Until the Day I Die(41)

Then the alarm goes off, and we all stare at each other. Jess shuts it off, and that’s when I realize Agnes is no longer with us. She’s gone.





23

SHORIE

I wake up a little before nine on Saturday morning and lie in bed, strategizing. I’m still $600 shy of the $3,750 I owe Rhys. I consider withdrawing the money from my personal budget allocation—there’s enough extra in there that it wouldn’t exactly be a hardship. But even though I know Mom doesn’t have her phone or computer at Hidden Sands, I’m worried it’ll somehow get back to the school or someone at Jax. And I can’t risk that.

For a split second I wonder how much the emerald band Mom gave me would bring. But no. That would be beyond shitty.

I consider seeing if I can get Dele and her friend Rayanne to agree to eat someplace nice tonight, maybe order steak and dessert and let me pick up the check in exchange for cash to at least get me started toward the six hundred. But then I think of something better. I call Gigi.

She’s up, of course, making Arch’s daily oatmeal. I tell her I’ve decided to take her advice and trade my trendy wardrobe of sweats and T-shirts from Goodwill for a few classic, well-made pieces—including but not limited to a cashmere coat for winter, an expensive leather bag, and some wool trousers and cashmere sweaters, maybe even a status pocketbook.

My grandmother practically dies of happiness. In fact, Gigi’s so excited about my deciding to dress like a Junior League member she doesn’t even question me when I ask her if she can wire it to me, since my roommate wants to drive to the mall in Montgomery first thing this morning. Shockingly, she agrees, and I send her phone kisses, promising to text pictures of me in my new old-lady clothes.

When we hang up, I only feel a tiny twinge of guilt. I love Gigi, but she was so mean to Mom at the intervention, and in a way, that feels a little like my fault. It’s hard to untangle all the threads of blame. But I’m not changing my mind about the money. Or about letting one of Rhys’s surrogates take my classes. This is what I want to do. What I have to do.

Dele’s still asleep, so I get dressed and brush my teeth as quietly as possible. Out in the hall, the floor is quiet; in fact, the whole dorm is silent as death. Seems like everybody was out late last night but me. It’s depressing, being awake when everyone’s asleep, asleep when everyone’s awake. Just another way it feels like I’m constantly out of step with the world.

I haul my Huffy into the elevator, down to the first floor, and head out toward the Winn-Dixie on College Street. The cash safely stuffed in my purse, I pedal over to Mama Mocha’s, where I gobble a bagel with cream cheese, nurse a cappuccino, and slowly flip through a local real estate brochure like a middle-aged person. I’m wondering if 11:07 a.m. is a reasonable, nonstalker-y hour to text Rhys when I hear a voice behind me.

“Investing in some real estate?”

Rhys is dressed in black gym shorts and a dingy blue T-shirt. He’s holding a zucchini muffin wrapped in a napkin and a paper cup of coffee, his adorably mussed cinnamon-colored hair flipping out from under an Auburn cap.

“Oh, hi,” I say. “I was just . . .” For the life of me, I can’t think of a single lie.

He sits and breaks his muffin in half. His arms are hairy in a nice way, and look warm. I try not to stare.

“Did you just happen to be passing by?” I ask. Now I sound like an episode of a Masterpiece show. But still. It’s kind of strange that he’s here.

“You mentioned liking this place last night, and I was hoping to run into you.”

I want to scream with happiness. But I don’t. There are other things I remember from last night. Like him saying that he has a buddy, one who lives on an island and works at a five-star resort. Maybe or maybe not in the Caribbean. Where Mom is.

He crams half the muffin into his mouth. “Oh my God. I was craving this so bad. You want half?”

I shake my head, and he smiles at me, his mouth full.

“You were hoping to run into me?” I ask.

“Yeah. For the fee.” He smooshes a couple of crumbs on his thumb and pops them into his mouth. “Not that we have to do it in person. But, it’s more fun that way.” He smiles.

That smile, my God. I quietly die a rapturous death.

“You want to Venmo me?” he asks.

I shake my head. “You know, at my house, Venmo’s kind of a dirty word.”

“Ah. My apologies. You know, Lowell was joking, but we really could use a revamping of our site. Like a program that would help me with all our surrogates. If you want to barter.”

Even though the idea of writing a program—and all the puzzle solving that entails—does kind of fire me up, I shake my head. “I should probably just pay you, like everybody else.”

“Okay, cool.” The other half of the muffin goes in his mouth. Amazing how somebody can eat like a total pig and still somehow come off looking completely adorable. I’m hit with the memory of how it used to drive Mom crazy when Dad would mix up all the food on his plate. He would do it with the grossest stuff: spaghetti with salad, or eggs and sausage and hash browns. He’d swirl it all up into one lumpy mountain, then attack the whole thing at once, while she howled in disgust. I wonder, though. Had she thought it was cute when they were dating?

I reach for my purse, but he puts a hand on my arm. “You don’t have to pay me right now. Do you want another coffee?”