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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

EVE

“ H ome sweet home,” Harlow announces as Conor brakes in front of our house.

I cover a yawn with the back of my hand, then rub at my gritty eyes. I dozed off and on during the drive back to Holt.

We made the most of our final night of spring break. I don’t think anyone went to bed before two a.m. last night, and we left at nine to arrive back at campus at a decent hour.

I drove back with Conor and Harlow, while Rylan and Aidan went in Hunter’s car. Harlow suggested it—saying it made the most sense since she and I were headed back to the same place. And, as much as I love my best friend, I had to fight the urge to say we could keep the same seating arrangement. I wanted more time with Hunter.

I haven’t had a chance to talk to him alone since we went hot-tubbing in the middle of the night, and it bothers me how it feels like the end of a chapter. Like I lost something I was never even certain I had.

He’s single. Hunter Morgan—who I’ve had a crush on for as long as I’ve known him—told me he was single while we were barely clothed in a hot tub.

And what did I do? I froze. I blurted out “Good” and then something absurd about Jell-O shots.

I panicked . Because the possibility of kissing Hunter—of more than kissing Hunter—was nothing like the reality of kissing Finn. It would have mattered. It would have meant something. Not just in Calaveras, where we were two fifth wheels. In Somerville, too, where the distance between us feels more than physical. There’s a reason our paths rarely cross on campus.

“Eve!”

Based on the tone of Harlow’s voice, it’s not the first time she’s said my name.

“Yeah?” I reply, covering another yawn.

“I was asking if you were awake, but I think I got my answer. You know what they say—it was a good spring break if you come home sleep-deprived.”

“Do people say that?” Conor muses. “Because I’ve never heard that phrase before.”

Harlow smacks his arm. “Are you saying it wasn’t a good spring break, Hart?”

“Not saying that at all, Hayes. Especially last night. I might owe Morgan an apology, because the Jell-O shots were pretty good.”

The mention of Hunter’s name wakes me up more than Harlow calling mine did.

I had four Jell-O shots last night, solely because Hunter smiled every time I took one.

My liver is going to need a long hiatus after spring break. But even drinking too much feels like it was part of the experience. I don’t often allow myself to make mistakes outside of art. On a canvas, it’s called creativity. In life, it has consequences. Some necessary, some scary.

For the first time in—ever, maybe, I feel like I seized some moments.

In one week, I changed more than I have in months. Maybe years. Since the adjustment of coming to college, I’ve spent most of the time looking ahead to graduation. I’ve viewed moving to New York as the “official” start to my life, and I’m belatedly realizing how often that mindset resulted in me playing it safe. In placing limits on myself.

I stuff my sketchbook into the backpack resting in the footwell, then pop the door open. “Thanks for driving, Conor.”

“No problem, Eve. Glad you came.”

“Thanks,” I say, touched by the comment he didn’t have to make.

“I’ll be inside in a bit,” Harlow tells me.

“Okay.” I grab my suitcase out of the trunk of Conor’s car, and then start toward our little house.

It hits me, stepping inside, that this is likely the final time I’ll come back here after any extended time away. That was our last break before graduation.

I shut the door behind me, leaving it unlocked so Harlow doesn’t have to use her key. Hang up my winter coat, which I only wore so I wouldn’t have to pack or carry it. It’s nearly sixty in Somerville today, making spring feel well on its way.

My room has the stale feel of stagnancy when I enter it. I leave my suitcase by the end of my bed. Walk over to my window, unlock it, and crack it open a couple of inches, allowing some fresh air to seep inside. Slowly, I spin and survey my bedroom. The drawings and posters on the walls. The heap of clothes I sorted through packing for spring break. The stack of New York guidebooks on my dresser.

I head over to my desk. Open the top left drawer.

Last year’s Christmas card from my dad is on the very top.

I tear it in half. Tear the halves in half. Over and over again, until the paper rectangle is nothing more than a pile of scraps on the bottom of the drawer. Then, I shut the drawer again. I don’t feel better or worse, but I do feel different. Almost like…I didn’t realize I could do that. It never occurred to me to rip that card up when I received it.

Calmly, I lay my suitcase down on the floor and unzip it. There are a few clean items, but it’s mostly filled with laundry. Midway through sorting whites and colors, my mom calls.

It’s the third time she’s called since our brief text exchange about my dad missing my graduation. I’ve ignored every one, because I assumed that’s why she was calling and because discussing my father with her never ends well.

I blow out a long breath, emptying my lungs, before leaning back against my bedframe and answering. “Hi, Mom.”

“‘Sorry, Mom’ would be a more fitting greeting, Eve. You didn’t answer a single phone call this week. I had half a mind to call campus.”

“I wasn’t on campus. It was my spring break week, remember?”

The pause on the other end of the line tells me my mom did not, in fact, remember. She’s not as checked out as my dad, but she’s not entirely checked in, either. She has two other kids to look after, and I’m off living on my own.

And she never went to college. Never experienced a spring break. Never had a model for what parenting an adult child was supposed to look like.

“I’m sorry I worried you,” I mutter, adding another T-shirt to the pile of darks.

“Did you have a nice break?” The question is followed by the distant hum of a hair dryer and a crinkle of foil. The busy soundtrack to my childhood.

