Chapter 1: The Price of Growing Up

Back then, just the ping of a text could make my heart drop like a bad lottery ticket. Every time that little alert went off, my mouth would go dry and bitter, my whole body tensing up like I’d just gotten sucker-punched.

It was like a twisted game of Whac-A-Mole—every ping meant bad news was about to pop up. I’d tell myself it was probably just spam, or maybe my bank balance dropping another $3.16, but my hands would shake as I reached for the phone. I’d catch my own reflection in the screen—pale, jaw clenched, bracing for disaster. Even my ringtone, once a cheerful bit of Dave Matthews, started to sound like a threat.

I was only a few years into the workforce then. My paycheck barely covered rent, a battered bus pass, and a steady rotation of microwave mac and cheese. I’d stand in front of Taco Bell, debating if I could splurge or if I should stick to the McDonald’s dollar menu. If I wanted to catch a matinee at the AMC, I’d have to save up loose change for months. I couldn’t even afford to buy my girlfriend a gift. The best we could manage was holding hands in the city park, waiting for dusk, keeping an eye out for the PTA moms who doubled as park patrol, their walkie-talkies crackling as they circled the playground. We’d duck behind the bronze statue of the town’s founder, giggling as the high school track team jogged past, pretending not to notice us. Sometimes, I’d come home with my legs covered in mosquito bites.

One night, we tried hiding behind a busted swing set, but the city’s orange streetlights made everything look radioactive. Even then, she squeezed my hand so tight, it was like we were both trying to keep the world from splitting open. She’d laugh at my thrift store shoes, and I’d tease her about her faded hoodie with the cartoon bear. Sirens blipped in the distance, and you could smell someone grilling hot dogs two blocks away. It was our little rebellion—romance on a food stamp budget.

If the phone rang, I could handle it. It was usually my boss, or the landlord chasing rent. Worst case, I could stall and play dumb. But a text? That was deadly.

There’s something about a text—no warning, no chance to dodge. It just sits there, waiting for you like a letter bomb.

When college friends got married, they never called. Even the nerdiest engineering majors knew better than to ask for wedding gifts by phone after years of silence. So they’d send these massive texts—rambling about how life’s been wild, how we should all catch up, maybe even start a fantasy football league. At the very end, almost like an afterthought: "Oh, by the way, I’m getting married next Saturday at 11 a.m. at McAllister’s Grill on Maple Avenue. If you’re free, you have to come. I’ve reserved two seats for you, right by the stage. See you then."

Sometimes they’d throw in a corny GIF or a blurry photo of their fiancée with a bouquet, like that made it less transactional. One guy even sent a meme of a dancing baby with “Gonna need a gift, bro!”—which somehow made it worse.

Whenever I got a message like that, I’d head back to my rented apartment, mop the floor, stack my pillows on the carpet, climb onto my squeaky IKEA desk chair, and hurl my phone onto the mattress—never a scratch, just a little more catharsis. Then I’d text back: "Congrats, man! I’ll definitely be there—with a date!" Next, I’d message my girlfriend: "Can’t get a room tomorrow, something came up." After that, I’d lie on the floor, sobbing while counting my money.

I’d stare up at the popcorn ceiling, listening to the neighbors stomp around above me. In those moments, I felt like the universe had lined up just to remind me how broke I was. Sometimes I’d play my favorite sad playlist and let the music drown out my sniffles.

After a few years of being broke, my friends all got married, one by one, and I ended up single. One winter night, bundled in a puffy jacket, I was making out with my girlfriend in the woods by the lake at Silver Hollow Park when an old lady in a reflective vest caught us in her flashlight beam. My girlfriend shrank into her coat, too embarrassed to show her face.

The wind was the kind that slices through your jeans, and the trees rattled like bones. That flashlight felt like a prison searchlight. I remember thinking, this must be what it’s like to get caught breaking curfew in a tiny Bible Belt town.

The old lady barked, "Don’t think I can’t see you two—there’s four feet under that swing. This is a family park, not Lovers’ Lane. You owe the city a fine."

