THE DAY doesn't begin until a cup of coffee is within reach. I've been up for almost two hours but it's only now, as I step inside the quaint coffee shop on campus, do I start to feel awake.
"One vanilla latte," I order, thanking the cashier when he passes me my change. I spend way too much of my paychecks here, but I can't help it. It's ingrained in me, at this point. Get up. Get ready. Get coffee.
Snatching a seat on the couch, I pull both my phone and planner out of my tote-bag. As I'm waiting for my call to get through, I check my schedule for today. Three classes almost back to back. Quick lunch. Office hour. Library shift. Dinner with my friends. Study with Lilian and Samantha after. Busy, but manageable.
"Tessa?" My mother speaks, her voice slightly difficult to hear over the noise. It's early, but the café is almost packed to its limit. I can hear everyone chattering either excitedly or anxiously about the new semester.
"Hi mom," I greet her cheerfully, unsurprised when she doesn't return the favor. Instead, she presses almost urgently: "Where are you? Why aren't you in class?"
"I'm grabbing coffee right now," I explain, craning my body awkwardly to see if they've brought out the next batches of orders. No such luck. "I don't have class until 9am." I add, hoping to diffuse the annoyance I can feel simmering from her end. She hates catching me doing anything not academia-related.
"Well," she draws out the word and I imagine her lips are pursed disapprovingly. I wait for her inevitable chiding.
"It's already 8:20am, don't you think you're cutting it a little close?" She snips snootily. I know she's just saying shit to say shit—forty minutes is plenty of time to make it to class, especially since this café sits smack middle of campus. "I know it's the first week of classes, but you can't be slacking off, young lady. If anything, you need to be on top of your game. Any slip ups and it could ruin you for the rest of the semester." She scolds me like she's threatening me.
I bite my bottom lip cheekily at her words, thankful she wasn't present to witness my amusement: this was an exact verbatim of her speech she'd given me last semester. The Tessa Young of last fall, anxious and impressionable when starting freshman year, might've cowered at her daunting words, too juvenile to know any better, but the Tessa Young now was different. So I gave her a curt "Yes, mother," and left it at that.
Seeming satisfied with my response, my mother changes topics.
Her incessant chattering is not unwelcome. When she's not scolding me, I find it comforting to hear her speak. Sure, the conversations never range far from her rich friends or our pastor's preaching, but I admire the passion and excitement behind her words nonetheless. I'd prefer that over screaming and crying and cursing, any day.
I go back to perusing my planner, making a mental note to start scheduling next month's itineraries, and alternate between humming soft acknowledgments to mother's words and lifting my head up every so often to check on my order. They're slower than usual today (I chalk it up to the new workers I spy across the counters) so I'm glad I arrived even earlier than typical.
"So," mother's tone shifts again, and I resist sighing as I instinctively recognize it. She'd kill me for sassing her.
"How's Noah?" She pries, asking as if she's keen to a secret I'm oblivious to.
"He's fine, mom." It's past experiences of this same song-and-dance that keep my answers short. "Still my friend."
"Just friends?" She taunts, no doubt smirking on her end.
"Just friends." I emphasize, hoping this derails her.
"Honey," she says pointedly, the condescension leaking into her endearments, and this time I do groan quietly. Thankfully, the sound is drowned out by everything else. "He won't wait forever—
"Wait for what?" I cut her off, despite knowing she hates that. Playing dumb is tacky but so is attempting to matchmake your daughter with the neighbor boy she's known her entire life. Me and Noah are friends, more like siblings than anything.
Predictably, she makes that noise she does whenever she's annoyed. Thankfully, however, she doesn't comment on my interruption. Instead, more tortuously, she spurs on: "You know what, Theresa." She spits out whatand my stomach churns in response. "That boy is a good boy, you deserve to be with someone like him. I just don't understand why you keep playing games, dragging him all the way out there just to stay friends. A little manipulative, don't you think?"
Her words are delusional, at best and derisive, at worst.
I'm not sure how to get it through her thick skull that me and Noah will never happen. Me and anyone willnever happen.
Don't even get me started on how wrong it is that she implies I have to give something in return just because Noah "followed" me to WCU, or so she claims more often than not. A woman should never be expected to reciprocate anything unless she wants to. That's how it should always be, friend or not.
