Maybe This Time(70)

“She thought you were talking about her.”

“She probably wouldn’t fit in there,” Andrew said. “But New York is the kind of place you should want to stand out in. And she would definitely stand out.”

“You need to tell her that.”

“She thinks I was telling her not to move to New York? No wonder she hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate you,” Micah said. “You just broke her, that’s all.”

“What happened to the idea that you broke her with all the you’re a snob talk?”

“You’re right. I broke her too.” Micah sighed. “We both broke her and now she doesn’t want to go to New York anymore. This is her lifelong dream and she’s just giving up. She’s quitting. She’s settling or something.”

“I’m not settling!” I called out.

Micah screamed, then poked her head around the bush to the alcove where I sat, pushing the swing ever so gently with my foot.

“Soph, you are such an eavesdropper,” she said.

“Maybe you shouldn’t be talking about me behind my back.”

“I always talk about you behind your back. Mostly good things. Or in this case getting advice on how to fix you.”

“I’m not broken.”

Micah walked over and lowered herself onto the swing beside me. “Then why? Does this have to do with what I said at the Fall Festival?”

My eyes flickered to Andrew, who hung in the background, as though unsure if he should leave or not. My thoughts about New York versus Alabama had nothing to do with what Micah had said. It had to do with the fact that I had been feeling unworthy ever since the city, in the form of Andrew Hart, walked into my life, seeming to say my designs, me, weren’t good enough. But that was my perception. My own lack of confidence that I was projecting onto him.

“It’s me,” Andrew spoke up. “If I made it seem like you wouldn’t survive in New York, I didn’t mean to. New York would be happy to have you.” He lowered his eyes to the ground before they met mine again.

“No, it’s neither of you,” I said, looking from Andrew to Micah. “I promise. It’s me. It’s my stupid design journal full of nothing that is unique enough to do anything with right now. I just need to figure myself out a while and I don’t need New York to do that.”

Micah rested her head on my shoulder. “You know yourself. More than you realize, I think.”

I laughed. “Those two sentences contradict each other and are exactly my point.”

“So you’re going to take that scholarship?” Micah asked. A month ago she would’ve been happy about this, but she didn’t seem to be now.

“I think so.”

“I’ll be right back.” Micah stood and rushed away around the corner.

My mom’s voice, singing away to a completely new song, sounded and then was cut off again as Micah opened then closed the sliding door.

Andrew stood there in silence, then pointed to the seat next to me that Micah had abandoned. I nodded and he sat down. “Was that your dad on the phone earlier?” he asked.

My dad. I’d almost forgotten how badly that conversation had ended. “Yes.”

“Everything okay?”

“I don’t know. A lot of things have become clear to me lately and some of them are hard to accept.”

“I guess that means we’re growing up.” He said it like a joke but he was right. I imagined that was part of growing up—seeing things for how they really were and not just how you wanted them to be. Like you, Andrew, I wanted to say. There was what I wanted and then there was reality—a future that would take us our separate ways.

“You look so sad,” he said, placing his hand on mine. “What can I do?”

“I’m not sad,” I said, looking at him. His blue eyes seemed very intense. “Just being more realistic lately … I just need to … Your eyes are very distracting. You need to take that eyeliner off stat.”

He smiled. I turned my hand palm up, letting our fingers slide together.

He curled his fingers around mine. “I’m sorry I was a jerk to you most of the year.”

I smiled. “Ditto. I’m glad we’re friends now.”

He looked down at our hands. “Me too.”

Friends, I said to myself firmly. We have to be just friends.

Micah’s feet on the wooden porch preceded her arrival. I let go of Andrew’s hand and turned toward her as she rounded the corner. She held my design journal and wore a nervous expression.

“Don’t be mad!” she said. “I know you don’t like anyone touching this. But can we help you? Let us help you.”

I frowned. “How can you help me?”

“Maybe we can look through it.” She nodded at Andrew. “Tell you what stands out to us, what feels unique.”

My automatic instinct was to throw my guard up, to bury my journal in her backyard under the willow tree. But that seemed a little dramatic. It was the wrong instinct. That was my pride talking. What was wrong with letting people help me?

“Okay,” I said quietly.

“Yes?” she asked, excited.

I nodded.

She came to the other side of the swing. “Okay, scoot, scoot.” She gestured for me to slide closer to Andrew. The swing wasn’t built for three, but Andrew inched as far as he could to the right and made more room by draping his arm along the back of the seat. I slid over against his side. He smelled good, like fresh linen and musky cologne. Micah sat on my left and placed my journal in my lap. Then both she and Andrew leaned toward me in anticipation.