19 | veronica sawyer

CHAPTER NINETEEN | VERONICA SAWYER

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The two weeks leading up to Halloween are torture.

I've never been much of a fan of Halloween—both the holiday and the movie franchise—and Emma was always the one who enjoyed dressing up, going as far as dragging me along for trick or treating back when we were younger, so I have plenty of excuses not to partake in any activities this year. It's boring, I have to study, I'm too old for this—the list just goes on.

Right before November, I'm the busiest I've ever been. November is notorious for making college students cry and this isn't my first rodeo, so I know what to expect, even if I'm a sophomore now and that's supposed to be an entirely different world. It's not that different from freshman year, especially with the professors here being significantly more lax than those back in Chicago, but I want to believe that's a general characteristic and not one they're saving for me like special treatment.

All things considered, I'm handling the work fine. I've done worse with time management and, even though my current situation isn't ideal—work is still piling up, after all—it's not nearly as bad as it used to be. I want to believe this is a consequence of my perseverance and hard work, despite it not being perfectly adequate, and not an effect of people taking pity on me. Sympathy I can handle, but pity is on a whole new level and it makes my skin crawl.

Halloween landing on a Friday this year does no wonders to my concentration and motivation. I stay on campus for longer than I ever did, finding I can focus better at the campus library with Betty than at home when it's quiet, but with Halloween being right around the corner, it feels like a different place than I'm used to.

People are already dressing up, including costumes in very poor taste when it comes to my personal opinion—all the Ghostfaces and Michael Myers running around only remind me of the trolls calling my house phone months ago. They're not allowed to bring weapons to campus, not even plastic or 3D printed ones, so I'm not running the risk of turning in a hallway and having someone in a mask jump out from a dark corner with something that can physically harm me, but still.

I've never liked horror movies, especially those that depend on cheap tactics to scare the audience like jumpscares, so I don't appreciate being put through that in real life. People must think it's hilarious to reference classic horror movie villains around me, like those trolls did, but they don't understand they're messing with my real life, not watching an actor play a character on the screen. They find it much easier to empathize with a fictional character than with someone they see on campus every day, and it's something my brain can't comprehend.

My suffering and my trauma only matter if they're dramatized and adapted to an audience who wants to be entertained. Otherwise, I'm on my own.

The new version of me I want to adopt is one that shakes off those thoughts. That new version refuses to think about my trauma at a meta level, assuming everyone around me has the same insight capabilities as I do regarding something that's so personal or that they would even bother to think about it that way. Realistically, I'm the only one dissecting it to extensive detail and no one else cares that much, so I'm better off accepting it instead of fighting to change the status quo.

Not caring about people's interpretation of my trauma might be what has led to me sitting next to Callum, out of all people, at the café.

If I've barely had any one-on-one conversations with Odette since we first met, I can safely say this is the first time I've been alone with Callum. I'm not uncomfortable around him and he joined my table without hesitation, like he officially considers me a part of the group, and his informed selectiveness is enough to let me know I've received a Callum stamp of approval. Betty, on the other hand, would probably see this as me betraying her and joining the dark side, like Callum is public enemy number one, but the two of us seem to get along just fine in silence.

He sits next to me, typing furiously on his laptop, and I risk a timid glance at the screen. He's working on an Introduction to Psychology paper on human development, a course one would assume he took when he was a freshman, but I don't say this out loud to sour our budding relationship. I'm busy myself, pretending to know what I'm doing with a Film Studies essay when I haven't sat down to watch a movie in months. I don't have the ability to stay focused on a screen for that long, regardless of how interesting the movie is.

"You're hovering," Callum says, after a while. "It's distracting."

He says it so casually I know it's not meant to strike a nerve, but it still does. He sounds so much like Xavier, echoing his words to me from not that long ago, and I'm taken back to that moment in the kitchen like astral projection. My body stays physically in the library with him, watching us on a screen, unable to control my thoughts or my movements, like all of that was decided by someone else, but my brain is back in Xavier's kitchen.

I don't regret what I said and the way I reacted, though every time I'm reminded my mere presence there was distracting and, therefore, bothersome, I'm overcome by the urge to pack my bags and go back to Chicago. It's a bitter reminder that Xavier is my home, but I'm not his.

"You're doing that thing again," Callum continues, without ever sparing as much as a quick look my way from the corner of his eye. He types so fast his Google document has a hard time keeping up. "I feel like I just lost you. Where did your mind go?"

My cheeks heat up with embarrassment, leaving me to wonder just how many people have seen me do this—and who they are. "Do you notice that sort of thing often?"