Her voice was pure Midwest schoolteacher—gravelly, no-nonsense, and just a little gleeful. My girlfriend stared at her shoes while I tried to scrape together some dignity.

I emptied all my pockets—most of which were hanging from the trees—and managed forty-five bucks. The old lady insisted on a hundred. We haggled, I found five more coins, but she wouldn’t give a receipt. When she left, my girlfriend’s lips had turned blue from the cold.

My breath fogged the air as I fumbled for change. She shivered so hard her teeth chattered, and I felt like the world’s biggest loser. All we wanted was a little privacy, but all we got was frostbite and humiliation.

I said, "If you had money, you could’ve helped out. No need to freeze yourself like that."

She slapped me. "If I weren’t tough, I wouldn’t have made it this far. Let’s break up—right now." Then she wrapped herself in her jacket and left. I walked through Flagstaff for four hours in minus twelve, wearing only a sweater, before finally making it home.

Every step was torture—my toes numb, the wind needling my face. I passed a Waffle House, its neon sign buzzing in the cold, and watched laughter and warmth from the outside. For a second, I thought about calling her, but my fingers were too frozen to text.

As soon as I got home, I collapsed in the living room and bawled my eyes out. Part heartbreak, part frostbite. My roommate glanced up from the ratty couch, Doritos dust on his fingers, and said, "Are you stupid? You could’ve just called an Uber—I’d have paid for it."

He didn’t even look up, just tossed the empty bag on the coffee table. There was a beat of silence. I stared at my frostbitten toes, too proud to admit he was right. Pride’s a hell of a drug when you’re broke.

Thinking about it, he was right. I really was stupid. Maybe that’s why I was broke. Or maybe it was the other way around.

Sometimes I wondered if it was just bad luck, or if I was the kind of guy who attracted disaster. Either way, Flagstaff’s midnight streets felt emptier than ever that night.

After handing out wedding gifts to nearly everyone, my salary finally started to rise. I thought my days of poverty were over, but money still slipped through my fingers. Work, home, cheap meals, knockoff goods, a tiny apartment, bus rides, and microwave noodles. My only joys were drinking and shooting the breeze with my roommates, and the rare massage when I could scrape together the cash. I lost touch with my college friends. Once everyone got married, doors closed and lives moved on. Without weddings as an excuse, the gatherings stopped and the bonds faded.

I’d watch as my college buddies disappeared from my contacts, replaced by coworkers and random LinkedIn connections. It’s weird how adulthood sneaks up on you—first you’re promising to keep in touch, then you’re just another face in a sea of missed calls and silent group chats. I’d sit on my battered futon, clutching a can of beer, and wonder if anyone else felt as left behind as I did.

One weekend, I was in my room playing video games when my phone’s text alert went off. By then, I was past the age of being afraid of texts. I figured it was just another spam message from AT&T. I ignored it until I finished my game, then glanced at my phone—and froze. The cigarette I was holding dropped onto my thigh and burned a hole in my boxers.

I jumped, yelping loud enough to startle the neighbor’s dog. The smell of burnt fabric mixed with the stale pizza boxes on my desk. That text felt like an old ghost crawling out of the past.

The message was from my old college class president, my roommate Derek.

I hadn’t heard from Derek in years—his contact photo was still a blurry shot from a bar crawl our junior year, him grinning like a doofus with beer foam on his mustache.

First, Derek sent a random emoji, then wrote: "This July marks our tenth year since graduation. Our class hasn’t had a reunion since we left school. This time, no matter what, we have to get together. No business trips, no excuses. July 1st, noon, at the South Gate of campus, O’Malley’s Bar & Grill. No bringing family, no driving, and if your liver’s weak, take your meds in advance—we’re getting drunk, no exceptions. See you there."

The guy always had a way of cutting through the bullshit. I could practically hear his voice—loud, pushy, but with that hint of affection only Derek could pull off. O’Malley’s—the kind of bar where the floor’s always sticky and the fries come out in a basket lined with fake newsprint—was our old haunt.

