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"You can ask."
She looks up at me. Runs her fingertips over my jawline. "You mean drugs?"
"Sometimes. It was never my thing."
"You'd rather be in control?"
"How the fuck did you know?"
It's strange. I never want to share anything. And certainly not with Kay. The way she looks at me—like I'm a guy worth loving—is too intoxicating. I can't bring myself to convince her otherwise.
But I want to tell her this.
I want her to know how many people I disappointed.
How many people I continue to disappoint.
It's still fucking heavy.
"Brendon?" She tugs at my t-shirt. Her eyes meet mine. Are you okay?
"What's next?"
"Oh." She looks to her cell. Taps the screen a few times. "The English building is this way. I think... It would be stupid, majoring in English."
"No."
"Yeah. Reading and writing aren't jobs."
"They are. But even if that's not what you do—so what? All jobs are communication. That's English."
"Maybe. I don't know. I think... I think my parents expect more."
"They just want you to be happy."
"How do you know?"
"You'll get it if you have kids one day."
"Is that what you want?"
"I don't know. I'm Emma's dad as much as I'm her brother."
"You're good at it. Whatever it is."
"Maybe." I try. It would be fucking amazing, having a family of my own. One day. But I'm not sure I'm the kind of guy who should be a dad. Or a husband. "Do you want kids?"
"I don't know. It's hard enough taking care of myself. That's so far off... I want to figure out this semester before I move on to the rest of my life."
I follow her along the concrete path.
The campus is beautiful this late. Big green lawn. Dark blue sky. Yellow streetlamps. Brick and concrete everywhere.
Every few minutes, we pass a student. Half are heading to or from the library. The other half are on their way home from a night of over indulging. It's in their messy steps and their habit of staring too long.
We go past every building in her schedule, even the one where her adviser is.
Finally, we stop at the building where Kaylee is taking her creative writing class.
