FIFTEEN: I Don't Want To Give Him The Satisfaction

All the best parts of Saturday night are a blur. So naturally, all the parts I want to forget burn all too bright in my memory – my painful encounter with Harlan when I saw him with that woman. The embarrassing encounter with him right after – the one that begins with me throwing up in a trash can on the sidewalk and ends with me biting back tears while my friends shuffle me into the back of Jax's car.

I've never dreaded my classes with Harlan before. Even after this whole thing started, the anticipation of seeing him in the classroom, knowing he'd be seeing me, fills me with so much excitement I think I’ll burst.

Now, I'm dreading it.

I'm embarrassed.

But more than that, I'm angry.

And the anger supersedes the embarrassment by a long shot. I'd gotten too drunk. And I'd somehow run into Harlan fucking Harlan while I was out, and that sucks. But I remind myself that it isn't my fault I'd wound up in the same place, and in fact, he is the last person I'd wanted to see. The entire point of going out is for me to jumpstart the process of getting over him.

I used to practically get buzzed off of picking my outfit for class. I used to make it a point to try and be noticed. To try and distract him during his lectures. Throwing it all together... my makeup, my hair, my clothes – it became my mission to look as best as I could so that he'd notice me. And to watch him, trying to catch him in the act of checking me out. That is a flirtation in itself, isn't it? It’s fun. Exciting. Thrilling. It never works, of course. Or, rather, it actually does work, but he never lets on.

Today is different.

I spent Sunday hungover, and I didn't hear a word from Harlan. Monday, I'm feeling marginally better physically speaking, but emotionally I'm just as much as a wreck as I was the day before, and the day before that.

Who the hell is that woman?

Tall, dark, and intimidating-looking, she'd looked like she'd stepped out of Vogue magazine. She is hotter than every woman I'd seen that night, and that makes me despise her even more. And the worst part is he doesn't owe me anything. She isn't doing anything wrong. I'm mad. And I don't have a reason to be, at least not at her.

Because he and I aren't even together. We never were.

Him, on the other hand, I'm furious with. And I have reason to be.

Facing him, facing it all. I'm dreading it. I'm dreading it so much I consider skipping. I almost do. I'm nearly late because I stay in bed up to the last possible minute, having made up my mind that I'm not going to his dumb class.

But then I realize I don't want to give him the satisfaction. And with barely any time to spare, I leap out of bed, shoving my blankets to the side with frustration, yank on some leggings, saying "fuck you" to the concept of underwear, throw on a white cropped tee and an over-sized sweatshirt I'd stolen from Jax's car the other night when I was cold and crying and whining.

Throwing my backpack over my shoulder and slipping a pair of Birkenstocks over my socks, I hustle out the door, grabbing my sunglasses and lanyard off the coffee table as I go.

And though I can't believe how shitty my life feels, within ten minutes of me leaving my dorm and power-walking across campus, I find myself sitting in my usual spot in Harlan's classroom, staring out the window with knots in my stomach, wondering why he is running late and wishing he would just show up already so I can get the trauma of watching him walk into the room over with.