“Anytime,” he says, and I can tell he means it.
***
I’m sitting in the studio etching a pattern onto a plate I’ve made. It’s the kind of work that soothes my soul--it takes just enough concentration, but not too much. Still, my mind wanders back to what Ian said. He’s right, I guess. I probably should cut myself a little slack. But it’s easier said than done. And I should probably get myself to the writing center. I turned my paper in, but I’m not looking forward to seeing my grade. I didn’t have a clue what I was supposed to be writing about.
And, as for feeling guilty about leaving my mom behind? Yea, that’s what’s weighing me down. She’d never say it, but I know she and Sam want me to have a future that extends beyond our small town, beyond my mom’s house. My phone buzzes on the counter and I look to see her name, as if I’ve conjured her.
Instantly, I freeze up. Her name flashes again, so I wipe my hands off and grab my phone. My mom never calls. Texting is more her speed, so I’ve convinced myself she has terrible news to tell me.
“Mom? What’s up?”
“I think I’m supposed to be asking you that question, sweetie. How’s your day?”
“Fine. How are you? How’s Sam?”
“We’re fine, honey. Nothing’s wrong.”
“Are you sure?” I ask. “You had a doctor’s appointment today, right?”
“Yes, and everything’s fine. They’re adjusting my meds a little, that’s all. But everything’s good.”
“Then why did you call?”
“Ouch. Okay, I totally deserved that.” She laughs nervously and I feel even worse.
“No. No, I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that you usually text, and…”
“And you’re programmed to receive bad news through the phone? Yea, I know. I am, too. But I promise, this is just a check-in. I miss you, but I know you’re out there doing great things. So, I just wanted to call and say I’m really proud of you. Sam is, too. We know it isn’t easy, but it’s worth it. Honest.”
Unbidden, my fingers reach for the medallion around my neck. I rub the pad of my thumb over the worn surface as I hold back tears. “Thanks. Things are...pretty good. I hung out with friends last night and I’m in the clay studio now, just finishing something up.”
“Good. It sounds like you’re busy. I’ll let you go, but we’ll talk soon. Love you, baby.”
“Love you, too, Mom.” We hang up and I slip my phone into my bag before getting back to work on the edge design of my plate. The clay is soft beneath my hands and it takes only a few minutes for me to finish up. I set it on a rack to dry and place a damp towel over it to prevent cracking. A couple people from my ceramics class are walking in just as I’m leaving, so I wave and head out.
My dorm isn’t far and the walk gives me time to think. My impulse last night was to leave. It was almost like I’d been burned and all I could think about was getting away from the heat. But now that a little time has passed, I’m thinking my mom and Ian might be right. Besides, if I left, I’d surely lose my scholarship, so I need to stick it out this semester at least. After that, who knows? But I’m not quitting just yet.
I turn toward my building to find Ty sitting on the front steps. Maybe he’s waiting for someone?
“Phoebe, hi,” he calls as I walk past.
“Hi.” I wave, then reach for the door.
“Wait, I--”
“Did you need something?”
“Yea, you. I mean, to talk to you. Can we talk?” This Ty is a world apart from the one I met a few weeks ago.
“Sure. What’s up?” I say, turning toward him and bending to sit beside him on the stone steps, wondering what in the world he’s doing at my dorm. But just as I turn, I lose my footing and pitch forward.
“Woah, you ok?” Ty reaches out an arm to brace my fall and the contact is electric. I mean, sure, it’s better than eating pavement, which is what I’d have done if he hadn’t caught me. But it’s more than that. There’s a comfort I can’t quite explain in his touch. It’s so at odds with his demeanor. The warmth of his hand feels familiar, though we hardly know each other. And it’s been a long time since I’ve felt this way--just content to hold someone’s hand, to lean in a little bit to the comfort they're offering. I sit down next to him, my hand still cradled in his. I make no move to let go, and neither does he.
“I, um...I just wanted to check in, see how things were going.” His smile is casual, but the set of his shoulders is tense.
“Things are...fine. Is this something tour guides do? Like a post-tour check-in? Because it seems weird.”
At that, he blushes and pulls his hand back. I miss the warmth of his grip immediately. “Look, I’m probably the worst person to give tours. I’m not really known for my small talk, and I’m sorry if I came off a little, um…”