He shrugs. "I'm observant and bored. Odette cares about you. It keeps me entertained and it keeps her satisfied to have someone looking out for you. I like making her happy. It's a win-win situation." He looks at me exactly when my stomach sinks, raising my suspicions about him paying more attention to me than I expected from someone who's never said two words to me since August. Ice spreads across my chest, lodged between my ribs, and I shudder. "I'm not stalking you. She didn't ask me to keep an eye on you, either; she's convinced you can take care of yourself fine and, even if you couldn't, your guard dog can handle it. I mean your actual dog," he quickly adds, when my eyes narrow, and he nods towards Sidney. "I'm obviously not talking about Elizabeth."

"Obviously not."

"I mean . . ." He leans back on his chair, giving me a full view of Sidney resting her head on his thigh, looking up at him with big, pleading eyes. No one is eating—this is still a library, after all, and I stick to the rules—so this is just her wanting to be pet, ever the adorable traitor. To his credit, he does scratch her behind the ears, which earns him several points in her eyes. "See, I know you don't like me much—"

"I've never spoken to you in my life, actually."

"—but you must've heard something about me. Those are usually just opinions. Opinions are subjective." I wrinkle my nose. I don't know him well enough—or even at all—to agree with either end of the spectrum regarding the nature of his character, but limiting human beings to black or white terms feels too reductive. Siding with either Betty or Odette when it comes to their opinion of him isn't something I want to do, especially when both of them will always be biased and have their reasons to do so. "Form your own opinion. Or, you know, don't. I'm sure you have more important things to worry about."

He does have a point, though I'm not willing to admit to it aloud.

My desperate need to please everyone is pathological to the point of fabricating a reality where there aren't two opposing sides and where I'm allowed to either stay in the comfortable middle or find my own side. I don't know if it's possible, but it feels like the easiest way to avoid conflicts, the most important thing in my life, and I don't want to piss people off by not being able to form my own opinions.

Callum is also right about there being more important things, but I don't know how long I'll be staying here in Juneau, so making enemies is even more dangerous when there's so much to lose. I don't want to turn into an outcast and be shunned for having no friends after making too many bad decisions, namely antagonizing the wrong people—particularly those who have been nothing but welcoming to me—and I fear that's the road I'll be heading towards if I keep this up.

Ideally, I won't have to choose a side. Betty and Odette will make up and acknowledge that one boy can't be the reason a lifelong friendship implodes and enters self-destruction mode, and Callum and Betty will learn to be civil with one another. Meanwhile, I'll comfortably be sitting in mediocrity, in the bland gray area, thanks to lacking the courage to stand up for myself or other people. Why bother with that when I can do everything possible to run away from confrontation?

"We're throwing a Halloween party this Friday," Callum tells me, ignoring my inner monologue. "I know you don't go out, but you're free to attend if you'd like a change of pace and scenery. Everyone's invited as long as they know the party exists and where it's held. We're hosting it on an if you know, you know basis."

"Everyone?"

He sighs, pinching his nose bridge. "Yes, everyone. That includes Elizabeth. It doesn't mean she's going."

My stomach's knots are tied tighter than ever. Like she senses my discomfort, Sidney trots over around our table to sit next to me instead, bumping her head against the side of my knee, and my hand sets between her shoulder blades.

It's not that I don't want to go.

Parties were always Emma's thing, and I was the type of best friend that allowed herself to be dragged to those events because I wanted to make her happy, fighting against the urge to complain the whole time. Most of the time, I ended up having fun, much to her amusement, and she used to tell me I was more like her than I liked to admit. With Emma being gone and Betty most likely not attending this Halloween party, along with my general distaste for this city's celebration of said holiday, things are looking bleak. Besides, I can't bring Sidney along, as it would be far too loud, far too messy for her to handle, and I can't allow myself to put her through that much stress even if it comes at the cost of my psychological and emotional well-being.

Ever since Mom came back home with her, I've never gone anywhere without Sidney. From airplane rides to lectures and therapist appointments, she's always been there. I know there will be a point in our lives when she'll be just a pet and not a psychiatric service dog—at least I hope I'll be better at some point in the future—so it's not needed to drag her along with me everywhere I go, but I don't want to part ways with her.

She's mine, not just as a service dog, and I'm not giving her up once she retires. I made sure to read the paperwork through and through, something I've learned from Mom and all the contracts she has signed throughout the years, and made demands where I could make them, including getting to keep Sidney for myself. I wouldn't want to endanger her unnecessarily, regardless of her training, and I know I can't take her to a house party where she can get hurt, but what am I supposed to do without her? What do I do without my emotional crutch?

"I don't know," I tell him. "I can't take Sidney to a party."

