Begin Again(33)

“I sure hope so,” says Mrs. Whit, the words clipped.

For a few moments neither of us says anything, and I realize she’s waiting for me to speak. “I’m so sorry,” I say again, because I can’t think of anything else. “I really didn’t know.”

Mrs. Whit lets out a small hmmph noise that would concern anyone else, but is a comfort to me. I know the ins, outs, and weird noises of her. I know that sound is an admission that I’m at least semi-right, even if she doesn’t want me to be.

“Well,” she says tersely. “At least we know you’ll be behind him, no matter what.”

“Of course.” I’m grateful she brought it up so I don’t have to. “We’ve always got each other’s backs. We’re best friends.”

“I hope you’re right.” There’s murmuring in the background. I recognize the low tones of Mr. Whit, and wonder if he’s every bit as mad as she is. “Just remember that, Andromeda. His success at Blue Ridge benefits him every bit as much as it benefits you.”

I try to breathe in without hiccupping, but I can’t help it. The words feel like they landed in my ribs and fought their way up to my throat. And vice versa, I want to say. But she knows that. She and Mr. Whit have always embodied that themselves. This isn’t a matter of Connor getting priority over me because he has more potential; it’s a matter of Connor being their kid, when I’m not.

The stupid thing is, I thought she’d be proud of me. I’d imagined a phone call like this so many times, except it started with a “congratulations” and ended with planning a day trip up to campus to check out the historic district of the town.

Mrs. Whit must take my silence as an answer, because she lets out a sigh. “I worry about you on your own out there, too. You’re doing alright?”

It’s the smallest of bends, but it’s enough for me not to break. “Yeah. Yeah,” I say brightly. “I’m doing fine.”

“I had a feeling you’d find your way to that school. Your mother couldn’t have spoken more highly of it.”

I rest my head against the window. Mrs. Whit and my mom grew up together in Little Fells. It’s one more reason why Connor and I were less of a possibility and more of an inevitability—our shared history goes back further than we do.

It’s one more reason why this conversation doesn’t just sting, but hurts all the way down. My grandmas were just that—my grandmas. Fiercely loving and quirky and always on my side. But neither of them could ever really be a mom to me. Not in the way it sometimes felt like Mrs. Whit could.

“I’m hoping that this all works out in the end,” she says. “And that this semester is over as quickly as possible.”

“You and me both,” I try to say, but before I can finish, Mrs. Whit cuts me off with, “Our dinner just arrived, so I have to go.”

We say our goodbyes and I hold the phone against my ear, the humiliation like a wave that hasn’t crashed over me yet. I feel suspended in this moment, like maybe if I just don’t get up, maybe if I squeeze my eyes shut, I can send myself back to December. Tell Connor I got in on the transfer. Relive the past few weeks the way we were supposed to, with both of us here, and with Connor’s parents still treating me like a daughter instead of some girl who might have just compromised his whole future.

That’s when the humiliation hardens and turns into something else. I didn’t ask for him to transfer. I would never. And Mrs. Whit must know that—heck, anyone who’s ever met me knows that. The idea that she could misunderstand such a fundamental part of me after all this time is the kind of blow that can’t fully land.

The thing is, I know why I’m calling my dad back before I even hit the button. He’s proud of me. I know he is. And even with everything between us so fractured, I just need to hear his voice right now. Not even necessarily because it’s his—but because he’s a person who knows what this school means to me. Who would never factor Connor into the equation.

“A-Plus,” my dad greets me, his voice booming through the phone. “How’s my favorite Blue Ridge student?”

The sound of the nickname makes me press my fingers on the charm of my necklace, and chases the last threat of tears away. He’s called me that ever since I can remember. My mom was Amy, the original “A”; I’m A-Plus.

“Good.” It’s only half a lie. Ten minutes ago, I really was. “How are you? How’s the trip?”

“You know, same old, same old,” he says. Ever since he took a new job based two hours away from Little Fells he’s been taking a lot of trips like this, so he’s used to living out of a suitcase. Even without knowing what the Airbnb he’s in looks like, I can still picture him now: he’s leaning against a counter, his button-down untucked from his jeans for the end of the day, nursing the single Corona he has with dinner every night. “Mostly subsisting off delivery pizza and your gammy’s snack cakes. You launched your Blue Ridge advice column yet?”

He’s teasing, the pride undeniable in his voice. I wish it didn’t grate on me. He still hasn’t mentioned the “Bed of Roses” clips I sent to him. I know I should just ask if he’s read them, but that’s the thing. I don’t want to have to ask. I want him to care enough to have read them and brought it up himself.