But I guess I was wrong.
With new resolve, I take a deep breath, ready to tell them I need to go back to the dorm now. I’ll pack, catch an hour or two of sleep, and drive home to Delaware in the morning.
Before I can open my mouth to say a word, I’m enveloped in a hug. It should be too much. The sensation of two people hugging me should make my skin crawl, especially after the night I’ve had. But Ian’s crying and Melanie’s calling me a fierce bitch and I can’t help but surrender.
“Kiddo,” Ian pulls back, a look of pure admiration in his eyes, “Mel’s right. You are one fierce bitch. And, Jesus, I’m--well, obviously we both wish none of this,” he gestures to his phone, “ever fucking happened, but you’re a hell of a survivor.”
At that, I bark out a laugh, the sound hoarse and anemic. “A survivor? I’m barely hanging on.”
“But you are hanging on. You’re here.” The conviction in his words is the balm I need. I take a deep breath and lean back into his couch. It’s probably a million years old, but it’s ridiculously comfortable.
“This couch is the shit, right?” Mel asks and I nod.
“Good. Get comfy. We’re having a sleepover.”
“Oh, I--” I’m looking for a way to tell her I should get back to the dorm, then back to Delaware.
“I know you don’t sleep much, Phoebe. But it’s cool. I sleep like a baby, and Ian has cable. So cuddle up, buttercup.” She tosses a pillow at me and throws a blanket around us and instead of protesting, I do as I’m told.
All my worries will still be here waiting for me in the morning, but for now, I fluff my pillow and grab the remote.
***
Ty
“Ok, so finish chapters 4-8 for next week and don’t forget to submit your responses to the assigned reading by midnight on Monday. And one more thing, a couple of you still need to fill out the tutoring form--do it by tonight or my TA will assign a slot to you. Remember, you’re each required to do a minimum of forty hours at the writing center this semester. That time, and your work there, counts as twenty percent of your grade. We already have students coming in, so please sign up for a slot if you haven’t already done so.”
I feel like Dr. Richmond is looking right at me as she utters those last few sentences. I haven’t signed up for my shifts yet, which is unlike me. We’re not much more than two weeks into the semester, but I’m off my game. I’m letting shit slide, and that’s never good.
I need to push thoughts of Phoebe James from my mind. No doubt she’s forgotten about me, the grouchy guy who stepped in for his friend to give her a tour around campus. I have no business thinking about her. Hell, even if things were different and our worlds weren’t irrevocably intertwined, she’s too good for me. I knew it in that courtroom two years ago, and I know it now. In the short time we spent together, while I gave her a half-assed tour of campus, I could tell there was something pure and gentle about her spirit. And despite my best efforts, I am neither pure nor gentle.
People file past me and out the door, but I don’t leave. The next class won’t start for another twenty minutes or so, and I know if I don’t sign up for a tutoring slot now, I’ll keep letting it slide and get stuck with some shitty 6 a.m. shift. Scrolling through my phone, I find the scheduling form for the writing center. Damn. Almost all the spots are taken, but I manage to snag an early afternoon shift five days a week. That means my Fridays are no longer free, but that’s my price for procrastinating. And at least I don’t have to be there at the ass-crack of dawn.
I type the times into my calendar app and set it to last until mid-December. Shit. It’s barely September and this semester feels like it’s stretching out before me like an unending road. My task accomplished, I stand and stretch, then grab my bag and head outside. I wind my way through the paths on campus, and hang a left just before I get to the quad. Just up past this hill is a little grove of trees I like to think no one else has discovered yet. The trees and flowers aren’t manicured, there are no benches, but it’s my happy place. And since I have a few hours to kill, I grab my book, set my bag down, lean back against a tree, and settle in to read.
I’m two chapters intoThe Kite Runner, which I’ve already read twice, when my phone starts buzzing. I ignore it.
A minute later, it starts again. Dammit. This could be Whit. Or Knox. Or Booker. I check the screen, but it’s not one of my boys. It’s my mom. I hesitate. I’ve been ignoring her calls for days, but clearly nothing good can last.
Sighing, I give in and answer.
“Ty! Where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you for a week now. You never answer my calls.” My mother’s words roll through the line in a rush.
“Yeah, sorry, I--”
“Did you visit Brett like I asked?” she interrupts.
“No, like I was saying, I--”
“Ty! He’s your brother,” she scolds.
Technically, he’s my half brother, and we weren’t raised together. For me, and my sanity, these are two important facts.
Tracy Givens was downright eager to sign custody of me over to my father the day I was born. She couldn’t wait to be free of the child who threatened her marriage. I was the product of an affair. I’d never have been born had my mother realized earlier she couldn’t pass me off as Robert Givens’ second son.
And we had stayed separated, except for the traffic accident that caused my father’s death and forced me to live with the family--the mother--who never wanted me.
I’ve zoned out for a minute, but my mom is still droning on about Brett’s plight. “He needs family support. Things have been awful for him there. Just terrible. You just can’t imagine what he’s going through. He’s so isolated there, so alone. You're lucky to be living in that lovely house on a beautiful, historic campus. Brett’s not so lucky. He spends his days in a cell, Ty. A cell. With no one to talk to, surrounded by criminals, for god’s sake.”
