“The party isn’t ruined—” I begin to protest.
“—it will be,” he says. “If you don’t find your mother and apologize to her immediately. You’re going to tell her you’re sorry for being selfish and ungrateful and for choosing this moment to share such upsetting news. And then you’re going to tell her that you are going to medical school this fall and—”
“—no,” I interrupt him this time. “I've already called Rothschild and withdrew my enrollment for the fall semester. There’s a wait list. I’m sure my spot has already been filled.”
My father cocks his head, his mouth forming an incredulous smirk, the kind that always precedes his most terrifying of moods. But then it’s gone, just like that. And he waves to someone on the other side of the pool.
“I don’t know why you chose tonight of all nights, Brighton,” he says, “but you’ve humiliated your mother in front of all of her friends and I don’t care what you say at this point, but you need to make it right. We’ll continue this discussion tomorrow.” He looks to Madden before adding, “Privately.”
This isn’t exactly the way I thought this would go, but it’s in the same vein.
I knew my father would be less than pleased.
I knew my mother would incorporate tears into her reaction in some capacity.
But I didn’t expect her to go running to the house or for my father to be so angry he literally shakes.
Dad walks away, plastering a friendly smile on his face as he greets the newest arrivals, and I turn to Madden.
“It’s over,” he says. “You did it. Feel better?”
“Not yet.”’
“You will.” He clinks his beer bottle against my wine glass. “Want to go?”
He read my mind. “Yes.”
We make a beeline for the valet stand and wait on the front porch for his car. A half hour later, we cross the Olwine city limits and I realize we haven’t said a single word the entire time.
Maybe he’s giving me space and distance, letting me think and process what just happened.
Or maybe there’s nothing to say.
I did what I went there to do.
It’s over and done.
I suppose sometimes the best way to be there for someone is to simply be there.
By the time we get up to his place, I use the bathroom and wash the makeup off my face. When I come out, I find Madden relaxing on the couch in gray sweats and a white cotton tank, a Netflix comedy cued on the TV screen.
I’m sure it’s another way to distract me, to keep my mind off what happened tonight. I take the spot beside him, spreading a nearby throw over our laps. He starts the movie, and the opening credits are ridiculously funny.
I should be laughing.
But all I can do is fight the sting that threatens my eyes and try to ignore the sinking heaviness in my chest.
A single tear falls and I quickly swipe it away, praying he doesn’t notice.
Only he does notice.
“Hey,” he says, slipping his arm around my shoulders. I bet he thinks I’m upset about tonight, about the things my father said, the way my mother reacted. But he couldn’t be more wrong. “Everything’s going to be okay, all right?”
But it isn’t.
Because I realized something tonight. Or maybe I realized it weeks ago and I just didn’t want to admit it to myself because admitting it would make it real. I realized tonight that there’s one thing I want more than I’ve ever wanted in my entire life—and it has nothing to do with med school or disappointing my parents or my impending financial independence.
No.
The one thing I want right now is the one thing I can’t have.
Him.
Twenty-Eight
Madden
* * *
Brighton left shortly after eight this morning. She normally leaves earlier than that, but today she took her time. I’m sure she was dreading going home. Her parents are dicks, plain and simple.
Who the fuck calls their grown adult child selfish for wanting to follow their heart? If anything, they should be thanking her for not wasting their precious dollars on some fancy medical degree she doesn’t even want.
But I digress.
She slipped out of my apartment quiet as a mouse while I pretended to sleep.
The truth is, today’s my birthday, and I wasn’t sure if she’d make a big deal of it or if she’d even remember, so I kept my eyes shut and waited for the click of the door.
I drag my ass out of bed after a bit and start the shower, waiting for the water to heat.
The only good thing about today is that it's a Sunday. The shop is closed. I can wall myself off and not have to deal with a single soul today.
Shutting off my phone, I strip down and step beneath the sputtering stream of water and get ready for the day. When I’m finished, I throw on jeans and a t-shirt and hop into my car, heading across town to Crest Haven Cemetery.
I park under a towering oak, kill the engine, and take a deep breath.
And then I climb out of my car and make my way to the little granite rectangle in the third row on the left and take a seat in the grass.
There’s only one person I can imagine spending this day with each year … Dallas.
Twenty-Nine
Brighton
* * *
It occurs to me as I pass the little pottery shop on my way home from Madden’s Sunday morning that Devanie and I never picked up the piece she glazed last month for Madden’s birthday … which I believe is today.
Pulling into the parking lot, I head inside.
“Can I help you?” The woman behind the counter greets me with a warm smile.
“Just picking up a piece my friend painted last month,” I say. “Should be under Devanie Ransom.”
The woman peruses the shelf of finished projects behind her before pointing to the back room. “We might have moved it to the back. Let me check.”
She disappears for a few minutes, returning later with the familiar peacock blue vase Devanie painted.
“That’s the one,” I say, pulling out my wallet.
“You said Devanie Ransom, though,” she says, brows furrowed.
“Right.”
“The tag says Devanie Kramer.”
That’s weird. I guess I always assumed she and Madden had the same last name. The Boys and Girls Club has a strict no-last-name policy for the children for safety and security reasons, so I never thought twice about asking what her last name was.
“Well, that’s the one,” I say, hoping she’ll find it in her heart to let me complete the transaction anyway.
The woman hesitates at first before clearing her throat. “Twenty-three dollars and eighteen cents.”
I hand her my debit card, and she wraps the piece in thick paper before placing it in a nice bag.
I return to my car a minute later and place the bag on the passenger seat floor mat, and then I shoot Madden a quick “happy birthday” text before getting back on the road.
I’m not looking forward to going home, but I am looking forward to getting this over with.
I make one last stop before reaching Park Terrace, opting to grab a coffee and scone from my favorite café. Nothing like a sugar and caffeine pick-me-up before walking into what I’m positive is about to become WWIII.