Begin Again(19)

I pull the white ribbon out of my apron pocket for what must be at least the tenth time today. Once I’ve felt the edges of it and tucked it back in, I find myself face-to-face with Shay.

“I saw the ribbons on your desk. The super old ones,” she says quietly, so Milo and the line cooks wandering out for their breaks can’t hear. “Your whole thing with The Knights’ Watch. There’s more to it, isn’t there?”

“Yeah,” I say carefully.

The strange thing is, I want to tell Shay about my mom. I do. I’m familiar enough with her blunt warmth that I know she’s not going to get uncomfortable and shy away from the grief of it, the way so many of my friends back home did growing up. That telling her isn’t going to open that same kind of gap it felt like it did back then.

But I’ve spent so many years avoiding the topic that it feels like too much of a risk to take—not when Shay and I are just starting to get to know each other. Not when this was supposed to be my fresh start as just Andie, and not Andie with a loaded past.

But Shay just nods solemnly, her eyes as steady as before when she offers a resolute “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay, I’ll help you,” says Shay, heading over to the coffee machine counter. “Get ribbons, I mean.”

I shake my head, catching the washcloth she tosses me so we can start wiping down the coffee and tea area in the back. “Oh, you don’t have to—”

“I mean, I can’t collect any myself. But if you need to switch a shift to get to one of the events or something, I’m in,” says Shay, moving the coffee syrups out of the way.

It’s difficult to put up too much of a fight when you’re trying to uncrust toffee syrup from a counter, but I sure do try. “Shay, seriously. I appreciate it, but there’s no reason for you to.”

Shay stops scrubbing for a moment to look back at me. “You’re gonna help me figure out my major, right?”

I unconsciously clench my fists at my side, my energy renewed. “Absolutely.”

“So let me help you, too. I have zero desire to join some secret society, but I don’t mind lending a hand. Lord knows I read enough rom-coms that I’m game to see this ridiculous one through.” She puts down her rag, holding her other hand out for me to shake. “We got a deal?”

I bypass the handshake and go straight in for a hug. Shay lets out an oof of surprise before hugging me back.

“Should’ve seen that coming,” she mutters, patting me on the back.

We’re interrupted by the sound of a ping from her pocket. Shay winces. “We get notifications whenever our test scores come in,” she says, pulling her phone out.

I was supposed to have that set up too, but my phone is too old to sync with the app’s notifications. I follow Shay’s lead and open the student app, and immediately regret it with every bone in my body.

“Strawberry Eggo waffles,” I mutter.

“Slept-on flavor,” says Shay approvingly, looking over my shoulder. “What happened?”

I show her the big, red, resounding zero I got on my stats test. The one that’s worth an alarming portion of my grade. I’d figure out how much, but ironically, I can’t do the math.

“Yikes. Here,” says Shay, taking my phone and tapping a few buttons on the app. “What are you doing at three P.M. tomorrow?”

“Staring into a metaphorical pit and questioning every math-related life choice I’ve ever made?”

“Well, reschedule, because I just booked you a stats tutor in the campus library.” Shay pulls the phone away from her face to show me the screen. “Also, your dad’s calling.”

“Oh. I’ll talk to him later,” I say, taking the phone back from her and putting it in my apron pocket.

“You can take your break now if you want,” says Shay, tilting her head toward the back. There’s a little break room decorated with watercolor prints of bagels and about a dozen coffee-stained mugs that no doubt belong to Milo.

“Yeah. Okay,” I say, heading toward it.

Only once I’ve settled into one of the cozy chairs, I don’t bother calling my dad back. I stare at the phone until enough time passes that I know I better get back to work. I tap on my voicemails, pressing my dad’s to my ear as I walk back out before the next rush between classes begins.

“Hey, A-Plus. Hope the first day went well. I’m going on a quick trip for a few days and won’t have a lot of service, but I’m passing you on the way up today—let me know if you want to grab lunch.”

The shame is quick and sharp, and the anger that follows it more muddled and harder to define. It’s not that I don’t want to see him. It’s that he had all the opportunities in the world to see me over the past few years, and he still chose to move away. And only recently did he decide to do anything about it. He’s been in touch more, and we did spend Thanksgiving and Christmas together. It was fine. Sometimes more than fine. Sometimes good enough to trick me into thinking it had always been like that, and always will.

But it wasn’t, and it might not be. So I do things like this even though I know I shouldn’t—ignoring calls, letting plans fall to the wayside, taking forever to text back. Keeping him at arm’s length so he can’t get close enough. Never fully letting him in so he never gets another chance to leave.