development.

          Though we all go to a New Year's Eve party—yes, even Betty, even though she kicked and fought her way towards the house while threatening to run Callum over—and I should be using this as a distraction from every negative thing plaguing my thoughts, I feel restless. The fact that I have been to more parties in the span of one cold season than I have in most of my life isn't lost on me; while people are busy mourning their children, I, the sole survivor of the night that claimed their lives, am out there partying like a college student.

          Granted, I am a college student, but the point still stands. It feels in very poor taste.

          I've had an entire week to think about how I'm going to tell Betty and Odette I'm, once again, deciding there's something more important than talking to Xavier, and I have yet to come up with a satisfactory answer. Even confronting my mom about how casually she was able to ruin my night was easier, and she was as understanding about it as I thought she would be, so there's no reason to be so scared to talk to my two close friends. If anything, they're the ones who are supposed to understand my hesitation.

          "You look stressed out," Callum comments, slumped on one of Odette's bean bag chairs. It's just us in the room, with Odette and Betty having moved to the walk-in closet next door so Odette can pick out a dress, and it's been nice having a moment of peace and quiet for once.

          "Let me guess," I retort, checking my reflection with the aid of my phone's front camera, "it's distracting you." He's lying behind me, so I can easily see his reaction. He simply looks up at the screen, propped up on an elbow, easily finding his cue to non-verbally answer me by staring back at our reflections. "Sorry. I'll stop."

          "Running the risk of potentially offending you by intruding in your personal life, do you . . ." He clears his throat, like this entire conversation is paining him to the point of genuinely considering flinging himself out of one of the top floor windows, but I know now it's all in good fun. A few months ago, I certainly would've been offended. "Do you, like, want to consider talking about it? Just so we all get to experience the new year drama-free? I'm mostly just trying to make sure you won't head straight to the bar as soon as we get there."

           I wince, locking my phone and tossing it aside so I won't have to stare back at my own judgmental expression, and let my head fall to the back of my bean bag chair. Stupidly, I find myself wishing and praying—though I'm hardly religious—people will finally let that night fade into oblivion; it's been two months since that disastrous Halloween party, and I think I've already done my sentence. Just thinking about it is enough to make my skin break out in hives.

          I'm fine. I'm okay. I'm stable. I haven't touched alcohol since that night, having completely learned my lesson, and, though I know Callum is just messing with me to show affection like the emotionally well-developed young man that he is, this is still a sore spot for me.

          "It's probably not that big of a deal, now that you're making me say it aloud," I admit, embarrassment flushing my cheeks a deep scarlet tone. They're burning even without me touching them, and I'm secretly glad I have my back turned to him. "I just have a lot of important and awkward pending conversations, and I don't know how to even start having any of them. I need to talk to Betty and Odette about one, but I'm scared they'll take it the wrong way and think I'm postponing it for the sake of comfort."

          "Are you?"

          "What?"

          "Postponing that conversation for the sake of comfort?"

          "A little bit." He hums, amused, and I both hate and envy the way he's always so nonchalant about everything. Sometimes I wonder what it feels like to go through life without allowing even the smallest things to get under your skin. "I need to talk to Xavier. It's a conversation we've been meaning to have ever since I got here, but we had to reconnect first, then the focus has always been my health and my recovery, whatever that means, and then we just kept finding new excuses to avoid it. Even when I try, we end up arguing about it, and now there have been some . . . developments . . . about the circumstances that led to him doing the thing we need to talk about."

          "I understood about half of what you just said." A rustling sound coming from behind me startles me for a brief moment, and I hate that I have to look back over my shoulder to check it. Callum sits up, dark hair all disheveled from the shrimp position he'd been slumped in for the past thirty minutes, and furrows his brows when he notices the look I'm throwing him. "What?"

          "I was just checking what was happening. Sorry. Didn't mean to go all paranoid on you."

          I can see the exact moment when his brain puts two and two together, as his features soften significantly—and part of me hates it.

