Limerence: Chapter 3

I don’t drink the water the detective give me.

I’ve watched enough SVU to know they can snag a suspect’s DNA off those little plastic cups, and though the petite, severe-looking detective made it clear that I’m not a suspect, the paranoia lingers.

The two-way mirror in the interrogation room isn’t doing much to help.

“Right now, I’m not investigating anyone,” Detective Mills assures me. “I’m just trying to piece together what happened. And why.” She’s reiterated this at least five times.

Then again, I’ve answered the same set of questions at least five times too.

No, Mickey didn’t say anything in the cafeteria that’d lead me to believe he’d hurt himself.

No, nobody else said anything that’d lead me to believe they’d hurt Mickey.

No, I didn’t see him jump.

No, I’m no longer a minor and I don’t need you to call my mom.

Yes, I’m fine.

She seems to pick up on the fact that I’m a little squirrelly around law enforcement, not that it’s stopped her from leaving me to stew in this stiff, metal chair while she confirmed my alibi at the scholarship presentation.

The same presentation that Mickey spent in his dorm room, most likely in the middle of –

I shake my head. “I saw him earlier today. During lunch.” It’s been hours since law enforcement pulled me, numb and horrified, from Mickey’s room, and shock still colors every word. “We had plans. We were supposed to give the presentation together. He made sure I knew about it.”

“And how did he seem when you spoke with him?” She tucks a wayward strand of chocolate brown hair back into her tight, military-style bun. She’s young. Maybe early thirties, but the shadows under her brown eyes suggest she probably hasn’t gotten a good night’s sleep for the last ten of them.

I blink down at the metal table, at the empty slots where they’d feed a pair of handcuffs through if I was wearing them. “He seemed…” I keep trying to recall our lunch-time interaction but the details evade me. I can’t seem to remember if he was smiling or frowning or crying or anything else right now. “…Fine. He didn’t seem like he was going to go back to his dorm room and –”

My throat dries up.

I can’t bring myself to say it.

Suicide feels like the wrong word.

A vulgar word.

But it’s the one we’ve been tip-toeing around all night – me, the crying students who found his lifeless body splayed out on the concrete, and the paramedics who arrived on the scene first.

None of us want to be the first one to call a spade a spade.

Detective Mills sighs. “You and Mickey were the only scholarship students at Lionswood, right? A big competitive private school like that, being surrounded by a bunch of rich kids all day…I imagine that must feel very isolating. Were you two close? Did Mickey ever confide in you about things?”

My hands fidget with the empty slots on the table. “No. I wouldn’t say we were friends.”

I’m sure the police have confiscated Mickey’s phone as evidence, and now I’m thinking about all the angry text messages I sent during the presentation, which probably just make me sound like an asshole now.

Then again, I did spend Mickey’s last moments on earth cursing his existence, so maybe I am an asshole.

“Regardless. These sorts of incidents…” She clears her throat. “They’re not always out of the blue. Sometimes, there are warning signs. Indulging in drugs or alcohol, giving away prized possessions, expressing happiness after a recent bout of depression. Did you notice anything like that?”

I shake my head.

“I’m not the person you should be asking these questions to. Yes, Mickey and I were both scholarship kids, but we talked two times a year for academic obligations and that’s it. He wasn’t…” I drum my fingers on the table. “Confiding in me.”

The detective purses her lips and sighs again. We’ve been at this for a while, and I doubt I’m the first – or last – student to sit in this chair tonight. “Alright, Ms. Davis. If you remember something else about Mickey, even if it seems irrelevant, please let me know. Otherwise, I’ll be in touch if I have any further questions for you. In the meantime, it’s late. I’ll have one of my officers escort you back to campus safely.”

I haven’t consumed any caffeine today, but I’m a little jittery when I stand up and she guides me to the door with a pat on the back and an order to get some sleep.

A tall, mustached officer drives me back to the West Wing. There are still a few crime scene investigators milling around the building, sectioning off areas with bright yellow tape.

But no students.

Everyone’s been sent to their rooms for the rest of the night per the urgent email sent from the Dean’s office, citing a “terrible accident.”

The dorm is dead silent when I ascend the stairs, my room the same as I left it this morning – art supplies scattered over my cheap pine desk, my twin-sized bed half-made.

I don’t bother dealing with any of the mess. Not tonight.

I kick off my shoes, crawl under my navy comforter, and close my eyes – which turns out to be a mistake.

Because all I see is Mickey.

Mickey in the cafeteria. Mickey in the hall. Mickey’s brains splattered on the pavement.

I don’t get much sleep.

***

There is a new email in the morning to let everyone know that local law enforcement is investigating the death of a student and that classes have been cancelled for the day. The student is not named, but at least five or ten people saw the paramedics load Mickey’s body onto the stretcher, so I’m not sure it’s much of a mystery, anyway.

Another email comes shortly after, urging students to speak with one of the school psychologists or grief counselors if they’re struggling, followed by something about therapy dogs coming to campus next week.

It’s nothing short of the curated response I’d expect from Lionswood, and yet, I have no idea what to do with myself.

It’s not like Mickey and I had some rich history that actually warrants sitting across from a school psychologist and blowing my nose into a pack of tissues.

TV fails to distract me, so I turn to the internet. Another mistake.

My entire social media feed is Mickey.

My Instagram is full of sad selfies and inspirational quotes captioned with Fly high, Mickey and Heaven received another angel last night. Sophie’s post has gone practically viral – an edited, black-and-white shot of her staring out her dorm window, looking forlorn in a face full of makeup and a skin-tight black sweatsuit.

