Chapter 6: The End of the Equation

He kicked at the gravel, hands shoved in his pockets. For once, he looked almost shy.

I finally breathed a sigh of relief.

It felt like a weight lifted. For the first time, I thought maybe things could go back to normal.

Graham started dating again.

He bounced back fast, as always. Soon, he was back in the cafeteria, flirting with a new girl every week.

Each one was pretty, confident, and had her own style—he changed girlfriends like he changed playlists. He was still my deskmate, but finally stopped bugging me, and eventually, people stopped linking us together.

The gossip faded, and I slipped back into my routine. Graham became just another guy in the yearbook.

I honestly doubted if Graham even knew what it meant to really like someone. His feelings were like the New England weather—sunny one minute, stormy the next.

He seemed to float above it all, never really settling anywhere. I wondered if he even knew what he wanted.

Sometimes I’d see him skip class to buy Dunkin’ for a girl he was chasing, and the next day, break up with her over Snapchat.

He’d lounge on the quad, iced coffee in hand, texting with a smirk. The next morning, he was back to his old self, as if nothing had happened.

Sometimes I’d see a girl crying, begging him not to leave. He’d speak gently, smiling, but there was a cold impatience: “Didn’t you know what kind of guy I was before we started? Let’s just end it, no drama.”

He was always polite, never mean, but there was a chill in his words that made me shiver.

I worked on my math problems, watching his ruthless, unmoved attitude, and said, “Graham, you really are a jerk.”

I didn’t raise my voice, just said it matter-of-factly. He looked at me, half-smiling.

He leaned back, hands spread: “I’m a jerk, but at least I’m honest about it. I flirt out in the open. Better than those guys who sneak around.”

He shrugged, like that made it okay. There was a weird kind of integrity in his honesty.

He smiled at me: “Besides, as long as you don’t date me, I’m a pretty good guy.”

His eyes twinkled, and I couldn’t help but snort. He was impossible.

That was true.

I lowered my head and kept working, ignoring him.

He didn’t seem offended. If anything, he looked relieved.

The first time we drank together was after graduation. The class threw a big party. Everyone was in a weird mood, and swept up in it, I took a few sips of cheap beer.

The air was thick with nostalgia and the taste of watery lager. Someone started a bonfire on the beach, and we passed around a battered acoustic guitar, singing off-key to old Springsteen and the class anthem.

Later, he walked me home. The moonlight was soft and silver, and he trailed behind me, quiet for once. I looked back and saw him with his head down, stepping right on my shadow.

His footsteps matched mine, the gravel crunching underfoot, the distant sound of “Closing Time” drifting from the beach.

I couldn’t help but laugh and asked, “What are you doing?”

He looked up and asked, “Deskmate, which college are you heading to?”

He said it like he already knew, but wanted to hear me say it.

I turned away, but he continued, “You know I could find out, right? But I want to hear it from you.”

He kicked a pebble into the street, waiting. I sighed, “Columbia.”