It's harder to bite my tongue this time. She's way out of line and I think she knows that, given the short silence that cloaks our conversation. I take deep breaths through my nose to calm my rising heart-beat. Her words, though spoken with insistent conviction, are more so to goad me than anything.
"Tessa—" she starts but is interrupted when my name is called in the background.
A lurch of happiness springs me onto my feet. My coffee is ready, and this conversation is done. My mother must realize that too, given her heavy sigh of resignation. This is a conversation—an issue, really—for another time.
"I'll call you again, this week." I promise her, my voice impressively calm. I'm going to pretend she didn't just accuse me of stringing my oldest friend along. For my sake and hers.
"You better," she demands, a tad less relenting than usual. I wonder if she feels guilty. The thought disappears as quickly as it comes when, with a swift click, I hear the dial tone ringing, signaling our ended call. Too guilty to say goodbye, I lie to myself.
As the phone slips back in my bag, so does any thoughts about my mother. She can only affect me if I let her. And had it not been such a beautiful morning, one that set the tone for another glorious day in WCU, it might've.
"Thanks so much," I'm beaming as he passes the cup into my awaiting hands, the warmth of the freshly brewed coffee almost eliciting an embarrassing moan from me. Almost.
Dazedly, I twirl the cup around, before looking questionably at the barista. I didn't order a large.
"On the house." He says before I even ask. His grin warms me like this coffee. "For waiting so long," he clarifies.
"You didn't have to do that—" I start but never finish.
"I wanted to," he shushes my protests. And that's that.
"Well, thank you, Landon." I return his smile, touched by his gesture. We weren't close by any means but suffering through Professor Ross' dreadful 8am connects people in inexplicable ways. I wonder if we'll share a class again this semester. It'll be nice to start up our study dates again.
"So how was break?" Landon begins, voice calm and collected, as if he isn't swarmed by masses of orders. I watch as he seemingly does three things at once: as he sets the grinder, he preps the blender, moving to steam milk and simultaneously grab the whip cream can from the cabinet, as he does so. He's great for his job, that's for sure.
When I'm confident I won't mess up his flow, I answer: "Same old. It flew by."
My answer's vague but his is even more so: "Same." He agrees.
"How's Dakota?" I ask, a smile threatening my lips as the romantic in me leaps excitedly for an update on their so-very romantic romance. Their love is one for the classics, I can't help but decide.
He chuckles, like the man in love he is, despite my not having cracked any jokes. As he caps off four drinks, he throws a quick grin towards my side of the counter, and just like that, I'm immensely relieved. They're still together. Thank God. "She's doing great, she's improving so much, her instructors keep complimenting her!" This time, his response is vivid and enthusiastic, and the comparison is striking. He glows at the mere mention of Dakota and it comforts me much more than I would admit. Not all love is destined for misery. His and Dakota's love proves that.
"That's amazing, Landon." I tell him "I know she's going to make it big, one day. New York big."
"I hope so," he says, happily "let's pray she doesn't leave me when that happens." He laughs heartily and though my traumas haunt me with a split-second fear of her doing so, of Dakota hurting this pure-hearted boy, I laugh along with him.
Not everyone has abandonment issues, I silently remind myself.
"Alright, I better head out." I wave and he takes a second away from his station to wave back.
"See you tomorrow, Tessa!" he replies, and I assume he's working the opening shift again.
"Bye Landon!"
And I step out, coffee in hand, tote in tow, ready to begin my second day of spring semester.
THE WEEK flew by, faster than any bird, I'm sure. The coffee I drank that Tuesday morning, so rich and perfectly blended, blurs in my memory, but the rejuvenated hope I gained from Landon remains throughout the week. It prevails through the three separate instances of my mother phoning me about my father's relapses, her voice coarser with every passing call. It prevails even as she begins cursing him, her ultimatums and threats and abuses spilling easily out of her "conservative" lips. And it prevails even when she threatens divorce for the umpteenth time. But now, as I sit anxiously on the edge of my twin-sized bed and watch Samantha pace angrily about in our tiny dorm room, that hope unsurprisingly falters.
"How dare he?" She spits out with venom. I flinch, but she doesn't notice, too occupied with her marathon. I wouldn't be surprised if she burned a hole with her trekking. "He's just—just—ugh! Un-fucking-believable!"
