“Hello, sir.” I brace myself for his response—I suspect it won’t be pleasant. I haven’t seen him since our very short, very awkward brunch back in January, when he made his dislike for me crystal clear.

“It’s time we have a talk,” Dr. Davis retorts. “Man to man.”

I swallow a sigh. “I would love to do that, sir, but I’ve got a game starting in about twenty minutes. Maybe we could postpone this until tomorrow?”

“No. We can’t. I take matters regarding my daughter very seriously.”

“So do I,” I say simply. “She means a lot to me.”

“Does she? Is that why you’re encouraging her to throw her future away?” Ice hardens his tone, and his harsh features are even more forbidding when he’s pissed.

Evidently Demi’s trip to Boston didn’t go as well as she’d hoped.

“She’s not throwing her future away,” I reply in a careful tone. “She’s staying in the same field, just taking a different direction to get there.”

“Do you know how much a psychiatrist makes on average? Over two hundred K annually. Two seventy-five, on the top end. Want to compare that to a clinical psychologist? Or better yet, a run-of-the-mill therapist? There’s one of those on every street corner.”

“Demi doesn’t care about money. And she doesn’t want an MD. She wants to get a doctorate.”

“Look, son, where do you get off dictating my daughter’s life choices?”

“I’m not dictating her life choices. If anything, she’s the dictator in our relationship.” I can’t help but snort. “Have you met your daughter? She’s the bossiest person on the planet.”

For one fleeting second a flicker of humor lights his eyes, and I think maybe, just maybe, he’s softening. But it’s gone in a flash, and his face turns to stone again.

“I don’t trust you,” he says tightly.

I let out a tired breath. “With all due respect, sir, you don’t even know me.”

“You and my daughter are too different. She’s—”

The door behind me flies open without warning. I expect Coach’s furious face to appear, so I’m already uttering, “I’m sorry, I—” when I realize I’m looking at Matt.

Matty is startled to find a beefy bald man looming over me, but then he shakes himself out of it. “Dude, you need to get in here right now.” He waves his phone under my nose. “It’s fucking chaos.”

I knit my brows. “What is?”

“Shit’s going down at Bristol House. There’s two people up on the roof, and it looks like they’re going to jump. Someone’s live-tweeting it, and a chick on the top floor of Hartford House managed to snap a picture.” Matt thrusts the phone in my hand. “One of them is your girl.”

39

Demi

None of the dormitories on campus offer roof access to their residents. In fact, it’s explicitly disallowed, which is understandable. The administration doesn’t want raucous parties up there. Drunken kids accidentally falling to their deaths.

Or, in rare cases, not accidentally.

Most schools have safeguards against this shit. Locks that only the maintenance staff has keys for. Some of the newer dorms require keycards to access the roofs. But Bristol House is known for its lax security. The door to the roof is old, and the lock is easy to pick. If you live in the dorms, as I did in freshman year, it’s common knowledge how easy it is to sneak up to Bristol’s roof. Most residents stay under the radar, usually going up there to smoke weed or have sex. It’s widely understood that if you use Bristol’s roof, you don’t make a big production out of it.

TJ, however, apparently never got the memo.

And I’ve never been more afraid in my life as I stare at my friend standing up on the ledge, his thin body silhouetted in the dark night.

“TJ, please.” My voice cracks. It’s been difficult to speak since I got here. No, even before that. Since he called twenty minutes ago and informed me he was going to kill himself.

How the fuck did I not see the signs?

I’m planning on becoming a psychologist and I couldn’t fucking tell that one of my close friends was suicidal?

I want to cry. I truly hadn’t realized TJ was suffering. Yes, he gets moody every now and then, but not once since I’ve known him, not even once, has he expressed feelings of hopelessness or talked about suicide. He might’ve displayed anxious tendencies, but not suicidal ones.

So far, all of my attempts to talk him off the ledge have failed. I don’t know how to get through to him.

“TJ,” I plead. “Come down from there.”

“Why do you care?” he spits out. “You don’t care about anyone but yourself.”

His harsh words sting, but I banish my own emotions from this equation. This isn’t about me. TJ is clearly going through something.

Going through something? a voice in my head shrieks. Understatement of the fucking year!

My heart is jammed in my throat, liable to choke me. The rooftop is covered in ice, because nobody ever comes up here to lay down salt. To make matters exponentially worse, it’s starting to snow, and the wind is picking up. One misstep and he’ll—

Do NOT even go there!

“TJ, please get off of there and come back,” I beg. “Come talk to me.”

“No. I don’t want to talk. I fucking hate talking, Demi.”

“I know you do,” I whisper.

I edge closer to him. The synapses in my brain are firing in total panic mode, trying to catalogue the red flags I’d missed.

TJ’s always been antisocial, but he also made an effort to go out with me, to socialize with my friends. He didn’t isolate himself from everyone, so I didn’t consider it a red flag. He barely drinks, doesn’t abuse drugs, so no red flag there. He has trouble opening up to people, expressing his emotions—but that’s not unique. Corinne is equally guarded, and I didn’t peg her as suicidal either.

God. I don’t know what to do.

I truly don’t.

This isn’t a class project, or a fucking true crime show. This is real life, and I’m utterly helpless.

I try again. “Listen, it’s obvious you’ve been drinking—”

“No, I haven’t.” His voice is unnervingly composed.

I bite my lip. Shit. He’s sober? He’s literally standing on a ledge, four stories off the ground, and he’s stone-cold sober?

I suddenly hear the wail of sirens in the distance. My heart jumps. Is this about us? Did someone spot us up here and call the police? God, I want the police to come. I want them to bring one of those negotiators who talks to potential jumpers and convinces them not to commit suicide.

I’m not equipped to handle this.

The wind snakes under my hair and makes it flap around me like a panicky bird. I didn’t even grab a coat when I ran out of my house. I’m in my red sweater and leggings and boots, and it’s so cold outside I feel the chill in my lungs. I can’t even imagine how cold TJ must be—he’s in a thin T-shirt. His slight build could get knocked over by a strong gust. And judging by the snowflakes falling and swirling wildly in the air, that gust could come any second.