Begin Again(62)

If Connor’s parents really love me—if Connor really loves me—it’ll be okay. We can be okay.

“And in the meantime—the ribbons. If they’re that important to you, just get them for yourself.” Milo nudges my foot again, this time with some playful force behind it. “And maybe, you know. Study.”

“Called out,” I say with a wince. “I was just trying to be fair about it. Ribbons for him and ribbons for me.”

“Well. Maybe just try ribbons for you, huh?” says Milo. “I mean—it’s about your mom. He must understand that.”

Except he doesn’t. I’ve never told him. And that never seemed all that strange until now, when I realize I told Milo without a second thought.

“And you’re too smart to be bombing a class.”

I feel my head droop, my eyes fall into my lap. That’s the most embarrassing part of this, probably. I have all these standards and expectations for myself, these carefully laid plans, and somehow I’m so far off track from them that it seems impossible to find my way back. It feels like a confirmation that I shouldn’t be here at all. That I’m not good enough to make it in this place where my own parents thrived.

“So go fix it,” Milo presses, before I have to think of something to say. “What else is all this work-study bullshit for if not the study part?”

I smile grimly. “Free bagels?”

“Absolutely that. But also for all those ridiculously ambitious color-coded dreams of yours to come true.”

This time when the resolve hardens in me, it’s not demanding. It’s gentle and easy, like something I already know the feeling of coming back. It occurs to me, meeting Milo’s gaze, that the ache I’m so used to feeling is quieter now than it’s ever been.

“I guess I could go to the TA sessions, too,” I say. “Catch up before the end of the semester.”

“That’s the spirit, new kid.” His leans back a bit to check the bandage on my head, then adds, “Hey, maybe if you stay, you’ll even take over the radio show for me.”

I shake my head vehemently enough that Milo’s eyes widen in mild alarm.

“Well if you’re that put off by being my successor . . .”

I find myself starting to grin even as the thunder keeps rumbling above us, distant but fierce. “It’s got nothing to do with you.”

“Sure it doesn’t,” says Milo, clutching his chest and pretending to be wounded.

I lightly kick his foot with mine. “Drama king.”

“Drama dictator,” he corrects me. “Go big or go home.”

Then the grins are genuine, both for him and for me. It feels like a break in the storm even as it rages on, enough of one that we lean back to wait it out, content to be in this moment now, and not the uncertain ones ahead. At some point the shed starts to dim, the early evening setting in and sharpening the angles of light from the one dim bulb in the shed, and the two of us realize the storm has long since passed.

Milo gets up first, leaning down to look at my forehead. “First stop, the student health center.”

“I’d rather just burrow under the covers for the rest of the night and curse every air molecule that caused this.”

“Too bad I’m the RA. What I say goes, or you’ll get in trouble with the residence hall director.”

“Scare me.”

“And lose privileges to the rec room,” says Milo, his eyes gleaming. He knows he’s got me. Our weekly games of Werewolf have gotten so out of hand that seven different dorms pile into Cardinal to pretend to murder each other and eat snack cakes. We’ve even started a betting pool over whether Tyler or Ellie will ask the other out first. Like most competitions with Blue Ridge State students, it’s all gotten pretty intense.

“Fine,” I say, getting up from the storage box and dusting myself off. “You got me.”

I don’t miss Milo’s slight hover, the way his hands are just far enough from his sides to catch me if I stumble. But I am touched to see it just the same.

That is, until we reach the door of the shed, and Milo pauses with his hand on the door. He turns to me, his gaze so deliberate I feel almost weak under it, but in a way that I don’t necessarily mind. In a way that makes me feel too seen, but just enough at the same time.

“Andie . . .”

And then the fear hits. It’s irrational and comes out of nowhere, but I have this stupid thought that he’s going to say something that’ll upend us. Something I’ve felt in a few jolting moments we’ve been alone, that’s been humming between us for the last hour we’ve been locked in here together.

But I’m wrong. For better or for worse, I’m wrong.

“While we’re just butting into each other’s business like this—talk to your dad.”

I look up at him in surprise. I hadn’t even mentioned the calls I was dodging. Not for the past few weeks, and not even in this time we’ve been more open with each other than ever before.

Milo stares at his own hand, still touching the doorknob. “If I had the chance to talk to my dad again—well. It’s different. But you know.”

I nod. It is different. Milo’s dad didn’t choose to leave. But we both know what it’s like to lose a parent and all the moments that would have come after.