I've never been that mad where I have no words, so my empathy doubles at her frustrations. My best friend didn't deserve this. And on a Friday night, too—her weekend, no doubt, is borderline ruined despite it barely starting.
"He's just ridiculous, Tessa!" She rants, her face swelling up in her anger. "First, he fucking avoids me on campus—goes out of his god-damn way to pretend not to see me. As if I'm not the one who should be doing that! He's lucky to even breathe the same air as me, let alone be near me. And has the fucking balls to be, what—embarrassed by me? I should be embarrassed of you, Zed!" Samantha Anderson, for all of her faults, is not a conceited girl. She's not judgmental or prejudiced, so for her to say this—to be pushed to this limit, just reinforces my belief that love is toxic. It brings out the worst in people and Sam epitomizes this.
"And as if that's not bad enough!" She's hysterical at this point, despite having gone at this for almost an hour. I'm surprised no one's called the RA on us yet. "Heleaves to Florida without telling me! What a fucking asshole! A jerk! A son of a bitch, asshole motherfucker!" She's breathing heavily at this point and I silently toss her the water bottle adjacent to me.
Her emotions are spiraling but her reflexes remain honed, so she catches it easily. I know I should be diffusing her anger, but frankly, she needs this. She needs to rant. She doesn't need my pretty words or my kind excuses to derail her anger. Nope. She needs a nice water bottle that'll quench her thirst so that she can resume her bitching in peace.
"God and I wouldn't even had known if it wasn't for Hardin!" Samantha yells, once she finishes the bottle. I flinch again when she squeezes the plastic tightly, the noise aggravating my ear but soothing her anger, somehow. "He made me look like a fucking idiot, Tessa. And all this time, he just let me go on and on about this stupid dinner, when," she pauses to laugh humorously, eyes wild "he wasn't even planning to go! What is wrong with him?!"
At that, I felt irrationally guilty.
The first thing I'd ever said when Sam mentioned Zed well back in winter break, was that I wanted to meet him immediately. Samantha had never mentioned a boy before to me, so it spoke volumes when she casually (not-so-casually though, Sammie) slipped in his name: Zed, a boy she'd matched with on tinder. After weeks and weeks of pleading, negotiating, and begging, she finally relented, promising that once she was sure he was good, she'd introduce him to me. The reason behind this delay? She knew how sensitive I was about love, relationship, and attachments in general, given my background.
Tonight was supposed to be this dinner. The three of us at some Applebees-esque type restaurant where I'd order a Shirley Temple and amuse myself with the caffeine while they made googily eyes at each other across the table. And then I'd pretend that Noah or Robert needed me at their dorm so that they'll have privacy to indulge themselves in whatever their hormones demanded of them.
Obviously, that didn't happen.
Instead, my poor best friend was told by someone elsethat Zed wasn't in the state, let alone the city.
She's completely right: he's an asshole.
If only I didn't ask for this dinner, then she would have less gasoline to fuel her anger.
I feel almost responsible for her misery, despite knowing it was well out of my hands. But the mother hen inside couldn't help it.
"I just…" she draws out, the fight leaving her. There's pain in her brown eyes and I feel it swallow me, too. "don't want to think about this anymore. I just need to forget about it. I'm tripping. We're not even dating. Who cares what he did or didn't tell me—he doesn't owe me anything,"
"No!" I shout to protest, on my feet before I even realize. Sam's eyes are widened in surprise, given how quiet and calm I've been since she's started her tirade.
"This isn't your fault! You're not tripping!" I say with as much conviction as possible. The words sound funny on my lips and I realize I never advise, I just listen. "He's the jerk here, it's not asking a lot for him to just text you that he won't make it. Or him to just tell you something came up and he's leaving. That's so fucked up, just leaving you hanging!" The curse word is awkward but necessary.
I can tell with that each word her insecurities are diminishing and I'm ecstatic.
"You're right! Absolutely right!" she says, the fire back in her eyes. And I resist heaving out a sigh of relief. A woman's worst state is when she loses her fire.
"What are you doing? Are you calling him?" I ask wearily, watching her stalk to her phone and roughly punch stuff onto her screen.
