Begin Again(32)

Shay raises her eyebrows. “You’d be messing with something much bigger than you are, Andie Rose. Bigger than all of us.”

Having been raised by Gammy Nell, patron saint of all things delicious, I would never compromise the taste of something so beloved as Eternal Darkness. But now that I’m on my eleventh batch, I’ve perfected a blend that was every bit as unholy and bitter as the original blend, except without a trace of caffeine.

“It would just be one he could drink in the afternoon. I mean, just look how much better off he is on the half-caf version. He didn’t run into one single stationary object today,” I remind Shay. She opens her mouth to protest. “Or do that thing where he blinks just long enough that you think he’s fallen asleep standing up.”

Shay sighs, using her student ID to buzz us back into Cardinal dorm. “You’re right. But I’m telling you, he’s not going to go for it.”

“I’ll just have him take a taste test tomorrow to see. Even Sean said he couldn’t tell the difference, and he’s almost as much of a coffee monster as Milo.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I tense up fast enough that Shay frowns. I’ve already spent an hour on the phone today with Grandma Maeve and Gammy Nell, and another hour and a half talking to Connor, so there’s only one person it can be—except when I look at the screen, it’s not my dad. It’s Connor’s mom.

“I . . . gotta take this,” I say, pressing the phone to my chest. Shay tilts her head at me in a way I’ve already recognized as “I won’t ask now, but I will later.” There’s this rush of gratitude so intense that I can’t help associating it with all the times I’ve wanted, more than anything in the world, to have a sister. It seems a little wild to think it after such a short time of knowing each other, but this is the closest I’ve ever come.

“Hi, Mrs. Whit,” I say, hovering in the stairwell as Shay walks off. “How are you?”

“Andromeda,” Mrs. Whit greets me in her usual even tone. The only reason I don’t wince is because Connor’s mom has a way of making anything sound dignified, even the original name on my birth certificate that my mom pushed for and then promptly never used. It was a running family joke for years—just one of many spur-of-the-moment decisions my mom had that my dad ran with. But ever since she died, Connor’s parents are the only ones who use it. “I trust you are doing well?”

I’m too naive to realize this is less of a question and more of a test, so I answer, “Yeah. Wow. It’s great here.”

“I’m so glad you’re enjoying yourself.” Only then do I realize the usual warmth in her voice has taken on a different temperature entirely. “I wouldn’t want you to be as miserable as my Connor. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

My heart stutters in my rib cage. “I . . . I’m sorry?”

The thing is, I’ve been talking to Connor every day. I’ve been talking to him a heck of a lot more than we did last semester. If anything, it’s been a relief to know we still can. There are a lot of words I’d use to describe those conversations, but “miserable” would probably come in dead last.

“Well, it’s to be expected,” says Mrs. Whit primly. “Connor’s well aware that he’s not meeting any of the standards we’ve held for him by attending a community college. An idea that never would have passed through his head a few months ago.”

The tears are already pricking at the back of my eyes before I can get a handle on her words. I love Connor, but I love his parents, too. They’ve always accepted me as one of their own. Mr. Whit helped me apply to my first part-time jobs. Mrs. Whit took me on trips to the mall to choose my homecoming dress, my prom dress, my graduation dress. I can’t even count the holidays and reunions and town events they pulled me into. It’s a lifetime kind of debt.

“I . . .” The words come so easily when I’m giving advice to someone that isn’t me. But right now, the well of my brain is so dried up I have no idea where to start, let alone end. “I didn’t know he was going to transfer, too. Really, I didn’t. I was just trying to surprise him.”

“Let this be a hard lesson in transparency with your partner, then,” she says. “If this is something Connor will even be able to recover from, that is.”

I don’t remember deciding to sit down against the cool glass of the stairwell’s massive windows, but it’s all my muscles can take. Mrs. Whit is the closest thing I’ve had to a mom of my own for so many years now. I never thought I could do anything she’d disapprove of. I never imagined having a conversation like this. We’ve both always wanted the same things: what was best for me and what was best for Connor.

For the first time I can remember, those two things don’t overlap. I close my eyes, and another fresh round of tears spills out.

As generous as the Whits have always been to make room for me in their lives, I’ve always felt like I have to be careful not to take too much of it—not to presume that I can. A part of me understood that while they love me, some of that love will always be conditional.

And now, despite all my best efforts, I’ve stumbled into the condition.

“Connor will transfer back,” I reassure her. “The transfer won’t even show up on his grad-school applications. I checked.”