          I appreciate people being understanding, but there's a thin line separating understanding and being empathetic from pitying me, and I cannot stand the pity. It makes me feel weak and undeserving of all my accomplishments so far, like I've only reached those milestones because people felt bad for me.

          Though Callum and I are friends now—something the version of me from July would never have thought possible—there are times I fear he's viewing the world through his Psychology lenses, and I hesitate before opening my mouth. Keeping my private life private has always been a priority, especially when I kept refusing interviews then proceeded to exploit my dead friends to transfer colleges like the hypocrite that I am, and it's always a challenge to feel like the entire world is paying attention to what I'm doing.

          Realistically, I don't think most people care. People here have gotten used to my presence and they leave me alone, deciding I'm painfully ordinary in spite of the label attached to my name, and I'm no longer constantly worrying about the True Crime club at UAS attempting to reach out to me. This also comes with added negative effects, much to my dismay; in a way, it's rough to lose the validation I hated admitting I needed,

          The contradiction of it all isn't lost on me. After six months, I'm still torn between desperately seeking validation that I wasn't alone in what I'd gone through, that there was an entire group of girls and women who knew what it was like to lose everything in one night and surviving to tell the story, and not wanting my whole life to be reduced to one aspect. I'm more than one single event in my life, even if that's apparently the most interesting thing about me, and I cannot stand the pressure of constantly having to live up to impossible standards imposed on me by a trope. You're not supposed to be applying tropes to real people.

          I haven't touched the forums in a while, with my academic life keeping me far too busy, but there's always an itch in my brain urging me to do it, to read the posts, to keep up with the news. Now that I'm no longer a novelty and the speculation about me has mostly died down, I'm fading into the background until the shiny new thing comes along, as horrible as that is.

          "I think I got it," Callum says, once I finish what I hope is a detailed enough explanation of my current conundrum. I keep it to strictly what he needs to know if he wants to provide any advice, even though it pains me to not be fully genuine with someone who's offering help. He's no Doctor Albott, but it's not fair to treat your friends like therapists, anyway. "So this whole thing is about compromise, right? Elizabeth talked to me as long as you talked to Xavier eventually."

          "I'm sorry for getting you involved. Odette really wanted you and Betty to finally set things straight and talk, and I just . . ." I shake my head, tucking a rebel lock of hair behind my ear. "I didn't mean to pry or make it about myself, but since I also needed to handle a difficult conversation, I thought it would help us both if we supported each other like that. I just assumed I'd be strong enough to go through with it."

          He dismisses it all with a quick flick of the wrist. "Don't sweat it. I'm not bothered."

          "Are you sure? You look bothered."

          "That's just my face."

          "Ah."

          "Anyway, I don't think they'll hold it against you. You and Xavier are family; Elizabeth and I aren't. Certainly they'll understand it's different and why you've been postponing it. Friends are supposed to be there for you when things get hard, and, frankly, I don't think either of them envy the position you're in right now. It's kinda messed up to skip a funeral when it didn't affect you directly; if it had been your funeral, then yeah, sure, it would make sense if it had hit him that hard."

          I ignore that last comment for the sake of my mental well-being, determined not to let it ruin my night—and theirs. I've agonized enough already over my own brother convincing himself I was dead and preparing himself to face a world in which that was factual, not just a product of an anxious mind where it's easier and safer to jump to conclusions. I'm guilty of such a way of thinking, so it would be insanely hypocritical of me to keep judging Xavier for that, a moment of weakness, a moment where the anxiety powered over rational thought, but I also want to be open about how heart wrenching it was to hear.

          It's never a good thing to figure out your own brother was trying to get used to a reality where you've died because it's a lot easier than facing the real version of you, the traumatized, surviving one.

          I toy with the end of my fishtail braid, careful not to undo all of Betty's efforts into making it look presentable. "I get it. They're the least concerning part of the equation, and I'm being a terrible friend by not trusting them."