"Hell no," she snorts and I'm glad for that too. That would've gotten messy quickly. "I'm calling Becca. We're gonna go out tonight."
"Okay, have fun," I say, turning back to my opened laptop that has fallen asleep from no use and completely missing her pointed look. "Call me if you guys need a ride back." I offer, pulling open a few e-reader novels.
I start contemplating where I should position my vanilla candles—last time, it was too close to me, the smell making me heady with sleep, but if not on my shelf, then where?—when Samantha treks over to me and firmly closes my laptop. "Hey!" I whine, thankfully avoiding jamming my fingers with swift reflexes.
"No." she points her index at me and the sight reminds me of my mother.
"Becks," Sam answers as the line goes through. I pout behind her turned back—what did she mean 'no'? All I've looked forward to, this week, is immersing myself into the beauty that is Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennett. "Let's go out tonight…Yeah…she's coming…I'm making her…Uh huh, we'll meet there…Robert'll drive…Alright, bye babe."
"What did Becca say?" I ask hesitantly, praying to God this isn't what I think it is. I was no mood to attend a party. I haven't wanted to since the start of college and I'll never want to, in general.
Sam doesn't answer me and instead walks towards my closet.
"At least ask!" I complain as she starts sifting through my clothes.
"Did you need to borrow something?" I ask, hopeful that is the case.
"No." she answers. "But you might need something of mine." She declares and I groan at that.
"I'm not coming Sam," I said firmly.
"You are."
"Nope. Not a chance."
"You can't avoid this, it's already been decided." She says knowingly and I'm glad that this brief moment of arrogance and entitlement has distracted her from the pain that is Zed…I don't know his last name yet.
"By who?" I guffaw, throwing my head back in amusement. "Are you both my mothers or something?"
"Fairy Godmother," she deadpans and I roll my eyes at that. What a stupid joke. I must've said that out-loud because she indignantly snips: "Ex-cuse you."
"This isn't my scene, Sam." I try to reason with her. There's a reason why I rejected her offer the first thousand times. I'd much rather be here with a book, wrapped coddlingly in my arms, while the lights are dimmed, and the candles alit. And when my eyes finally blur words together, I'll move onto Friendsand binge-watch that until exhaustion wins. That sounds like a beautiful Friday night. Not watching people smoke, drink, and do…that anywhere near my vicinity. No matter how curious I am.
She ignores me, of course. "And those definitely aren't my people!"
At that, she responds, throwing her hands up dramatically. Sammie is nothing, if not dramatic. "I'm your people!" She declares and if she were a boy, perhaps this might've been forced in some heteronormative romance movie.
"I'm your people," she repeats with the same conviction of my defense. "And Becks, and Lil, and Riley—" I stop her with an "Okay, okay!" before she names the rest of our group, or worse, start on our janitor and RA.
She laughs at the scrunch of my face, knowing damn well I'm embarrassed. So Sam being Sam, adds more heat to my blush: "Look, you need to stop being afraid of 'scenes,' whatever the fuck that means. Because the truth is, they're all your scenes. And you will thrive in whatever one you choose. So don't be worried about fitting in, because I will be with you in every step of the way. What did I tell you before, Tessa? We're all in your corner."
I'm appalled to find that her words are affecting me. And I'm appalled, yet unsurprised, I'm crying.
At her smug face, I know she's not surprised either.
"What you need to do," Sam instructs, coming towards me to grab my shoulders. "is sit here, let me do your make-up, let me pick out your clothes, and let me show you a good time, tonight. I just really need you in my corner, tonight, and I know you being there will make everything better."
And that's the last nail in the coffin. And that sealed my fate, in a way.
Years later, when I look back on this moment, on this defining moment where Zed's flimsy mistake catalyzed a chain of reactions that would forever change my life, I'll complain jokingly that Sammie lured me in, trapped me with the schemes of her words. But I'll know better and she'll know better, though I doubt she'll ever contradict my words—it wasn't her words. No amount of verbal coaxing would compare to that of her eyes: it was like looking into my own. The same loneliness that I saw every morning reflected in her brown, pitiful eyes. She was hurt and she needed me. That's what those brown eyes conveyed. And that was what evoked my need to attend.
I must've known since the moment Sam grabbed her phone, because there was a rush of something, of inevitable when I finally sighed and uttered: "Okay."