Callum turns to me. It's the first time I'm noticing the green hue of his eyes. "Right. I forgot about that part." He sets his elbow on the desk, resting his cheek on his closed fist to keep looking at me. "Look, I understand if it's not your sort of thing. It's not mine, either, but sometimes it's good to change your routine, meet new people, experience new things. No one will hold it against you if you don't go, but just know that both OC and I would really like you to be there and will be there to support you when Sidney can't."

Something, an unknown feeling, prickles the back of my head. Doctor Albott's voice echoes in my mind, a reminder I need to be able to identify and accept these feelings in order to process my grief the proper, healthy way.

"You don't know me," I murmur. "You don't need to go out of your way to make me feel comfortable."

He hums. "I don't. And yet . . ." He shrugs, returning to his previous position to tackle the remainder of his essay. "Anyway, at the end of the day, it's your decision. If you decide to go, we'll be there for you. If you decide to stay home, that's fine, too. We'll see you the following Monday as usual."

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"I don't know if it's a good idea," Betty tells me, slumped on my bed, with her laptop resting on her crossed legs, while the ends of her hair form spirals on my bedroom floor. Outside, the sun is already setting, coating the city in shades of orange and maroon. "Like, I promise this time I'm not just saying that because of Callum. I think it's cool of him to offer to keep you company, and all, and I assure you he wouldn't do that if he didn't care, but . . ."

I sigh, fixing my wool blanket around my shoulders once it starts sliding off my back. "Please don't tell me what I think you're about to tell me." She's upside down, but her blue eyes are still bright, covered in an emotion I am actually able to decipher. "You don't need to worry about me. I haven't made a decision yet; I'll probably end up chickening out and not going."

Betty straightens, setting her laptop aside. "Please don't get mad at me. I know I was overstepping during Awareness Week and this is still a decision you'll have to make yourself, but I'm worried about you regardless. It feels a bit . . . reckless, you know? If not reckless, then sudden. I think that's a better way of putting it. Not that long ago, you wouldn't even go out for coffee after therapy with me and Odette, so it feels like too big of a jump too fast, like there was no middle step." She raises her hands defensively, like she even has a reason to be scared of any of my reactions—I like to think of myself as being pretty reasonable—and the look in her face quickly turns apologetic. "I'm not trying to tell you what to do, but don't do anything you're not ready to do just because it's what you feel like you should be able to do. Don't try to rush things if you're not mentally prepared."

I stand up from my seat by the desk, leaving the blanket behind. As soon as I do it, shivers raise goosebumps on my arms. "See, that's the thing. I don't know if I'll ever be mentally prepared. I'm scared that I'll only be prepared for it long after the right time has passed, like when I'm in my thirties, or something. No one wants to be that person at a party." She scrunches up her nose. "I know there are still two more years of college to go, as long as I don't get held back by academic probation, but I'll be busier then. Maybe there won't be other opportunities like this."

"Wendy, babe, this is college. There will always be house parties."

I clasp my hands together. The lower temperatures of late October haven't done my naturally dry skin any wonders and I swear I can constantly hear that annoying scratching sound. That, in turn, leaves me panicked about whether other people can hear it as well or if it's just a figment of my imagination. "Fair point." I turn to her, like a lightbulb has just lit up in my head. "What if I ask Xavier for an opinion?"

"Xavier."

"Yeah."

"I can already hear his voice in my head." She clears her throat, then lowers the pitch of her voice. "No, Wendy, absolutely not. Alcohol is super dangerous even though I work at a bar and have never felt the joy of a college party in my life because I'm boring—"

I throw her a pillow, but we're both cackling like mad women. "He doesn't sound like that."

"He totally sounds like that! Owning a bar is probably the most interesting thing about him."

"Come on."

"It's true! I'll go ask him right now. Hey, Xavier, tell me all about the fun stuff you've done with your life besides the bar." She dramatically rolls her eyes. She's recently started to apply some black pencil liner to her lower waterline, which makes them pop even more. "I know he's your brother, your platonic soulmate and all that, but dear Lord, the dude's boring."

"Mind your own business, Elizabeth," Xavier says, from across the hallway. When we both turn to look at my open door, he stands by the entryway, holding a laundry basket. "I've just thrown out the bolognese leftovers I'd been saving for you. The kitchen felt a bit boring."

Betty jumps out of the bed, fully alert. "You didn't."

Xavier shrugs. "It was pretty cathartic, actually."

She turns to me, huffing. "See? See? This is what I had to deal with before you got here."

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he he he #callumrights (i am being 100% serious here)

this was getting too long so enjoy a little filler chapter. action returns next chapter, named after the love of my life