“No, no. Nothing like that,” I stammer.
“Jesus fuck, Ian, no. She’d be at the hospital and I’d be at central booking if one of those assholes tried anything.”
“Good. But that still doesn’t explain why you’re here.”
“Phoebe wanted to go home, but when she launched into a full-blown panic attack, I decided to bring her to you. I figured you’d know what to do. You’re a Psych major.”
“I’m not actually a medical professional, Mel. Just a grad student.”
“Well, I mentioned calling a doctor, and I was pretty sure Phoebe here was about to pass out, so I figured therapy time with Ian was our best bet. You dole out advice to strangers on social media, that’s gotta count for something.”
“Oh my Jesus, Mel. Not the same thing.” He sighs, but turns back to me. “Do you have meds with you?”
I nod, knowing there’s a Xanax in my bag for exactly this reason. I hate taking them, but I hate this more, so I take the pill with a swallow of water. The look of worry starts to ease a little from Ian’s face and Mel has stopped pacing. God. “I’m sorry. I--”
“No, that’s not what we’re doing,” Mel scolds kindly. “You are not apologizing. I am. You said parties weren’t your scene, so when things got a little chaotic, we should have left. Phoebe, I’m so sorry. I should never have gone inside without you. I--”
I look up at my roommate. Despite tonight’s disaster, she’s become a good friend in only a few short weeks. As such, I owe her my honesty. “Mel, it’s okay. You had no way of knowing--”
“I did. You said you weren’t cool with parties.”
“It’s ok--”
“It’s not, and I’m really sorry.”
I nod, and lean into the hug she offers. She and Ian continue to fuss over me, and I just burrow deeper into the couch, my fingers toying with the fringe on the afghan that sits in a puddle beside me.
They’re talking now, and I tune them out, unable to worry about anyone else’s conversations right now. I’m just thinking about getting home. And not home as in my dorm, but home, home. What happened tonight cements the idea that I’m just not cut out for this. What a fool I was to think moving--leaving--would change anything. It hasn’t. I’ll just move back and keep doing what I was doing--taking care of my mom. And I’ll take more classes at the community college, if I feel like it. It’s not a thrilling existence, not a daring one. But maybe that’s all I’m cut out for right now. If pushing myself out of my comfort zone results in a full-blown panic attack in a stranger’s back yard? Yea, well, sign me up for boring and reclusive. At least it’s what I know how to do.
Part of me winces because Dylan would not have approved. He’d tell me to wipe my tears and get back out there. He was brave and bold and fearless and--
I stop that train of thought from running through my head when I hear my friends say his name. My head turns sharply to Ian and Mel. “What did you say?”
Mel’s face is kind, her words gentle. “Phoebe, honey, can you tell me who Dylan is?”
Panic washes over me again, the force so strong, I shudder. He’s never far from my thoughts, but hearing his name is almost more than I can handle most days.
“How do you know his name?”
“You kept asking for him in the car, and I thought--I don’t know, but anyway… Ian--” Her voice fades again, but I see Ian’s phone in his hand. A simple google search of our names will pull up about a thousand articles about his death, the hazing, and the trial.
I don’t say anything because I have nothing to add. Anything they want to know is right there on the internet for anyone to read. But I don’t want to read it, or see it, or talk about it. I lived it, and that is more than enough.
And I don’t want to see the looks of pity and horror on their faces after they read about the way my brother died.
I don’t want to wonder what they’re thinking.
Did he suffer?
Did the guy responsible go to jail?
Didn’t he know he shouldn’t drink that much?
Did they really leave him in that basement all night?
For more than two years I’ve seen those questions, and a million even more invasive ones, on the faces of the people I see every day--at the grocery store, at school. Everywhere I went there was pity. Pity and chatter.
And I don’t want that anymore. I thought I could escape it. I thought a hundred miles and a few hours would give me space to breathe.
