Page 24 of Mr. Brightside
Fire erupts behind her eyes at my warning.
“We’re just going to the courthouse and signing papers. There isn’t going to be a wedding.”
This time when she smacks the table, her juice actually sloshes out of the glass.
She’s on her feet a moment later, mixing English and Spanish in a tirade made for the stage. I know better than to interrupt her or try to talk her out of this reaction. She just needs to get it out of her system.
She starts grabbing dishes from the table and clearing them, even though neither of us has taken a single bite of food. I stand cautiously and try to stay out of her way. She’s still muttering as I follow her over to the sink. She sets down a plate of toast, and I see my opening.
I grab her in a one-armed hug and feel her tense immediately. Before she can start in on me, I kiss the top of her head. “When it’s real, you’ll be there,” I promise. She hits me with a surly scowl. “I am not getting any younger, nieto.”
Oh boy. Now she’s just trying to pick a fight. She’s not even sixty years old.
“Te amo hasta la luna y de vuelta,” I murmur as I ignore my rumbling stomach and retreat from the kitchen to my bedroom. I need to let her have her moment. She’ll cool down. I know it. And when I tell her more about my plans for the money…
I yawn deeply as I tread to the other side of our small ranch-style home, desperate to finally get some rest.
Chapter 11
Cory
ForasfrustratedasI am about the assistantship debacle, I can’t help but smile as I stride up the familiar incline from the parking lot to Gray Hall. There’s just something about Holt State University’s campus that makes me feel a boundless sense of optimism.
Maybe it’s the cheesy marketing banners all over campus. Maybe it’s the eclectic mix of students meandering on the path in front of me. Or, as corny as it sounds, maybe it’s because my dreams are on the precipice of becoming reality thanks to Holt.
I’m a first-generation college graduate. Earning my bachelor’s degree was the most significant accomplishment of my life thus far. My parents and Abuela were proud, of course, but I didn’t do it for them. There was something intrinsically satisfying about accomplishing that goal and pursuing my dreams. Soon, I’ll have my master’s degree in a field that I’m passionate about so that I can actually help people.
I didn’t set out to become a therapist when I started at Holt. I was undeclared my freshman year, and I took a lot of general education classes to begin with. I had never even considered working in mental health until I was invited back to my high school alma mater to give a presentation about the college experience.
It was my former high school guidance counselor, Mr. Stamos, who suggested I chat with Dr. Deshong, head of the School of Psychology and Human Services at Holt. They had gone to school together and stayed in touch over the years. It was his off-handed comment and their connection that led me down this career path I genuinely love.
I had considered going into education for the first few years of my program, but the restrictions on school guidance counselors, even at the high school level, just feel too ingenuine to me. I want to help the kid who’s trying to come out to their parents or experiencing their first heartbreak. I don’t want to write college recommendation letters and dole out personality tests for the rest of my life.
I pull open the heavy door to Gray Hall and inhale the musty scent of linoleum and paper. This is one of the older buildings on campus, a preserved snapshot of eighties architecture and décor among a sprawling landscape of new builds.
I forgo the questionable elevator and take the stairs to the fourth floor. I’m not even sure if she’ll be here today, but I figure it’s worth a shot since I’m on campus anyway.
The light in her office is on, and her door’s propped open. I can’t help but smile when I spot the feminist bumper stickers and equal rights decrees covering every inch of her office door. I tentatively knock to announce my presence.
She lifts her eyes to meet mine, and a compassionate smile blossoms on her face.
“Cory.” She sighs, a mix of sympathy and sadness clouding her tone. “Please, come in.”
I take a seat across from where she sits behind her desk, but she doesn’t even give me a chance to settle in before she launches into a hurried explanation.
“I am so sorry about your assistantship, Cory. The absolute audacity of this institution to toy with people’s futures like this.” She huffs out an agitated breath. “I spent hours yesterday demanding the dean do something—anything—to save our GA positions.” She looks at me with a mix of frustration and defeat. “Obviously, that was all in vain.”
I nod in understanding. I figured she had absolutely no control over the situation. I could tell as much by how forlorn she sounded yesterday when she called to break the news.
“I’ve put feelers out to every other department on campus. Sometimes life happens—there could be a number of reasons someone passes on an assistantship at the last minute. I know working for another department wouldn’t be ideal, but at least your tuition and stipend would be secure.”
I can’t help but smile at her concern. It means the world to me that she’s hustling to try to help me figure this out.
“I appreciate that, but I actually think I’ve got it under control.” I hold her gaze and watch her expression morph from concern to confusion.
“Did you find another assistantship on your own?”
I shake my head. “No, but I figured out a way to pay my tuition. It’s an option I… hadn’t fully explored until now,” I offer vaguely. I inwardly cringe at my aloofness. But there’s no way I can explain to my mentor and professional idol that I agreed to marry a man who is going to pay my tuition and my student loan debt.