The heat pressed down in steady waves as I sat back in my folding chair, cap crooked, diploma folder balanced across my lap. Around me, classmates laughed, shouted across rows, hugged friends who were already talking about summer plans and dorm assignments and freedom.
I barely heard any of it. My fingers worried at the honor cords draped around my neck, twisting the strands until I forced myself to stop.
Breathe. It’s done. You did it.
Out of habit, I glanced toward the faculty section for the hundredth time. And my stomach dipped. Holt wasn’t there. He still wasn’t there. At the beginning, when us students were filing down the field and into our seats, he was there. Then he looked at his phone as I sat down. We made eye contact, he looked away and whispered something in the ear of the