Feeling extra grateful for everyone in my life today is her caption, and the comments are flooded with people expressing condolences for her loss.

I have to turn off my phone after that.

My entire body feels off-kilter, tilted sideways and unable to straighten out.

It’s not like he’s the only Lionswood student that’s ever died.

My freshman year, there was a girl – a grade or two above me – who perished with her entire family after their private jet went down over the coast of Cabo.

Last year, a boy crashed in a racing accident with his friends.

But Mickey…

Is it because it was a suicide? Because I saw his body?

Or because, only a few hours before, he was laughing with his friends in the cafeteria?

I keep turning the situation over in my brain, but I can’t get it to click right. Mickey seemed happy here. He had friends. Good grades. A future much brighter than mine. And I know the grief counselor would probably tell me that clinical depression is merciless but…

Why did he complete his part of the slideshow if he never planned on presenting it?

Eventually, I can’t ignore the grumbling in my stomach any longer and force myself out of my room in search of a sandwich and fresh air.

I’m expecting the campus to be as still as it was last night, everyone still mourning in the privacy of their dorms, but I find the cafeteria packed full of students.

The mood is unsurprisingly somber, but someone has catered Italian food for the entire senior class, so it’s sadness shared over breadsticks and lasagna.

Since grief’s not going to keep me from a free meal, I load up a plate and scout an empty table. Sophie Adams has taken up residence at the one next to it, surrounded by the usual suspects.

“I reached out to my therapist this morning,” she says, dabbing at her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. Her auburn hair looks freshly blown out, and it doesn’t appear like she’s taken an actual bite of lasagna. “She told me it’s super common to blame ourselves in these situations, but that we need to remember this was no one’s choice but Mickey’s.”

“You, of all people, have nothing to cry about, Soph.” Penelope rubs a comforting hand over Sophie’s back and even Ava has forgone the usual heavy makeup in favor of a little waterproof mascara. “You made him feel included. Like he was one of us.”

Both girls nod in agreement.

“You were so nice to him,” Ava adds, “I mean, his eyes used to practically light up whenever you’d let him eat lunch with us.”

“Or take our group photos,” nudges Penelope.

“Or when you finally followed him on Instagram,” says Ava. “Remember that? He was so happy.”

Sophie nods through her sniffling. “I was going to invite him to my Halloween party this year, too. He said he’d hand out the spiked punch for me.”

She covers her face with the handkerchief, which earns another round of sympathetic pats on the back before she says, “My mascara isn’t running, is it?”

I take a particularly harsh stab at my lasagna till it bleeds ricotta cheese.

I know it’s not my place to police anyone’s grief, but Mickey spent four years trying to infiltrate their social circle, only to be talked about like he was the stray they let sleep in the garage.

After all this time, he’s still a charity case.

Still the scholarship kid.

If death can’t change their minds about that, I’m not sure what will.

Of course, the entire senior class collectively perks up when Adrian Ellis joins the fray a moment later, me included.

He was there last night.

I remember.

He was there.

It’s only now that I recall the way he dashed into the stairwell as soon as I called out for him. Well, not him, because I’d mistaken the dark waves that spill over his forehead for Mickey’s frizzy head of hair.

Definitely more awkward in retrospect.

I can’t help but wonder if he saw me as clearly as I saw him. I’m half-expecting him to look my way as he strides through the cafeteria, but he never does.

Sophie latches onto him as soon as he’s within reaching distance. “I’m so glad you’re here, Adrian,” she cries. “It’s been so awful this morning but…” She shoos Penelope down the bench so that Adrian can take the spot next to her. “I don’t know. I think it might be a little more bearable with you here.”

He offers her a sympathetic smile, but his eyes are as empty as ever. He doesn’t look shaken, but I’m sure he must be. He was only down the hall when Mickey jumped.

“The lasagna is delicious,” Ava chimes in. “Thanks for catering, Adrian.”

So that’s where this massive buffet of gourmet Italian food came from. Another one of Adrian Ellis’ selfless deeds.

“It’s no problem,” he replies with a shrug. “My grandfather always said Italian was the best thing for a grieving heart.” This prompts a chorus of awws from the girls. Even the jocks hanging down at the end of the table look touched by the gesture.

“You’re always thinking of other people, Adrian,” Penelope adds, her voice thick with admiration, as she tucks a piece of honey-blonde hair behind her ears.

Sophie clears her throat. “You know, I was in my dorm when Mickey…” She leans in, mouth parted like it’s a secret. “…jumped. Thank God I didn’t hear it happen but all the screams…did you know Melanie Cohen was walking by when he fell? She saw him hit the ground. Like actually. That’s so traumatizing. I think I’d be in therapy forever if I saw it happen.”

Shocked gasps and nods ripple through the rest of the table.

Adrian’s thick eyebrows crease with concern. “How awful.”

“It was,” she sighs. She strokes one of his broad shoulders. “Where were you? You didn’t see it happen, did you?”

Adrian shakes his head. “Fortunately no. I was in the library all evening, so I missed the commotion, but I heard it was gruesome.”

I pause mid-bite.

What?

Surely I must’ve heard that wrong because I saw Adrian last night. I’m as sure of that as I am of my own name.

He was right down the hall when Mickey leapt from the fifth-story floor. He must’ve seen the paramedics handling Mickey’s body when he exited the dormitory. At the very least, he wouldn’t have been able to completely avoid the screaming, crying students flooded in blue-and-red siren lights.

Which means he’s lying.

Adrian Ellis is flat out lying about his whereabouts last night.

I stare at him.

He’s comforting Sophie now, letting her weep into his shoulder about the unfairness of death.

I push the plate of lasagna away, my appetite gone.