Reed watches Graham take a big sip until Lena and Jess arrive to distract him. Jess stands there defiantly as Lena gives Graham a hug so long you’d never guess he hated everything about her except her body, the one thing that would never be his.

Following Lena, a few other college friends join their group—kids from Yale who all look vaguely familiar. It’s their laughing that really gets to me. Watching the group of them, heads falling back, banging on each other’s shoulders. Even if you’ve never met them, it’s impossible not to assume they’re laughing at you.

I walk toward the kitchen and, without stopping, from a prep table near the back, I snag an overloaded tray of mac and cheese balls and make my way seamlessly up the back stairs. I drift down the hall, quickly but not rushed, past the sitting room, the library, Reed and Veronica’s suite, until I’m in our bedroom, the door locked behind me.

I can still hear the music downstairs, the clanking of Waterford glasses. But in this pitch-black room it feels like I’m on another planet. I feel light-headed, like I’d had fifteen more drinks than I really did, and the familiar claustrophobia begins to set in, sinking over me like fog rolls over the mountains. I try to take a few deep breaths but I can’t—the jumpsuit is too tight, like a corset pulling my ribs so close together they’d morph and I’d never be able to take a deep breath again.

I claw at the side zipper until it’s at my waist, and I can let this stupid costume fall off me—all of it, the outfit, the hair, the spray tan, the eyelash lift, the lipstick, the contour. I want it all gone. And the Brown, the English major, the orphan, the origin story. I close my eyes and pretend, for a moment, that all these things are lifted off me until I’m back in the forest on the edge of campus, squeezing next to Ruthie for warmth. In my khakis, my Aéropostale T-shirt, my borrowed faded Converses, my hand-me-down winter jacket with holes in all the pockets.

She can’t be here. She can’t be anywhere.

Naked, I slide down the wall to the hard floor and spread my legs like I’m about to stretch after a world-class workout. Instead, I bring the tray between them, the perfect spot to grab all the crumbs that fall out of my mouth as I begin.

I eat all thirty-eight mac and cheese balls in nine minutes. I count because knowing the exact numbers makes me feel worse about myself. At this point, good or bad, I’ll do anything to feel something.

SIXTEEN