          "I didn't say you were a terrible friend. I think it's valid that you're concerned about it." He sips his beer, then moves the bottle out of my reach when he sees me glance at it. "You do have a point there, when you say they're the least concerning part of the whole ordeal, and I think you should talk to them regardless of what you think is going to happen. Not to be fake modest at all, but I do know Odette better than you do, and I don't think she'll hold it against you. As for everything else, the only person who can decide where to go from here is you. I don't think my opinion matters much or will be too helpful to you. I'm a personal fan of tackling things head on."

          I turn around to face him, supporting my elbow on Odette's mattress. "Is that why you never reached out to Betty and spent years waiting for her to do it instead?"

          He throws me an impressive glare, one that's eerily similar to Betty's, and rises from his bean bag chair just as Odette enters the room, looking glamorous in a sequined black dress. "I never said I wasn't petty."

──────────

          I survive the New Year's Eve party without touching a single droplet of alcohol, which is the absolute bare minimum, and manage to get through the whole thing without having a panic attack. The latter accomplishment is what matters the most to me—though I suspect all the alcohol I had during the Halloween party also contributed to my meltdown later that evening—but it's not the type of thing you get to brag about during family reunions.

          It was, however, one of my new year resolutions, so I consider that a win.

          Betty remains sober, too, deciding she'll be the designated driver, which turns out to be music to Odette and Callum's ears, and, in turn, earns me a bear hug from Callum shortly after midnight. It startles me enough to immediately leave me in a high alert state, heart hammering against my chest, but I have a lucid Betty next to me to help me stay grounded.

          I don't want to constantly depend on other people to pull me out of a panic attack or to prevent me from having one when that's my responsibility, and recovering from one is one of the few ways I can feel in control of my life these days. I can only relax and feel the slightest bit powerful when I can ease the heavy weight on my chest, when it's no longer aching and I can breathe once more. Now, however, isn't one of those times. The walls close in on me, a clear reminder there are things not even I can escape from.

          Saving myself can be quite embarrassing sometimes, especially when I'm in public. I have to support myself on the back of a couch, nearly getting knocked forward by someone squeezing behind me, and the breath I've been chasing after with every last fiber of energy left in me gets hitched halfway down my throat. Choking on oxygen and my own saliva is an ordeal mortifying enough to crank up my emotions to the nth power, the horror of being laughed at and perceived making me feel like I'm committing a crime just by daring to live.

          Inhaling sharply—heaving sharply, if I'm being honest, as my throat literally squeaks when I attempt to catch my breath—I reach out for what my blurry vision thinks is Betty's elbow. She's wearing a gold blouse, easily distinguishable even in a badly lit room, and her flaming hair is down, so there's no way I can miss her, yet my fingers still do. They brush against the fabric of her blouse right before she moves away and my hand falls limp, trying to catch smoke.

          "I need to get some air," I announce, to whoever can hear me, like anyone even cares. It's past midnight, and my relevance is a thing of the past now. "Can you guys stay right here so I can find you once I come back?"

          "Huh?" Betty turns around to face me. "Do you need me to go with you?

          "No. I'm just feeling a bit . . . claustrophobic, that's all." Her eyes narrow, and I know she doesn't believe me. I don't need her to, even though I hate lying to her or keeping her on a need-to-know basis, but I also don't think I can handle having someone tell me what to do at the moment. It's not the type of guidance I need right now. "I'll be right back."

          She gives my hand a quick, gentle squeeze. "Be careful, okay? Stay on the porch where I can see you."

          A wave of affection for her washes over me just thanks to a simple comment, a comment I'm not entirely sure she understands how much it means to me, but I try to convey all those emotions by returning the hand squeeze. There are a lot of people around, not all of them intoxicated, and it's pouring outside, so the chances of me being snatched and shoved into a creepy van are slim, but I still feel comforted to know Betty can keep an eye on me.

          In spite of the January cold, in spite of the rain, beads of sweat bubble up on my forehead and the nape of my neck, and I'm torn between needing to cool off or warm up. I sit outside on the porch, crossing my arms and pressing it against my chest to conserve body heat, and all I can do is wait for my heartbeat to return to an acceptable rate. There are some people outside, mostly smokers and couples, no one daring to face the pouring rain, and I feel strangely at home—the true college student experience.

