Winston is moving back after graduation this spring, and if my plans stay true, I will too.
“Buying is fine till I have things sorted out.”
Moving is complicated. Everything is complicated. I really have no other way to describe it. Baby or no baby, the plan was always for me to go back.
“Not to hit a sore subject, but how does Sydney feel about moving?”
I chug some water and look at Tripp.
If he’s the one to bring it up first, I should take the opening, right? But I’ve yet to even tell Sydney, since we hardly talk. She and I have had this constant one-word text chain we need to move past. It’s nothing like it was last semester, but one drunken night later and she’s pregnant and nothing’s the same.
We can’t dance around each other forever. We need to work together on this.
“You haven’t told her?” Winston asks.
“We haven’t had much time to talk about things, and when we do, it’s short-lived.”
It’s hard to have a civil conversation with someone who thinks I don’t want to be involved. I’ve made mistakes. Who hasn’t? I can’t dwell on them forever, and she shouldn’t either.
“Well, you two should probably talk about living arrangements, because I have a feeling that she won’t be too keen on moving across the country with some guy she’s not even dating.”
“We’re having a baby,” I say, deadpan.
“So?” Tripp cuts in. “People raise children apart all the time.”
“I know they do, but I don’t think that will be Sydney and me. We’ll live together.”
Both my friends chuckle, and I roll my eyes. “What?”
“Just because two people are having a baby doesn’t mean that they have the same idea on how to raise it. You need to talk to Sydney.”
And I will talk to Sydney, but my friends are wrong. I can’t afford to make mistakes again.
From this day forward with Sydney, there isn’t room to make the wrong choice.
Sydney
Earning an education is challenging, and as someone who has spent the last year and a half going to school for fun, this whole “focus so you can graduate” mindset sort of sucks.
Don’t get me wrong, I knew what I was getting into when I started college. I applied with the intention of putting my head down, skipping parties, and graduating like the vast majority of students do. I’d find a good paying job with my degree, and I’d live comfortably. Eventually, I would meet a guy and we would date and then fall in love, get married, have kids, and live happily ever after.
For my first semester, I was rocking this plan. Then I met Tripp McCain and, wow. A rich boy from Manhattan who lived his life as if he had no worries in the world when it came to his finances. He could do anything he wanted whenever he wanted, and money was never a thought. For me, a girl who grew up with a family who barely made ends meet, this was fascinating.
My family wasn’t poor by any means, but we budgeted for new cars years in advance. Dinner out was for special occasions only. A straight-A report card for me or my older brother did not count. And brand-name clothing was a fight with my mother that usually ended up with me in tears because I was never going to fit in with the other girls in my grade. My parents always made sure I had food, clothes, and a warm bed. They never lacked when it came to showing me their affection, but yeah, money was at the front of every choice our family made, and it was definitely the start to every late-night fight my parents had.
So, it’s safe to say that meeting Tripp opened my eyes to this new way of life, and as soon as he invited me into it, I was addicted. It didn’t hurt that he was nice to look at too. What did hurt was how hard I fell into thinking I could have that life that even when my feelings for Tripp were gone, I still hung around because I badly wanted a life with financial freedom. I fell so hard; I forgot what I wanted in life and who I was.
And now that Tripp is out of the picture, it feels like I’m starting over to reach my goals. Hence, trying to focus on whatever my professor is saying right now. I should be paying attention—but I can’t think straight to listen to him at the moment.
An elbow bumps my arm, and I almost do a face-plant onto the table.
“Are you even paying attention?” my best friend June whispers as Professor Russel flips another slide on the projector in front of us. Yes, a projector. Professor Russel is very old school when it comes to teaching, and yet, as a graphic arts professor, he requires all our homework to be done digitally. I’m not sure if this is some twisted way to make us work harder or not.
“I might have zoned out, yes,” I whisper back.
June scribbles something on a notebook and hands it back to me. We might be twenty-two and in college but getting caught talking during class is still something no one wants to be called out for.
She turns the notebook to face me.
