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The air-conditioning in this building borders on arctic. Between the cold and sitting in this cramped waiting room chair, my leg is throbbing, screaming. I take a sip of my lukewarm coffee and tip my head back against the wall behind. Close my eyes and think of anything but the low pulse of pain radiating up my hip and down my knee. The door opens and I crack an eye, just to make sure. It’s highly unlikely George or Lulu would come to this administrative building on the corner of their campus, but still. It’s good to be prepared. I close my eyes again, smiling this time at how loud they’d both be if they found me sitting here in the registrar’s office of their university. The faux anger that I hadn’t told them I was going to be here. Their nosiness now that I am here, the demands for lunch, for a coffee, for my time, that would inevitably follow, and how I would acquiesce to them without much of a fight.
Lulu shuffled into my kitchen an hour after I woke up on Saturday morning. Her hair billowed around her in a messy tangle, she squinted at the sun coming through the side door window like it had personally wronged her. She’d grumbled about my NPR being too loud and declined my offer of coffee, tea, and orange juice in exchange for her arms around me, her face pressed into my pectoral. She smelled like my fabric softener and she grinned like a maniac when I gave her shit for being grumpy in the morning.
“Jesse Logan?” A man with a clipboard stands behind the reception desk.
“That’s me.”
“Come on back.”
He’s white, tall, and athletic. He smiles wide when we get to his office, inviting me to sit down and taking the chair next to mine instead of sitting at the desk across from me. He has the same energy as a lot of the therapists in our study. Like, we’re supposed to be buds already, that I can trust him. It’s more than I expected from an academic adviser.
“What brings you in today?” he asks.
“I was thinking of applying to school,” I say. “For nursing. I’m researching my options, I guess.”
He nods. “Going back to school is a big deal.”
“I’m not really going back.” I rub at my thigh, following the line of my scar that I don’t have to see. “I’ve never been. To college,” I clarify.
He shrugs. “Well, welcome.” As if it’s that easy. But it turns out it is. His name is Josh, and he walks me through how a mature student applies and how my experience and skills as a firefighter medic will help me and in the span of thirty minutes I have three pamphlets about prep courses and the university and an email address and the instructions to contact my high school for my transcripts.
I walk out of the building in a daze. That was far easier than I thought it would be. It was so easy, I feel stupid for waiting so long. But that’s been the theme these last few weeks. Everything is far easier than I thought: talking to Pop, to Lulu, falling for her. The only thing standing in my way has always been myself.
If I told George any of this, he’d smack me upside the head and sayduh.
Chapter Nineteen
Lulu
My office partner, Jay, who is never here on Friday, is suddenly and inexplicably here.
“Crumbs,” I mutter under my breath, gathering my laptop and headphones and a notepad and two pens, in case one dies. He waves obliviously as I leave. There are a thousand places to get work done on a university campus but there are not a lot of places to have a private interview with a professor from another university about job prospects. Between this interview and my plans later today, I am an anxious mess.
I tap on Dad’s door. “Any chance you have a class in fifteen minutes?” I ask.
He pauses, his index fingers poised over the keyboard since he types only with them. “Why?” His mustache twitches.
I look up and down the hall for eavesdroppers and step inside anyway, just to be safe. “I have a video call with Cecelia,” I whisper.
His eyes get big behind his glasses. “Oh.” Dad doesn’t move, just sits behind his desk, looking shocked.
“Jay is in the office today and I need some place I can speak to her privately,” I say.
“Right. Yes, yes. Of course.” He stands, patting his pants pockets for his glasses.
“They’re on your face, Dad.”
He touches the thin wire rims with gentle fingers, making another astonished sound. “An interview with Cecelia from Lancaster?” His volume is far too loud. If his neighbors’ doors are open they’ll definitely hear, not to mention anyone walking down the hall.
I push the door closed and step farther into the office. “Dad,” I whisper-hiss. “Yes. Remember the interview thatyoupushed me to do? I’m talking to her today and I need a place to do it. Quietly.”
Dad spends another minute gathering up books and a stack of viewfoils since the man still uses the last overhead projector on campus during his lectures. “Well,” he says, standing at the door. “Good luck.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I don’t tell him that I won’t be needing it.
He lingers like he might say more, but then he leaves and I set up my laptop, play with the lighting, and lay out my notepad, pen, and bottle of water. I have just sat down in Dad’s creaky old chair that must be the source of his chronic back pain when the call comes through on the screen. I haven’t had time to feel nervous. Until right now. Now, I might puke.
“Hi, Dr. Lucas,” I say brightly as Cecelia’s face appears on screen. She’s an older white woman with short white hair and glasses, and a thick Manchester accent that took a while for me to get used to.
