Page 2 of Blitz

“I go here now. I transferred to Newton.”

What happened to Georgetown? She never gave me a real reason for dumping me two days before I left for college, but I can’t discount the distance between DC and Boston played a part.

“I go here now. I decided it was a better fit,” she says.

Did she come here for me?

I don’t know how I feel about that. I love her, I’ve loved her since I was too young to know better, but a part of me will always hate her for the half-life she cursed me into living. I don’t need to drink unicorn’s blood to be tethered to her, unable to properly move on. There are so many unanswered questions between us.

My heart hammers in my chest like I’ve just done ten laps around the field in full gear. “Why are you here?”

“It’s good to see you.”

“I can’t say the same."

“King…”

“Don’t call me that,” I snap.

I can’t let her make me remember the good times, when all she’s done is condemn me to a lifetime of bad.

“I’m volunteering here,” she says. “There are people here in need of help. I can help.”

“You should leave.”

“I just got here.”

“No, you should leave Newton. Transfer somewhere else. Anywhere else.”

She forces a laugh. “Surely we can share the same university. It’s been two years.”

And a half.

“Oh, good, you’re both here,” a voice says, and we both jump at the sight of Professor Alvarez, the director of the assessment center. “We can get started.”

I chance a glance at Mason. She looks as confused as I feel. “Get started?”

“You two will be staffing the center on Monday and Wednesday afternoons,” she says, like it’s a given.

It’s true that my afternoons are wide open. I don’t have any classes scheduled those days. After our weight lifting session at seven and my morning classes, I’m free the rest of the day to review tape or get in a second workout. Or do my homework.

Mason gulps. Loudly. “The two of us?”

“Plus a few graduate students getting their hours in,” Professor Alvarez continues agreeably.

The assessment center provides services to school-aged children, teenagers, and adults with and without diagnoses. It’s open to the community, not just the university’s students and faculty. It’s mainly staffed by graduate students getting in clinical hours with a few undergraduate volunteers—like me—to do the boring work, like checking in clients, preparing their diagnostic paperwork, and doing any grunt work the grad students require.

Professor Alvarez shows us to our desks, two seats side by side, behind a wide reception desk. The online check-in system is easy enough to understand. The database is slightly more complicated.

“We’ll go over the appointment system in depth later,” Professor Alvarez says.

“Great,” Mason says with a bright smile on her face. She’s always been bubbly and cheerful, pulling me out of my dark funks when things got to be too much.

I wish it were anyone else in the world sitting beside me right now. I’d even take Tony O’Rourke, the big man on campus and resident bully who has never not once had a kind word for anyone ever, over being trapped in a small office with my ex-girlfriend. And now we’re going to spend several hours a week together, every week. I’d rather have a prostate exam—without lube.

Every minute is excruciating, sitting here beside her, smelling her clean citrus soap and something else uniquely Mason. My traitorous eyes rove hungrily over her form. She’s filled out a bit, her shape curvier than it was before. She’s grown up. She’s probably still running. I hope she’s still running.

We’re released after a quick two-hour orientation.