          I don't give myself an opportunity to wish I had someone to kiss, not even if it's Betty. I don't even know why she's the first person that comes to mind.

          I feel pathetic that that's the first thought that crosses my mind, like I don't have enough to worry about as is, but Dad dropped off a whole box of Zach's belongings his family wanted me to keep and not a day has passed without me waking up with his memory all over me. I don't know what to do with all those things and haven't even started unpacking the box or the emotions those belongings will trigger, so it's yet another item on my long list of stuff I'm avoiding.

          I momentarily consider using this break, this liminal time to extend an olive branch to Emma's parents and call them now, but stop myself for two reasons. One: I remember they're three hours ahead of me, and I'm not willing to wake them up at three in the morning when they've been working so hard to forget all about the hellish year that has passed. Two: Claudia steps out onto the porch and we lock eyes with each other. I don't have time to react properly and look away before she notices I'm staring right at her, wide-eyed like a deer, and she marches towards me with the confidence of someone I should be scared of.

          "Fun night," she comments, sitting next to me. Her hair has gone back to what I assume is its natural shade of blonde, softening her appearance considerably, which should also make her look more approachable. It doesn't, but that might be my fault. "Are you having fun?"

          "Not anymore," I stupidly reply, before I can stop myself. She wrinkles her nose. "Oh, it's not because of you. I wasn't feeling well inside, so I came out here to get some air. I feel a bit better now."

          "Oh, okay."

          "Yeah." She reaches into her handbag, black and decorated with tiny little pearls, and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. She offers me one out of politeness, already with one held between her puckered lips. "Oh, no, thank you. I don't smoke."

          "Neither do I. Most of the time, anyway." She cups it with one hand, holding it in place as she lights it. "It makes me look unapproachable. It makes everyone look unapproachable, so I thought you smoked."

          "I'm not unapproachable."

          "You kind of are. You completely froze me out after that first meeting."

          I sigh, brushing back my braid. "You weren't speaking to me, either."

          "I was giving you space. I thought that was what you wanted. You never spoke to me again afterward, avoided me during lectures, looked the other way whenever I tried to reach out. Maybe I should've tried harder, I don't know, but I really wanted to give you space instead of making you feel pressured to be friendly with me after what happened. I also threw up on my first time there, if that's of any help."

          "Look, I . . . I'm not really good at handling complicated situations. I have a lot on my plate right now, and I did back then. I don't want you to think I never want to speak to you again, but there have always been . . . other things I need to worry about. I tried it out, saw it wasn't for me, and felt too awkward around you because I convinced myself you resented and hated me. Sorry for being avoidant, but it's the only way I know how to make things work for me."

          Claudia leans back on the bench, blowing away the smoke. "The fact that we're sitting here having this conversation is a step in the right direction, I think. You're one of the few people who can keep up in World Literature, and my brain needs to be intellectually stimulated or it'll rot." I chuckle, leaning forward to wrap my arms around my shaky knees. Stupid, silly little me decided to also wear a dress tonight, despite knowing how horrible the weather would be, and I'm suffering the consequences. "It was nice talking to you, Wendy. You look good."

          "I don't feel good. I don't feel okay. Most of the time, I'm just winging it." I take a deep breath and the entire porch and foundation of the house threatens to crumble. "I never know what I'm doing. Whenever I feel like I'm moving forward, something happens and I'm right back where I started."

          She looks at me, eyes all glittery from her eyeshadow. "You're not where you started."

          "Not physically, but—"

          "No, I know what you mean. It feels like you're going in circles, and you think things will never get better. I'm sure you've heard this a lot, but recovery isn't linear. Most of the time, it really fucking sucks, but the fact that you haven't given up is admirable, in my opinion, especially considering what happened to you." She playfully elbows me before standing up, smoothing the creases on her skirt. "Give yourself more credit. You're a lot stronger than you think you are, but you also don't have to be strong all the time. Let the new year be a blank space. Write your own story. Give your Final Girl a better ending."

──────────