I take a bite of the food that’s on my plate, more out of necessity than hunger. When I look up, Booker and Whit are staring me down. “What?” I wipe at my mouth, figuring I just made a mess, but that’s not what they’re worried about.
“You’re giving up?” Booker asks.
“Nuh-uh,” Whit says, shaking his head and resting his elbows on the table. “We didn’t raise a quitter.”
I look at them like they’ve lost their minds, because they basically have. “The hell are you two talking about? Book, you knew it would end this way, and you were right. I should have told her somehow, some way. But I didn’t. And here we are.” I push away from the table, head into the kitchen, and refill my water bottle.
Booker turns in my direction. “Ty, you love her. She loves you. I know we said to give it a minute, but you have. You need to talk to her.”
“Really?” I ask. “And what the hell would I say?”
“Nah,” Whit shakes his head. “You don’t just need to talk to her. You need to do something. You need a grand gesture--something that proves your love to her.”
I look around the table at my three best friends, my brothers, my family. And I hate to say this but, “No.”
Even Knox looks a little disappointed, and he’s the most skeptical guy I know.
“Look,” I tell them, walking back in and resuming my seat, “you want me to do something big to prove my love, right? You think I should make some grand gesture to show her how important she is to me?” They nod and I shrug. “I already did. And I’m not talking about that scene at the hearing or the scholarship or any of that. No. My grand gesture? The proof of my love? That’s me listening to her. She told me to stay the hell away from her. Not to contact her. So that’s what I’m doing. Not because I want to. Jesus, it’s fucking torture. But it’s what she needs and wants. And nothing has ever mattered to me more than what Phoebe needs and wants.”
There’s silence, and for a minute, I’m afraid they’re going to rally around me, trying to convince me to “get my girl.” Fuck me, how I wish it were that simple. But it’s not. I didn’t just piss her off. This isn't some lovers’ quarrel. This isn’t me groveling because she found me talking to some girl or whatever and got pissed.
I lied.
And I didn’t just lie. I lied about who I am and where I came from. And I did it knowingly and for my own selfish gains.
So, yea. Phoebe gets to make this call.
Phoebe
It’s been a week since my come-to-Jesus with Ian. And not a terribly easy week. But I am back in class, and back at work. I’m catching up on my missed assignments and trying to get through each day.
The awful truth is that I miss Ty. I don’t want to. My mind doesn’t want to separate the Ty I loved from the man whose brother killed mine.
And yet, I know, down in my soul, that they’re not the same person.
But it’s late, and I’m tired. Work was good but long today. I may just treat myself to pizza tonight. I pass the mailroom and realize my mom said to look for a package. I trudge through the doors, and unlock my mailbox to find a shoebox with Sam’s block handwriting scrawled across the top. Inside I find homemade chocolate chip cookies and a card saying they missed me and hope I’m coming home for Thanksgiving.
I smile, thinking I need to text them, as I shut the little door to my mailbox. But something’s stuck. I peer in to see a wrinkled envelope. Pulling it out, I see it’s addressed to me from The Cobb Foundation.
Maybe they’re worried about my grades? I mean, I’m not outright failing anything just yet, but my scores took a nosedive after my life blew up. I open it. Better to just rip off the Band-Aid.
Dear Phoebe James,
This letter is to assure you that your full-tuition scholarship shall remain intact, regardless of if you continue to pursue your education at Bainbridge University, or seek higher education elsewhere. From this point forward, please contact the law offices of Parnell and Williamson for all questions regarding your scholarship.
Wishing you continued success,
The Cobb Foundation
It takes a minute. Baseball’s not my thing. But then it hits me...Cobb...Tyrus Cobb...Ty...Tyrus Marshall. Could he really have?
I sink down against the cinderblock wall in the mailroom, stunned to realize that Ty organized everything--my schooling, my scholarship. And now he’s extending that gift regardless of whether I change schools. He has to know some part of me has considered it.
My head spins with the weight of this new information. It’s yet another secret, yes, but it feels like love, like kindness. Like he knew what I needed before I knew it.
I grab my phone and dial, not caring that I’m still sitting on the floor of the mailroom. It rings and rings, and finally, he answers.
“Sam?”
