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I whistle. “Dang, girl. That’s some ambitious dreams.”
She shrugs, moving her straw around in her drink. I pull into the cemetery and park my truck in front of her car.
“When I changed majors, my mom said I was making a mistake. She said I was only doing it because I was sad.”
I’m quiet for a minute, then ask carefully, “Were you?”
“No”—she shakes her head—“I changed majors because I wanted to. Because I never really wanted to be a doctor, I just wanted to be like my dad—to make him proud. After he died, I realized he’d be proud of me no matter what my career was, but he would be upset if he knew I wasn’t happy with my job. And if I had stayed and gone to medical school and become a surgeon like I’d planned, I would have hated every second of it.”
“Why?”
She glances at me, her eyebrows raised. “No one’s asked me that—why I feel like I would have hated it, not even my therapist.”
“Well, I’m curious.”
She looks back out the window and rests her cheek on the top of her knee.
“I don’t want to spend my life surrounded by death. I don’t think I could be the person to tell a wife or a daughter that their husband, their dad, their whole freakingworldhad died, and I couldn’t save him. I’m not naïve, I know that most of my job would have been saving and helping people, but I also know a pretty good chunk of it would be breaking earth-shattering news to people and I don’t want to do that. I’ve lived it—that’s enough.”
For a twenty-two-year-old she has a pretty good head on her shoulders. Most girls I know her age are too busy partying and getting drunk to think about careers and things like that—about life after college. But then, most girls her age don’t have to endure the death of a parent.
“That makes perfect sense to me. Did you tell your mom that?”
“No. She would’ve just started crying, and she’s cried enough since my dad died. I just told her I knew what I was doing, and she had to trust me.”
“So, what major did you change to?”
“Business. It seemed like the most sensible option. I could work just about anywhere with a business degree, and it was already my minor. It just made sense to switch. My graduation ceremony is in two weeks, but I don’t think I’ll go.”
“Why not? That’s a huge accomplishment, Lucy. You should go.”
“I don’t really see a point in going since my dad won’t be there.”
The matter-of-fact way she says it cleaves my heart in half. I barely know this girl, but I feel some type of way about her—this need to protect her, to help her. Maybe it’s because I know exactly what she’s feeling, or maybe it’s something deeper. I haven’t figured it out yet.
“You can’t stop living your life just because your father died, Lucy,” I say softly.
She’s quiet, but I see the way her jaw tightens and her whole body stiffens. I know exactly what she’s feeling, I felt it too. I look away from her and take a deep breath, running a hand through my hair.
“My mom said the same thing. So did my best friend. Wanna know a secret, though?”
Part of me knows I should say no, that nothing good can possibly come from the two of us getting closer. I will never be able to offer her more than friendship, and Lucy has no idea what mess she’s getting into with me. But her voice sounds so hollow, and her eyes look empty. And something in me wants to change that.
“I’m a big fan of secrets,” I say.
“I wasn’t really living before my dad died, either. I was going through the motions then, the only difference is now people are starting to notice.”
My heart breaks a little, because I know exactly what she means. Her words hit a little too close to home and I reached out, tucking some hair behind her ear. Her cheeks flush and she turns, opening the door of my truck.
“Thanks for the milkshake, Wyatt,” she says over her shoulder.
I get out of my truck to follow her to her car, watching as she fumbles for her keys. She drives an old Honda CRV, and it makes me smile. She unlocks the car and slides into her seat, putting her milkshake in the cup holder, and tossing her purse into the passenger seat.
“Hey, Lucy?”
She turns, one hand on the car door and one on her steering wheel.
“Yeah?”
