Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
“His mama named him Wright,” Aunt Roz says. “I’mma call him Wright.”
“Okay. Whatever, Auntie.”
“And when did you say you started seeing him?” Aunt Roz presses.
“Early November.”
“It’s only January, so not long,” Aunt Grace muses. “Don’t get distracted. You just found your footing again. You don’t want… well, we just don’t want what happened in California to happen again.”
My heart rate picks up speed and sweat dampens my palms. I don’t have words for a few seconds.
“Verity?” Aunt Roz asks sharply. “You there? Grace was saying she—”
“Doesn’t want what happened in Cali to happen again,” I say, my voice flat. “It happened to me. Pretty sure I’m the last person who wants a repeat of it.”
It’s silent on the other end for an extra beat, and I envision the two of them in our small, bright kitchen at home, sitting at the counter, phone on speaker as they exchange a worried glance. They’d shot those same looks my way over Christmas break. And last summer before I transferred to Finley. And when I returned from USC. So much worry. So much failure. Sometimes I can let it roll off me, but today something scrubs like Brillo just under my skin. It feels like I’m poised on a knife’s edge of agitation, and at one wrong word or look, the sharp point punctures the surface, slicing through my last nerve.
“We know it happened to you,” Aunt Roz finally replies, striking that maddeningly careful tone they use with me now. “But it was hard for us to see you like that, and we—”
“I’m fine.”
“You taking your medication?” Aunt Grace probes, the compassion, but also the gentle firmness she believes it takes to “handle me,” clear in her voice.
“Yeah.” I sigh. “Every day.”
“Remember they have resources on campus,” Aunt Grace adds. “People there you can talk to if—”
“I gotta go,” I say abruptly.
“Wait!” Aunt Roz all but shouts. “We love you, Vee Tee.”
The childhood nickname brings to mind Aunt Roz and my mother pushing me on the tire swing in our front yard, summer days of picking cherries and bicycle rides on country dirt roads.
“I know you do,” I say, swallowing my tears. They saw too many of those last year. “But please don’t worry about me. I feel better than I have in a long time. Certainly better than I did back in Cali.”
Days of not showing up for class. Days when I couldn’t get out of bed. Days with no shower, no food. No energy. Failing grades. Dark thoughts that drove me back to Georgia. I haven’t told anyone at Finley about the debilitating depression that ruined my junior year at USC. I’d never experienced anything like it before, and with medication, it feels like such a distant memory. I don’t want to revisit that bewildering chapter of my life. I’m writing something new here, but sometimes it feels like my aunts won’t let me turn the page. Walking across the campus, where I’ve found my fresh start and someone like Monk, I feel downright euphoric, but they’re trying to kill my vibe.
“Before you hang up,” Aunt Grace says, her tone deliberately brighter, “don’t forget we’re putting money in your account next week to cover the first part of your tuition. They did work with you on a payment plan, right?”
“Um, yeah.” Guilt twists my gut. It’s a double helix. The first strand is guilt that they’re allotting money I know they can’t spare for my education on their modest income from the small store they own together. And the second is for snapping at them when I know they simply love me and are concerned.
“And financial aid is giving you an extension on the balance?” Aunt Roz presses.
“Yeah,” I say, slowing my pace as I cut through the arboretum. “I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful. I know I blew a full scholarship at USC. I don’t want you spending all your money on me. I could try to—”
“Hush now,” Aunt Roz chides gently. “We’re family and we take care of each other. Ya hear me?”
I nod, blinking back tears. Aunt Roz never hesitated when my parents died. She took me in and gave me a home even more stable than the one that had burned to the ground.
“Yes, ma’am.” I sniff and swipe under my nose. “I hear you.”
“Good.” Aunt Roz’s smile reaches across the line. “That money should show up next week. And we look forward to meeting this Thelonious boy.”
I don’t even bother to correct her, but grin through the last of my tears.
“Sounds good.” I glance at my phone to check the time. Even later than I’d thought. “Hey, I really gotta go. I’m running behind for class.”
“We love you,” they say in unison.
“Love you, too.”
Once I disconnect the call, I shift my backpack to the center of my spine and pick up the pace. Professor Rollins does not tolerate tardiness, and I think he has it out for me. The misogyny on that man goes back generations. Or maybe it’s that I’m a transfer from USC. He seems to assume I think I’m the shit because I was in that program, one of the most prestigious film schools in the country. If only he knew how lucky I feel to be here. To be alive. If only he knew Finley saved my life in more ways than one.