The Scammer(66)

He crosses his arms. “You know more than most.”

“Oh really?” I step closer. “Why don’t you do girlfriends, Nick?”

Nick falters, his jaw going slack. “Jordyn . . . I . . .”

But I’m already walking away, back to Rock Hall, trying not to listen to the voice inside my head that’s saying, you should have never trusted him.

’Cause that voice sounds just like Devonte.



* * *




The suite reeks of garbage. The fridge contains nothing but rotting fruit and vegetables. On the bottom of our oven lie the burnt carcasses of past meals that set off the smoke alarm whenever anyone turns on the broiler. Our bathroom is musty, with piss stains all over the seat. Without Kammy around . . . the place has gone to hell. The Kappa house was cleaner and that’s saying a lot.

Out in the living room, there’s laughter, music, joy. Devonte’s voice a humming melody.

No one talks to me.

No one even looks at me.

I’m a ghost. A whore. A bed wench.

The day before Thanksgiving used to be one of my favorites. I’d help Mom with food shopping and prep while watching silly Christmas comedies. Now, I’m stuck on the Amtrak home page, trying to bring myself to buy a ticket, but my fingers can’t press a single key.

So I click through the photo album. It brings me ease, grounds me when I’m ready to fall apart.

In the five stages of grief, the depression stage is when the sadness is so consuming you lose the ability to function, overwhelmed by hopelessness. The simple act of breathing is so exhausting that you don’t even want to function. You just want to sink. That’s what I’m ready to do, sink into a hole and never come out.

My phone buzzes. Nick.

I don’t want to talk to him but I haven’t spoken a word out loud to anyone in twenty-four hours and I’m afraid if I don’t use my voice, I’ll lose it.

“Hey you,” he says.

Tension in my shoulders fades. “Hey.”

“I’m . . . just checking in. Are you okay?”

I try to think of the best combination of words that would eloquently describe how I’m feeling.

“I . . . don’t know what I am right now.”

“Have you eaten today?” he asks.

There he goes again. Caring. I suck my teeth. “What do you want, Nick?”

He sighs. “Jordyn. I’m sorry. You’re right. I should’ve had your back. These rumors are stupid. It’s just, with my position as president . . .”

I laugh bitterly. “Politics, I tell ya. Even on a college campus.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” he says with a chuckle. “Wait, are you still in your room?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you would be back in Connecticut by now.”

I look at the photo album, my heart aching.

“I . . . don’t want to go back and face my parents. I don’t want to spend the next four days being chewed out. I’m not wanted here, I’m barely wanted there. I just don’t feel like I fit in anywhere. God, the story of my life.”

There’s a brief silence on the line.

“Pack a bag. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

“Nick, I can’t move back in with you. I—”

“Not moving back in. I’m taking you home.”

Home? Does he mean home home?

I sit up straight. “Wait, seriously?”





Twenty-Five




Nick was mostly silent on the drive down to North Carolina. So I’m not sure what to expect. How does he plan to explain our relationship to his parents? Am I walking through the doors as his girlfriend or just a homeless friend needing a place to go? They must be okay with Black people to let their son go to Frazier so maybe it won’t be a dinner filled with nonstop microaggressions. Like at Jack’s house. I try to imagine what his mom looks like, what she’ll cook for Thanksgiving dinner, and what silly dad jokes his father will say over his beer.

Nick pulls into a driveway just shy of two a.m. Even in the darkness, I can make out how enormous the place is. A modern rustic ranch-style home sitting on the bank of a river, the exterior made of cobbled limestone, wide windows throughout. There’s even a fountain in the driveway.

“Um, where’s the bathroom?” I whisper, as he opens the front door, not wanting to wake the whole house. Although I’m somewhat disappointed that his parents didn’t at least try to stay up to greet us.

“No need to whisper,” he says, flicking on the foyer lights. “No one’s here but us.”

“No one? But . . .”

“Bathroom’s this way,” he says, his voice sharp as he walks down a hallway, flicking on lights as he goes. The air has a dampness to it, chill slithering into my bones. In the bathroom, I splash some cold water on my face, trying to organize my thoughts.

We’re spending Thanksgiving here . . . alone?

I walk out into the living room, a creamsicle scene, with beige carpet, a giant U-shaped sofa, and a TV that looks more like a movie screen. The entire back wall is made of floor-to-ceiling windows that face the river. A tiny dock stretches out into the water.

Nick is at the thermostat, turning up the heat.

“Soooo . . . where is everybody?” I ask, rubbing my arms.