Within/Without

chapter two.

Val

I regret everything.

Well, not everything. I don't regret moving out. I don't regret saving up and buying my own laptop two years ago. I don't regret reading my first Hemingway novel. What I do regret, though, is staying up until four in the morning last night, because I'm currently running on three hours of sleep and three (going on four) iced coffees, and considering how crappy I already feel, the rest of the day probably isn't going to go much better.

Nevertheless, I put on my jeans, my polka dot blouse, my blazer—even did my makeup and my hair. I'm hoping I don't look like I'm running on three hours of sleep, but the first thing Rita, of my coworkers, says to me when I come into the office is, "Jesus, Val, are you okay?"

So apparently I'm not pulling it off as well as I hoped.

I sling my backpack down underneath my desk; the thud of it could probably be heard all the way across the building. "I'm fine, thanks," I say to Rita, who's stood up from her desk, eyeing me dubiously. She's an impossibly small person, a sort of pastel-goth type from Colombia who stands at about 5'0", not counting the tight top knot she always wears. Rita's also my editor here at our relatively small newspaper, The Terrier's Gazette.

It wasn't my idea to name it after the mascot. In fact, I said quite strictly that we should not. It was an unpopular opinion.

Rita pivots on her heel, disappears for a moment around the corner, and returns with a steaming to-go cup which she forces into my hands. "Here. You need this."

"Rita," I say. I try to hand it back to her, but she doesn't let me. "Please, Rita. This would be—this would be my fifth, maybe? I don't know. I can't count."

"You certainly can't, not when you're this exhausted," says Rita, and when I frown at her, she just waves me off and leans against the edge of my cubicle. She's slightly off-setting one of the pictures I've pinned up of my older sister and me, but I don't say anything. "Tell me, chica. Is there something you want to talk about?"

I set the coffee down on my desk, but push it all the way back in the corner. "I just had an essay due that kept me up. Went out to a cruddy twenty-four hour diner hoping to clear my head a bit, forgot my wallet—"

"Oh, dear," says Rita. The office door opens, and one of the other staff writers, Caz, bustles in, satchel slung over his shoulder and curly hair shoved underneath his typical fluffy beanie. He even wears the thing in the summer. I have somewhat of a theory his hair's just attached to it.

Caz spares Rita and I a minimal wave, and Rita turns back to me, touching my hand briefly. "And how did you get out of that one, might I ask?"

"Luck," I say, sitting back in my chair. "Some guy bought my waffle for me."

"Some guy?"

"Simon," I say, not looking at her. "His name's Simon. He's an English major."

"Oh, an English major!" exclaims Rita, as if she's found a rare gem. "You know what that means!

My eyebrows knit slightly. "That he spends all his time reading books?"

"That he must be romantic," says Rita, with heart-eyes. She sees the look of utter disgust on my face and leans away from my cubicle, laughing to herself. "Oh, you know it's true! They have read all the books. So they have all the game."

"We'll see about that."

"Oh, will we?" Rita says. "When are you seeing him again?"

I let the question sit untouched for a moment like food that came out too hot, not because I don't know the answer, but rather because I don't want to give Rita the satisfaction of hearing it. I still remember the quiet, questioning way he'd said, Next time? like he hadn't been expecting it. In a way, neither was I.