Ten years.

Those two words rolled around in my gut, hot and cold at the same time, like downing a shot of ice-cold whiskey.

The number echoed in my head, bringing back a rush of images—late nights, Red Bull and ramen, laughter echoing down the dorm hallways. It felt impossible that a whole decade had slipped by while I was busy just trying to survive.

I couldn’t believe it had really been that long since graduation. I put down my phone, opened the window, and looked out. The apartment blocks on the edge of the city were packed tight. The street below was filled with black and white cars. The cell phone store was blasting pop music. The food truck selling breakfast burritos was swamped. The New Orleans po’boy shop had takeout bags stacked up by the door. Bicycles wobbled past crooked maple trees. Everything looked just as it had ten years ago.

Somewhere a kid hollered for his mom, and a police cruiser idled by the curb, lights swirling but siren off. The air carried a whiff of exhaust and fried dough. I thought about how little the world changes, even when you do.

Sometimes, it felt like the window had frozen time. Back in college, looking out from our dorm window at the school wall, I’d see the same dense buildings, crowded cars, clouds of steam from the food stalls, and even the occasional horse trotting between the buildings. In the blink of an eye, ten years had passed.

Time compresses in strange ways, the world looping back on itself. I remembered how we’d toss water balloons out of our window, ducking from the R.A. and daring each other to sprint to the dining hall barefoot just for the hell of it. Was that really me, or just someone I used to know?

Derek was the first of us to get married. At the time, I was still living on an intern’s salary and couldn’t afford a wedding gift, so I wrote an IOU: "Congratulations on your wedding—gift of $75, will pay when I have money." Derek didn’t say anything then, and he’s never asked me to pay it back. I’ve always felt guilty about that.

I remember scrawling that IOU on the back of a napkin at O’Malley’s, my hands sweating as I pushed it across the table. Derek just laughed, patted me on the back, and told me to keep my chin up. That napkin lived in his wallet for years.

I messaged Derek to ask if the other dorm guys would be coming, and waited all evening with my phone in hand, but got no reply.

I watched reruns of The Office, the glow of the TV flickering over my empty takeout boxes, but kept checking my phone like a lovesick teenager. At midnight, I gave up and tossed it onto the pile of dirty laundry in the corner.

The next morning, as soon as I opened my eyes, there was another message from Derek, same as before: "Everyone must attend the ten-year reunion. No excuses. July 1st, noon, O’Malley’s. See you there."

He must’ve sent the same copy-paste to everyone. Classic Derek—no time for chit-chat, just brute force logistics. I half-smiled, remembering how he used to wrangle us out of bed for morning classes with the same iron will.

I guessed he had too many messages to reply to, so he just sent a group text. Derek was always like that—loud, quick-tempered, easily riled up, but loyal to the core. A real Midwest guy.

He was the kind of guy who’d help you move a couch in a blizzard, then call you an idiot for not owning a truck.

I checked the calendar—two and a half weeks until July 1st. I looked around my messy rented room and thought, what the hell am I doing? Class reunions are always a joke. I’d been to one high school reunion—the rich guys hit on the girls, the broke guys sat in the corner drinking in silence. After dinner, those who could drive drove off, those who could afford a hotel room paired up, and the rest of us losers waited for the bus home.

I could practically smell the cheap cologne and hear the forced laughter. The idea of going back, even for one afternoon, made my skin crawl.

That’s right, I was one of those losers. So broke that even when the pretty girls complained to me about their unhappy marriages, I didn’t dare say a word. I knew that with a little liquid courage, if I just put my arm around one of their shoulders, we could have gone straight to a hotel. But I didn’t dare.

It’s funny—how your own conscience keeps you in check, long after your pride is gone. Sometimes, I’d wonder if anyone else went home alone and felt like trash, or if it was just me.

I didn’t even have money for a hotel. After losing my puffy jacket at Silver Hollow and walking home half-naked, I’d had enough of that kind of life.

That walk still haunted me sometimes, a little reminder never to push my luck.