In the Age of Love and Chocolate (Birthright #3)(20)

“Well, I think you’re wrong,” she said. We stared at each other. I didn’t blink and neither did she. A second later, she turned on her heel and stalked off toward the stairway that led to the train.

“Goodbye, Natty!” I called after her. “I love you! Call me if you need anything.”

She did not reply or even turn her head.

* * *

A week later, she called me, sobbing. “Please, Anya. Please let me come home.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t do anything here. There are tons of rules and even more because I’m new. If you let me come home, I’ll be good, I swear. I know I was wrong before. I shouldn’t have stayed out with Pierce. I shouldn’t have been disrespectful to you or Mr. Beery.”

I steeled myself. “Give it a couple of weeks.”

“I can’t, Anya! I’ll die. I will seriously die.”

“Are they doing anything bad to you? Because if they are, you need to tell me what it is.”

She didn’t answer.

“Is this about Pierce?” I asked. “Do you miss him?”

“No! That’s … you don’t know everything. You don’t know anything!”

“Give it until Thanksgiving. You can come home for Thanksgiving and then you’ll see Leo.”

She hung up on me.

I wished I could see her. I wished the school wasn’t so far away or that I hadn’t been so busy with the club. If only I knew someone in Boston, I thought.

I did, of course, though I didn’t want to have to talk to him. I didn’t want to have to ask him for anything either.

In point of fact, I didn’t even have his cell phone number.

I got my slate from the drawer. Only people in school used slates, but unlike me, Win was still in school. Although we had never slate-messaged much (no one my age did; SM-ing was something your grandparents or even your great-grandparents did), at that moment, the ancient technology appealed to me. It seemed more respectful, and easier than having to actually speak.

anyaschka66: Are you there? Do you ever use this?

He did not reply for nearly an hour.

win-win: Not often. What do you want?

anyaschka66: Are you at college?

win-win: Yes.

anyaschka66: Boston, right? Do you like it?

win-win: Yes and yes. Actually, I have to get to class soon.

anyaschka66: You don’t owe me anything, but I need a favor. Natty’s at a new school in Boston, and I wondered if you could go visit her for me. She sounded upset the last time we talked. I know it’s a lot to ask …

win-win: OK, for Natty,* OK. Where is it?

anyaschka66: Sacred Heart, on Commonwealth.

(*“For Natty”—read: not for me.)

The next day, he messaged me again.

win-win: Saw N. this afternoon. She’s definitely okay. Likes her classes and the other girls. Maybe she’s a little homesick, but she’ll live. I let her steal my hat.

anyaschka66: Thank you. Thank you so much.

win-win: Not a problem. I should go.

anyaschka66: Maybe if you’re home for Thanksgiving, you could stop by my club. We could catch up. Drinks on me.

win-win: I’m not coming home for Thanksgiving. I’m going to visit my girlfriend’s family in Vermont.*

anyaschka66: Sounds fun. I’ve never been to Vermont. That’s so great. I’m really, really happy to hear that.**

win-win: Dad says you’re a success. Congrats, Annie. Sounds like you’ve gotten everything you wanted.***

anyaschka66: Yeah. Well, thanks. Thank you again for going to see Natty. Have a good Thanksgiving if I don’t see you. I guess I probably won’t.

win-win: Take care.

(*Vermont? That was fast. Though maybe it wasn’t. It had been about five and a half months since we’d bid adieu. Had I expected him to become a monk?)

(**Maybe there was a point to this slate-messaging after all. I was glad he couldn’t hear my voice or see my face as I expressed how really, really happy I was for him.)

(***Suffice it to say, not quite everything.)

VI

I DELIVER THE WORLD’S SHORTEST EULOGY; THROW A PARTY; AM KISSED PROPERLY

TWO DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS, I received a phone call from Keisha, Mr. Kipling’s wife. “Anya,” she said tearfully, “Mr. K. is dead.” Mr. Kipling had been fifty-four years old. He’d had a major heart attack my junior year of high school. A little over two years later, a second heart attack had finished him off. Mortality rates in my circle were always high, but that year, they had been particularly so. I’d lost Imogen in January, my cousin Mickey in September, and now, Mr. Kipling. A loss for nearly every season of the year.

Perhaps this is why I did not cry when Keisha gave me the news. “I’m truly sorry,” I said.

“I’m calling because I wondered if you might say a few words at his funeral?”

“It’s not really my strong suit.” I was not comfortable with public displays of emotion.

“But it would mean so much to him. He was incredibly proud of you and the club. Every single article about you, he saved.”

I was surprised to hear that. For the last nine months of his life, Mr. Kipling and I had fought, mainly over my decision to open the club that apparently he’d been “incredibly proud of.” (There had been other reasons.) However, from my father’s death in 2075 until I’d become an adult last summer, Mr. Kipling had overseen every financial decision I had made and quite a few of the personal ones. I’m not sure how good his advice was at times, but he had always done his best and had never given up on me even when it seemed that the world was against me. I knew he had loved me. I had loved him, too.