Page 55 of 10 Signs You Need to Grovel

“Des?” she says, sounding half-asleep and worried. “Is everything okay?”

No idea why I thought calling her at bat-ballet a.m. was a good idea. It’s past midnight now. Mirielle has me thinking everyone’s awake at this hour. “Sorry. Everything’s great. Go back to sleep.”

“No, no.” Rustling carries through the line, then a faint click, like she’s turning on her bedside lamp. “I’m awake. What’s up?”

The fact that I feel like I’ve been treading water. “Duke’s willing to take me back.”

“Des, wow. I had no idea you wanted to reapply.”

“Yeah. I mean . . .” I run my fingers through the bracelet threads hanging down my thigh, spinning them around and around. “It’s what I always wanted, right?”

“It is. I just . . .”

I still my fingers, wait for her to go on. To whoop and laugh and say Finally and I’m so proud and I knew you could do it, like the night she toasted my first Duke acceptance, crying as she told me what a great lawyer I’d make. “You just what?” I ask.

“Nothing,” she says quickly. “I’m just thrilled you’re looking ahead and finally following your dreams. So you need money, I guess. I can forward you the college fund.” She doesn’t have the enthused tone I expected, but I did wake her at a late hour.

I’m not as enthused as I expected. If she has that cash, taking classes won’t bury me in debt. I can afford school, not begin my professional life on the back foot. I’d be able to help Sadie out. But I’m not punching the air and shouting my joy. A bat swoops so low I flinch.

“That’s great,” I say. “The money’s great. I’ll be starting classes at the end of August.”

Which means figuring out living arrangements in Durham. Getting caught up on readings other than teen books. I’ll travel back to Windfall on weekends to see Sadie and Max. Or maybe they’ll come to Durham with me. If she wants that. If she wants me more permanently in their lives. But this—law. Proving how serious I am. Once she sees I’m working toward our future, she’ll worry less about me derailing their family balance.

“Des,” Mom says gently. “How are things with Sadie and Max?”

Hard. Sad. Amazing. Complicated. “We’re taking things slow. I think I’ll talk to Sadie tomorrow . . . which I guess is today now. Tell her about school. And we’re telling Max who I am on Monday.” A prospect that has my stomach hollowing.

Mom and I talk a bit longer, finalizing the money details, discussing all things Max, while I try to shake my unease. I debate asking her opinion on my whole Max-is-maybe-gay theory, seek advice on keeping lines of communication open. But in that Simon book, the main character didn’t want his coming out to be a big thing. He was nervous about the drama that would unfold. Even the happy, supportive drama. I have no doubt my family would be happy and supportive, but they’d also be overbearing. Go out of their way to show their love excessively. Maybe say something before they should.

Eventually we say goodbye and hang up. Instead of turning off my phone, I take Mirielle’s advice and send E a text: Can you and Delilah come for dinner one night soon?

He’s geographically my closest family. Aside from asking for his makeover help, I haven’t spent time with him, caught up on his life. I don’t expect a reply now. My mind is just so on fire tonight, spinning through a thousand and one worries. Sending the invitation takes another weight off.

I go to turn off my phone, but dots bounce with an incoming reply.

E: Why? Is something wrong?

Des: Why are you awake?

E: Why are YOU awake?

I smile at our provoking exchange, worrying over each other the way we do.

Des: Busy mind. Sadie. Max. Other stuff. What’s your excuse?

E: I was actually thinking about you, which is freaking me out. Maybe I have telepathy.

Des: Or you just miss me.

E: Is it OK if I drive over now?

I glare at the time on my phone.

Des: No. It’s not OK. It’s fucking late and you’ll be fucking tired and I won’t have you getting in an accident.

E: Cool. I’ll see you in an hour. I have something to give you.

Growling, I almost dial his number to yell at him, but he won’t listen to me, and I don’t want to wake Delilah if she’s asleep. I move inside to wait for him, busy myself with another bracelet. In my annoyance, my braiding skills take a nosedive. I’m yanking the strings too hard, and the knots are sitting awkwardly. Still, when I’m done, I grab an envelope and paper and write a short note.