Rob

Rob opened the Ziploc bag and removed one of the small white pills.

He wasn’t sure how this one would go down with alcohol, but he figured the worst possible side effect would be nausea, and it seemed worth the risk.

Hannah’s phone calls from the wedding had made him anxious, and he suspected that the white pill might help.

He placed the small oval on his tongue and took a sip of the Belgian beer he’d bought earlier that night at the specialty market down the street. The beer tasted like Bud Light, which was ridiculous because it cost three times as much.

Rob glanced at his phone, which was where he’d left it, on top of his poorly assembled IKEA coffee table. All of Rob’s furniture was one missing screw away from breaking. Rob didn’t like reading directions, so he put things together by guessing. He often finished such projects only to find that he hadn’t used all the nails and hinges that came in the box. The end table next to his bed had just broken the week before under the weight of three heavy books. The two bookshelves in his living room swayed whenever he added to his library. He was careful moving around in his apartment, knowing that at any moment it could all fall down.

Rob had received so many phone calls today that he was beginning to hear phantom rings. He found himself checking and rechecking the phone. He considered turning it off but didn’t want to. To be honest with himself, he’d admit that he was desperate to see the small screen turn bright green and show Hannah’s number one more time. He didn’t necessarily want to answer her calls, but he wanted her to keep reaching out.

That was Rob’s thing, Hannah had always said, wanting to be wanted.

This was the most Rob had thought about Hannah in years. Almost a decade had passed since his three years at Syracuse, and when he was busy with his real life in Austin, it usually felt as if he’d invented the memories from that time in his life or, better yet, that he’d seen them on a television show and adopted them as his own. It seemed inconceivable that he’d once lived in central New York and failed out of school. Only his second life seemed real.

Most people didn’t even know that Rob had attended Syracuse. To his friends in Austin, he was the guy who worked for the University of Texas library, a job that allowed him to get a degree for free. He was the guy who easily managed a good grade point average and graduated with recommendations from three of his English professors. In a few months, he’d start applying to grad schools. He freelanced, writing book reviews for the local alternative weekly.

Up until now his only tangible proof that Syracuse had ever happened were student loan bills and occasional calls and e-mails from Hannah, who would update him about his old friends, namely Bee, Vicki, and Hannah’s ex-boyfriend Tom, who had been Rob’s closest male companion back at school.