Begin Again(46)

“If anything, he’s something I can’t plan for,” I say, trying not to grit my teeth as I put the phone away. “His parents are like—super strict. They’re the ones calling the shots, not me. They have high expectations.”

“For you too, then.”

The urge to defend them comes faster than a reflex, but it doesn’t change the truth. “Yeah.”

Milo doesn’t say anything for a few strokes of paint, me focusing on the bottom end and him reaching up to the top.

“Well, for what it’s worth. Some of the fun in radio is what you can’t control. Even the embarrassing parts.” He tilts his head just enough so I can detect his slight smirk. “I can crack jokes without choking on my own spit now, but you must remember my first few shows.”

I smile to myself, remembering. It wasn’t perfect by professional radio host standards. But it was its own kind of perfect, with his blunt delivery mixed with a string of candid swear words the few times he lost track of his notes. And, of course, the ill-fated burping.

“I remember the part where you immediately dressed down the entire administration with that first segment about the work-study program,” I say.

Milo holds up his paint roller at me like he’s pointing a finger. “And thanks to the show, I’ve managed to get them to actually listen to the businesses that wanted to work with the program off campus and get more positions available.”

“Hence Bagelopolis.”

Milo nods. “And a few others so far. It’s only a temporary fix, though. The problem is just that tuition is getting too damn high, and now they’re either shoving people into work-studies where there aren’t enough spots or putting them into massive debt.”

Anyone who knows the history of The Knights’ Watch knows about the Knights all choosing a particular topic or running segment, so I know Milo understands what I mean when I ask, “So why’d you decide to make work-study your thing?”

Milo’s eyes are intent on the paint roller as he speaks, but his focus seems to go somewhere else entirely as he thinks on his answer. “Well, you know my mom works for the school. My dad did, too. So all my brothers and sisters went here, all of them with work-study positions—and over the years, they’ve been harder to get.” He pauses in his painting for a moment, glancing back in the direction of his family’s house. “Now most of my siblings work either for the school or for the community, so Blue Ridge State will always be important to me. I want it to live up to its promise. It’s a state school, it’s supposed to be accessible. And right now it just isn’t, and if we don’t do something about it now, it’s not going to be the same kind of community I grew up in. The one that people could come to and make a home.”

It’s more than I expected Milo to say on the matter—more than I think I’ve heard him say on anything this close to his heart. Even I’ve paused in my strokes to watch him, struck again by a recognition, by something I didn’t understand until this moment that we shared: a connection to Blue Ridge State that goes a whole lot deeper than the ground it sits on.

“You really love this place, huh?” I ask.

Only then does Milo notice my eyes on him, and when he turns his face back to the pink paint, his cheeks flush almost as bright. “Yeah, well.” He clears his throat, resuming his painting, but not without shooting me a pointed look. “All this to say, I had no idea what I was doing going into this. Just that I had stuff to say. But people who only like to do stuff they’re already great at? They end up limiting themselves. And they end up regretting it.”

The words settle in the air between us, taking their time to sink in. It’s not that I’ve never heard some variation before. It’s that it means something else, coming from Milo. Coming from someone who is doing something I always wanted to do, and worked hard to improve at it. Someone who believes I’m capable of the same.

“And you said you didn’t want to give advice on the show,” I tease him quietly.

His expression is rueful when he looks down. “It’s not my advice, really. It was my dad’s. ‘Anything worth doing starts with a mess.’”

We let the words settle in the air, holding their own quiet weight. Then Milo lifts his head to look at me again.

“I like that,” I say. “Like—getting a new start doesn’t mean you have to wipe the slate clean. Just pick up the pieces. Begin again.”

“Yeah,” Milo agrees, and then we both fall quiet. As if we’re both thinking, in that moment, of the pieces we’ve been trying to leave behind. The ones that will never really leave us. The ones that will only pull us back the longer we try to pretend they don’t exist.

“Sounds like a good guy,” I say.

His voice dips low. “The best of them.” His eyes sweep back to the ground, and he takes a quick breath and says, “Now pay attention before Tommy here clucks your eye out.”

Only then do I notice curious chickens circling us underfoot. By the time we finish, I learn all their names, the chicken coop looks like a free-range, worn-down Barbie Dreamhouse, and Bozo has scammed three more treats from Milo.

We walk back into the house and are greeted with the unmistakable smell of grilled cheese. I wash my hands at the sink and Milo ducks out to change into a pair of pants that isn’t streaked pink. When I sit down Jamie takes the seat across from me and leans in conspiratorially.