Page 43

THIRTY-SIX

ruby

“Ruby,” my advisor, Marta, greets me as I settle into the vinyl chair across from her desk. “It’s been a while.”

I’m never certain how Marta feels about me. The advisor I’d had since freshman year abruptly resigned last fall, so Marta and I are still getting to know each other. I frustrate her—I’m a pro at reading those signals—but she always seems halfway amused by our conversations.

“So tell me how things have been going.” She squints at her computer screen. “Last time you were here, you told me you had an eye on a job as a quality assurance technician.”

“I did. A lot’s changed since then, but unfortunately not for the better.”

“Tell me about that.” She presses her lips together, probably readying herself for an exhausting meeting.

“I want to do something that’s a little more ‘me’ than QA tech, and I thought I knew what that was, but I think I was wrong.”

“Do tell.”

“I really liked the idea of being a research chef.”

“Sure, I’m familiar. I’ve had a few advisees go into the field; it sounds stellar. What happened that you changed your mind?”

I swallow. I knew this question was coming, but I still don’t have a good answer.

“I don’t think I wanted it for the right reasons.

It sounded really cool at first, but I think I only wanted to do it to keep up with the other kids in my program.

And to make my parents proud.” To earn a shred of my parents’ respect is the more accurate way to put it, but Marta doesn’t want or need a glimpse into my family dysfunction.

“Ah. So you don’t think it’s a good fit after all.”

“Well ... I wouldn’t say that.”

“So leaving behind the idea of research chef, tell me what appeals to you?”

But as soon as she says it, I bristle. I don’t want to leave behind the idea of a research chef. “I guess there isn’t anything else. But all the research I did about it made it clear it’s a long road just to earn the title, and it’s competitive and ...” I shrug. “It’s a lot.”

She looks back at her computer and scrolls on her mouse.

“Sounds like you’ve put a lot of effort into that research, though, which is notable.

” What she’s not saying is she’s never seen me put effort into anything before.

“And your grades have shot up remarkably in only a few weeks. What’s that about? ”

“I guess I was really motivated.”

“To make your folks proud?”

I think back on the last few weeks, the hours I poured into studying and homework, the research, the chats with Wythe. How often during those hours did I think about my parents? Almost never. Instead, I was thinking about how new it felt to want something so bad it made me do good.

“So maybe you want to reconsider,” Marta says even though I never answered her question.

“There’s a lot of work between graduating from Shafer and being hired as a research chef, but it’s worthwhile if it’s the first career you’ve felt passionate about.

In the meantime, consider your other options. ”

“Which options?”

“Well, that’s for you to answer, but you’re running out of time. And if grad school is in your future, you need to decide on that right away.”

I walk out of her office feeling dazed. Just when I thought I was starting all over, I find out I’m further along than I realized. All that work I did to bring up my grade and learn about the path ahead of me wasn’t for nothing. And for the first time, I understand what motivation feels like.

Lorenzo and I are meeting for breakfast, so I walk into town, surprised to find I’m at the café before him.

I grab us a table and order an iced coffee, which melts into brown water as I wait and check my phone, my stomach rumbling.

It’s rare Lorenzo is late. I fan myself with the plastic menu, regretting my choice to sit outside on such a humid morning.

Then there he is, walking up the sidewalk with a subdued smile on his face. When he reaches the table, he bends down to kiss me, then sits down.

“You’re smiling,” I say, handing him a menu. “Something going on?”

“Maybe, but I want to hear what you’re smiling about first.”

“I’m smiling?”

He looks at my knee, which is jostling at a frenetic pace. “That and you’re buzzing so hard the table’s shaking. Spill.”

I can’t resist. “Okay, I saw my advisor this morning, and I actually think I want to stick with this research chef thing. Even if my parents aren’t into it, turns out I am.”

He doesn’t look as surprised as I expected. “Yes, Ruby. I love that. So you’re doing it?”

