Parallel

Knowing the contents of the Beta pantry, I passed on the breakfast offer. “You up for a study date tomorrow?”
    “Sure,” I tell him. “Sounds great.” Actually, the idea kind of terrifies me. Maybe if I spend today studying but act like I didn’t, I’ll know enough to seem believably but not embarrassingly unprepared. Just as I’m turning to go, he pulls me into a kiss. Grateful for the gum in my mouth, I kiss him back, tasting the cinnamon heat of the Fireball on his lips. I close my eyes and inhale, breathing in the scent of him, sugary cinnamon and soap. There’s something so familiar about the combination. I inhale again, deeper this time. And all of a sudden it’s not Michael I’m kissing but Josh.
    I snap my head back, caught off guard by the memory. Michael gives me a quizzical look. “Everything okay?” he asks.
    “Yeah, uh, everything’s fine,” I say. “I should get going, that’s all. See you later!” I peck him on the cheek and hurry down the steps.
    The crowd at Starbucks is pretty small for a Saturday morning, which is incentive enough for me to stop. It takes all my willpower not to think about Josh and that kiss as I’m waiting to order. The memory just keeps popping up, taunting me with its movie-moment perfection. The blanket of stars, the cool night breeze. Don’t be silly, Abby. I want to date you. Are you free tomorrow night?
    An impatient homeless man in tattered army fatigues stands uncomfortably close to me in line, jingling coins in his hand. “It’s your turn!” he yells gruffly, inches from my ear. I step up to the counter and quickly order my latte.
    “That’ll be five eighty-five.” The cashier looks bored.
    As I dig through my bag for my wallet, the guy behind me taps his foot loudly and impatiently, still jingling his coins. Frazzled, I start taking stuff out and putting it on the counter. Mascara . . . keys . . . cell phone . . . a travel pack of Band-Aids . . . a package of highlighters . . . yesterday’s YDN . Where is my wallet? The coin jingling intensifies. When I was in L.A., I bought this great vintage messenger bag with five compartments—my consolation prize for having to put college on hold. Now I’m back to using my old slouchy black satchel, a bag with a mind of its own. Invariably, whatever item I need has disappeared to the very bottom. Like my wallet has done at this particular moment. By the time I find it, my latte is already ready and the guy behind me is about to lose it. “I’ll pay for his, too,” I whisper to the cashier, handing him an extra five-dollar bill. Feeling like I’ve broken the social code by taking too long in the Starbucks line, I keep my head down as I grab my coffee and bolt out the door.
    Marissa and Ben are still gone when I get back to our room, which is good, because I want to be at the library by ten, and there is no such thing as a five-minute conversation with Ben Blaustien. He’s so well-read and well-watched and well-listened that he’s always just read/seen/heard some super-fascinating story on CNN.com or NPR that he assumes you’ll find equally fascinating and want to hear all about and then discuss at length. Great if you’re stuck in an elevator or standing in line for pizza at Yorkside. Not so great when you’re in a time crunch because you need to cram for a study session with the guy you’re pretty sure is your boyfriend even though neither of you have called him that yet.
    I drop my bag on my bed and step out of my boots. As I’m unbuttoning my jeans, my eyes wander to the wall above my desk, to the spot where I hung my birthday present from Marissa. The photograph of Caitlin and me at the Freshman Picnic.
    Only . . . it’s gone.
    There’s a framed photograph there, but it’s of me by myself, sitting cross-legged under an oak tree on Cross Campus. It’s a cool, arty shot—obviously Marissa’s handiwork. But it’s not the picture she gave me.
    Beads of sweat prickle on my upper lip. Where’s the other photo?
    The memory of my fight with Caitlin comes barreling back.
    “Oh, God,” I breathe. There’s no picture of us because Caitlin and I aren’t friends anymore.
    No. That can’t be right. That fight was last October. Sure, it was awful, but there’s no way Caitlin and I stayed mad at each other for an entire year.
    Frantic for answers, I dump the contents of my bag on my bed, but my phone’s not there. Crap. I must’ve left it at Michael’s.
    With shaking hands, I reach