Jasmine
I made a decision, and I made it the right way.
With a list.
I know how that sounds, but I swear it works.
There are two columns in this list. The left one says REASONS NOT TO, and every line on it is true.
1. My father will end his career.
2. Caleb loses the possibility of a contract.
3. Caleb won’t be able to help the family he’s always quietly working for.
4. I lose the only family I have and the careful little life I’ve built at VCU.
The right column, REASONS TO, has one thing on it.
1. Him.
And, believe it or not, the one thing wins. I ran the scenarios six different ways, and it keeps winning. It makes no sense, but I’m doing it anyway.
I tried to watch my show last night. The thing that turns the volume down in my head. I couldn’t. I sat in front of a rose ceremony and couldn’t call a single elimination, because there’s no little room in real life where they pull you aside and ask what you’re feeling.
No overzealous producer.
No cheesy script.
Just a guy who keeps my green beans in their own bowl, and a list with one REASONS TO item in the right column.
So, it’s been decided.
Although the hard part isn’t deciding. I figured that out around three a.m. The hard part is the manual.
Everybody comes with one.
Mine’s just longer, and written in a language people quit reading about four pages in. I’ve watched it happen my whole life. The exact second somebody decides I’m going to be work.
That’s why it’s just easier to play the background where it doesn’t bother anyone. If I don’t make friends, eat the food that doesn’t touch, and keep my sleeves down, everything will be fine. Although I’m not sure I can be fine after deciding what I have.
He opens the door before I knock. He’s got a dish towel over one shoulder and flour on his forearm, and he looks so ridiculously good that I nearly lose my whole speech on the spot.
“You’re cooking,” I say.
“It’s eleven in the morning.”
“You’re always cooking.”
“It’s how I keep this body looking so good,” he snorts. “But it’s also how I think.” He wipes his hands on the towel. “You drove over here with a face on, like you’ve been thinking hard about something. What did the should you or should you not list say?”
That knocks the things I was going to say out of order, which he knows, which is exactly why he did it.
“Which house are you in?”
“What, Dixon?”
“Potter House.”
