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finally did speak again, the suddenness of his voice made me jump.
    “So, why the hatred of elevators?” he asked.
    Glancing up, I weighed his question, wondering if it was even worth it to tell the story. Surely the elevator would start moving at any time. Justin continued to stare at me, waiting for an answer. This was how it had always been with us. He was always asking questions about my life before college, wanting to hear all my stories. I had chalked it up to the artist in him, who seemed to look at life in layers, as if it were a painting or a sculpture. Looking back now, it seemed crazy that I had never shared the elevator story with him since it was such a traumatic moment in my life.
    “When I was in seventh grade my hand got crushed in an elevator door,” I answered, flexing the fingers on my right hand, which to this day still tended to tighten up and often went numb.
    He didn’t say anything, waiting instead like he had so many times before for me to continue. It was so achingly familiar that my heart actually hurt. In the two years since our breakup, I had convinced myself that our relationship hadbeen nothing special. That it only seemed that way because it was so intense and new at the time. Now, sitting here, it was painfully clear that I was kidding myself to think I could dismiss what we had shared.
    “We were on a field trip to the public library in the big city not far from Woodfalls. It was a yearly tradition for seventh graders and believe it or not, was a pretty big deal for us considering the library in Woodfalls at that time was a joke. We were supposed to be doing research for some class project on influential figures of the twentieth century. Our teacher was old school and wanted us to use actual books for research in lieu of the Internet. Anyway, this library was huge and had two floors with an elevator. Well, for some reason—I don’t even remember why anymore—a few of us decided to go for a joyride. Then, that creep Tommy Jones, who knew I was scared anyway, had convinced everyone to run off the elevator just as the door was closing. Afraid of being on the elevator by myself, I stuck out my hand to stop the door, but my hand didn’t make it to the rubber sensor that should have caused the doors to bounce back open. Instead, the elevator door closed against my fingers for the entire ride up to the second floor. I screamed bloody murder the entire time and freaked out everyone in the library,” I said, grinning wryly. “Especially when they saw my hand,” I added, wagging my fingers at him. “I broke all four fingers on my right hand and also sprained my left hand in my frantic attempt to try to pry the elevator door open. By the time I got to the hospital, my fingers were swollen to the size of sausages.”
    “Did you pound the prick Tommy Jones with your cast?” he asked.
    “Nope. I didn’t have to. Word spread to his mom, who happened to be the principal of our school. She stuck it to him, made him shadow me for six weeks. He had to do all my writing for me in my classes. I had a cast on one hand and an Ace bandage wrapped around the other, but watching Tommy doing double work was almost worth it.”
    “I would have still pounded his ass,” Justin growled.
    “That’s because you’re quick to overreact in a situation,” I said, instantly wishing I could recall the words.
    “At least I react in some fashion, like any normal human. I’m not some freaking robot that can’t show any emotion,” he snarled, turning away from me. My heart dropped. We were never going to get past this. He thought I was emotionless, but he hadn’t been there to see what had really happened. I wouldn’t allow myself to dwell on how harsh he sounded, because I knew the truth.

6.
    November 2010
    “Where are we going?” I asked with Justin leading me by the hand from my dorm room. It had been a week since his art show and the day of our first date had finally arrived. I’d had serious