“I think so. My advisor wants a final decision, and I think I’m ready. It’s just the idea of shutting the door on other options that scares me. Because if I change my mind and end up needing grad school, I’m way behind.” My phone buzzes on the table, but I ignore it.

“You never wanted to go to grad school anyway.”

“I know, but it’s so final.”

“It doesn’t have to be forever. Go for what you want, Hayes. If it doesn’t work out, your life won’t be over.”

Dread suddenly replaces the hope in my chest. “It’s not just the job itself.

I still don’t know how much choice I’ll have in where I end up after graduation.

Culinary school, restaurant experience, R and D experience, and only then would I actually get hired as a research chef god knows where. That’s a lot of potential moves.”

He nods confidently. “We would make it work. No matter what.”

I lean forward to slide my hand up his knee. “But at least we’re finally on the same page: no clue what the next year is going to look like, a thousand questions up in the air.” Nervous energy swirls inside me.

“Actually.” He squeezes my hand. “Nine hundred and ninety-nine. I just came from Dr. H’s office.”

“I thought that appointment was this afternoon,” I say, full of anticipation.

“They switched it.”

My phone buzzes with another text, but I barely notice. “And?” I demand.

“And Halpert should write poetry. He told me I’m an extraordinary healer and remarkably resilient.”

“Romantic.”

“It got my heart fluttering.”

“So does that mean you’ll definitely play part of your season?”

“I don’t think Halpert makes a habit of using the word definitely , but he said a week nine start isn’t out of the question.” His brows pull together, a look that says he’s trying not to be hopeful, but maybe I can do it for him.

I breathe in, letting hope fill me up, and nod. “If anyone can do it ...”

I catch the way his eyes light up before he quickly drops his gaze to his menu. If he’d let himself, I really think Lorenzo could be an optimist. “And he said if things continue at this pace, I’ll have months of working out at full strength before the Combine.”

I give an excited clap. I know those words— the Combine —have dominated a corner of his brain for years.

We order and Lorenzo rattles on enthusiastically about the new workouts his doctor and trainers have approved for him.

His head is already in February, when the Combine takes place.

And beyond, I’m sure, even if he makes no mention of the NFL.

Beyond college, beyond Lakeside and Shafer.

Anxiety takes a brief hold of my insides, excitement and uncertainty and fear.

What would Lorenzo’s dreams coming true mean for us?

It’s the life he’s been chasing for years, but one where he has little say in where he lives.

And if I want to be near him, I’m walking the wrong path.

Our food is set in front of us at the same time my phone buzzes with three quick texts in a row, but I focus on my plate, my mouth watering at the sight of the bright yellow eggs formed into perfect curds and the thick pat of butter melting into thicker toast.

“Who’s obsessed with you over there?”

I glance at my phone and pause when I see who it is. “My mom.”

He pierces his poached eggs with a stab of his fork. “What’s she want?”

I pick up my phone and read all five of her messages, my jaw tightening. “Unbelievable.” I look at him. “She said sorry.”

He swallows hard and thumps his fist against his chest like he’s trying not to choke. “Come again?”

“No, really.”

“Sorry? Wow. Never thought I’d hear that. What exactly did she apologize for?”

I look at my phone again. “She said they’re sorry for how things went at the restaurant.”

“Ah. Yeah. A non-apology.” He returns to his eggs.

“And she wants to know if we can meet up in town Sunday to talk. Apparently they’re passing through on the way back from a wedding.”

Lorenzo arches one brow. “Sketchy.”

I nod. My parents have been to Shafer exactly one time, and that was to drop me off freshman year.

“Guarantee they’re expecting an apology from you in return.”

I drop my phone into my purse. “Probably with tears.”

“Not going to answer?”

“Not now. I don’t need them in my head.” Now more than ever, with decisions to make and deadlines looming, I need a clear mind. I have what I need for my future, and I don’t need them to be part of it.