I’m not surprised she’s calling me from the salon between clients. It gives her an easy excuse to hang up when we inevitably start arguing about something. And tracks with the brisk efficiency my mom prides herself on.

“Yeah,” I answer. “It was really fun. I went on a road trip with Harlow and her—with Harlow and some other friends. To northern California.”

Harlow’s the only friend from Holt my mom knows—or has met. Harlow made quite the impression on my mother while we were moving into the dorms by telling her she swims on a regular basis. My mom sends her some special shampoo that’s supposed to protect hair from chlorine now.

“That sounds nice.”

“Yeah, it was. We were right on the beach, so the scenery was beautiful. I’ll send you a few photos.”

“Please do. Did Ben go as well?”

“No. He, uh, we broke up, actually.” I hold my breath, waiting for her response.

“That’s… I’m sorry, honey.”

Honestly, I was never sure how my mom felt about Ben. After they met for the first time, she told me he took direction well . To this day, I don’t know if that was a compliment or an insult. But I think it skewed negative, since my mom values independence. Ten years together, and she hasn’t married John. I know he’s asked, because there was an engagement ring on her dresser the first time I came home from Holt.

“Thanks,” I tell her. “I’m fine.”

I say the words because they’re expected, but they’re also true. I am fine.

“You were together for a long time. Do you think you’ll work things out?”

“Nope” is all I offer in response, hoping she hears the heavy undertone of I don’t want to talk about it .

“Is he still moving to New York?”

“No,” I say tightly. “He’s not.”

She sighs. “Eve, I really think that?—”

“I know what you really think , Mom. But I’ve made up my mind, about my life.”

She exhales again, frustration evident in the sound. “I’m not telling you not to pursue art, Eve. But you could paint just as easily in Chandler as you could in New York. It’s so far and expensive and?—”

“Did you only call to give me another lecture? Because I heard your concerns the first hundred times.”

A pause, as she deliberates how hard to push. I’ve always said I would move to New York after college, and she’s always tried to talk me out of it. There’s a new urgency on her end, as graduation ticks closer. And a new determination on mine, now that I’m moving solo.

She lets the subject drop. “I called to check on you. I know you’re upset about your father?—”

“I’m not,” I lie. “I saw it coming, just like you said. I was just letting you know, in case you thought he’d changed.”

“I learned that lesson a long time ago, Eve.”

I toss another balled-up T-shirt atop the colors, grimacing when it topples the entire pile.

I get why my mom hates my dad. He completely ignored my existence. The first child support check didn’t come until I was nine. My mom never deposited it, even though she needed the money. Having me ruined her relationship with her parents, and her plans for the future, while my dad’s life didn’t change at all.

I hate him for that.

But also… He’s my dad. The only one I have. I like John, but we’ve never had the sort of relationship where I view him as a father figure. No matter how many mistakes my dad has made, I’d rather suffer through the occasional, sports-centered phone call than never have any communication with him at all. I want to have some idea of who he is, rather than just this blank void in my life.

I haven’t forgotten or forgiven the past. But I don’t feel I have to, to talk to him once a month.

Or, I didn’t . After our last conversation, I’m tempted to end any effort. I’ll have to decide by Tuesday, when he’s supposed to call.

I play with the zipper on my suitcase. “I should go, Mom. Classes start back up tomorrow morning, and I’ve got a stack of laundry to do.”

“Okay.” She hesitates, and I know what’s coming before she speaks. She can’t help herself. “Just think about moving home at first, all right? New York isn’t going anywhere. You could save some money, and think things through a little more.”

My mom thinks my life-long dream of living in New York is an idea I haven’t thought through .

I wish she’d try to see my perspective on things. With my dad, and with my art. Understand that I have to learn lessons too. That Chandler doesn’t have the museums or the galleries or the opportunities or the excitement of New York. But practicality is her way of expressing love. It’s what worked for her. She’s worried about me in a strange city, and I can’t resent her for that.

“Yeah,” I say. “I will.”

“Okay. I love you, Eve,” she tells me, and then hangs up.

A sentiment she only expresses after we’ve argued about something. Almost like an explanation.

I’m telling you to move home because I love you .

I’m telling you to give up on your father because I love you .

I know she does. I just hate how those three words feel like a reminder of the ways I’ve inconvenienced her—and continue to. She made so many sacrifices for me, because that’s what a good parent is supposed to do. And a dutiful daughter would have majored in something practical, not art, and have a job offer waiting in a reasonably priced city.

I put on some Arctic Monkeys to drown out my mother’s worried voice in my head, then haul my dirty laundry down the hall to the washer. It only works after you kick the bottom left corner twice, a trick it took me and Harlow three weeks to figure out. We should leave a note for the next tenants.

Once the washer starts spinning, I head into the kitchen. There’s no sign of Harlow, so she must still be outside with Conor.

I make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich—food options are limited since most of what’s in the fridge has expired—and return to my room.

It’s a mess from my hasty packing last week, so I clean up a little while “Fluorescent Adolescent” blares.

Halfway through organizing my desk, I sigh and pick up my phone. Typing out the text to my mom only takes a few seconds.

EVE: I love you too.