Instead of going back to the apartment, we walked to campus and found a spot to grab a coffee and snack that wasn’t too far from the alumni interviewer’s brownstone.
I pushed the mug across the table to Ryder. “Do you think this would be a fun place to go to school?”
He looked around Uncommon Grounds, the coffee shop we’d stopped in. “I could, although it was super weird all those guys were lined up outside. And there’s almost no one inside.”
“I thought the same thing.” I surveyed the place. Only a few of the booths were occupied. One had a girl sitting at a table all alone with a stack of notecards. Another had a guy who looked like a football player sitting with an older woman. Other than those two booths, half the ten tables inside had someone at them with a laptop propped open and covered in books. “But whatever they’re waiting for must be important for them to be waiting in line.”
Ryder shrugged. “Do you really think there’s a chance Hunter will finally talk to me?” He stared into his coffee, rolling the mug between his hands.
I covered the back of his hand with mine. “I do. None of this is easy for either of you. People deal with their pain and sadness in their own way. Sometimes they don’t know how much they’re hurting the people around them. The people they care about.” I wasn’t sure if Hunter would come around, but I wouldn’t crush Ryder’s hope. Being an innocent bystander during someone else’s fuckups never felt good, but at least there was a chance the two of them would eventually talk and maybe connect like Ryder hoped.
He pulled his hands closer to his side of the table and away from mine. “He doesn’t care about me.”
The pang in my chest hit harder. “He doesn’t know you yet, but we’re not worried about that now. It’ll come later. Right now we’re focusing on getting you into Fulton U. Now let’s go over the questions they sent you.” I rubbed my hands together like an over-the-top maniac, but it worked.
Ryder rolled his eyes and his cheeks worked to contain a smile, but it still peeked out like the sun saying hi on an otherwise rainy day. He sent me a message with the questions. “Okay, first question: What do you feel you can contribute to the FU community?”
A pfft was barely stifled behind his lips. His mouth curled up into a smile like he’d just cursed behind the principal’s back.
“I’m just reading what you sent me.” I held up the phone. “Get it out of your system now.” How the hell did they expect eighteen-year-olds to keep a straight face with a question like that? Killer beer pong skills. An overriding urge to hit on classmates. Keg stand abilities.
He rubbed his hand under his chin. “Maybe it’s a test.”
“Most likely. And if it is, you’re failing.”
He schooled his features but seemed more relaxed. “I’ll bring my determination, adventurous spirit, and dashing good looks to the Fulton U student body.” He turned his profile and plastered on a Prince Charming plastic smile, complete with raised eyebrow.
I rolled my eyes. “You’re a shoo-in.”
He laughed and waved his hands in front of his face. “Okay, I’ll be serious. Let’s keep going.”
We went over the questions a few times and came up with some questions for him to ask the interviewer.
With our cups drained, we headed back out into the chilly weather to the interviewer’s house. The line outside the coffee shop had disappeared, so whatever had happened was over now.
Standing at the end of the block, I gave Ryder a thumbs-up as he rang the doorbell to the house. It hit me as I stood outside, rubbing my bare hands together against the brisk evening air, how far away college felt, but it also only seemed a couple years ago. Back in high school there had been the excitement of opening my inbox and scanning for subject lines that said, “Congratulations,” or “You’ve been accepted.” Now it was mainly spam emails, bill notices, or project rejections that were the difference between my bank account hitting $0 and maybe splurging on a happy hour every once in a while.
But this was about Ryder and his big plans for the future. Since there wasn’t a helicopter parent around, I’d sure as hell be the biggest cheerleader in his corner.
My phone buzzed. Smiling, I answered the call. “What time zone are you in now?”
A familiar groggy voice responded, “No idea, but according to my phone it’s one a.m.”
“Barely bedtime.”
“Exactly.”
“What’s up, Cat?”
“I’m going to be in DC in a few weeks. I checked and it’s the same time as that expo you were talking about. Will you be coming down for it? We could meet up. Have some fun.”
“You won’t be working?” I was skeptical because no one I knew worked or partied harder than Cat, and I didn’t have the same bounce-back I’d had at twenty-three, still enjoying the alcohol-tolerance booster only college could provide.
The last time we’d tried to hang out while she was on the clock, she’d left the key to her room with the front desk, and I’d been awoken at one a.m. by her popping a bottle of champagne before dragging me out to an after-hours poker game that lasted until six a.m. We’d stumbled back to her hotel room, where she’d rolled out of bed for a nine a.m. meeting after puking in the potted plant in her room.
“I’ll make time for my best friend. Are you going to the Apparel & Textile Expo?”
Disappointment grabbed a shovel and dug deep in my chest. “They won’t sell me a ticket. I’ve tried twenty different times, but they’re not budging.”
“That sucks. Do you want me to sick the Ivans on them?” Three of her five bosses were named Ivan, which was why they mainly went by their middle names.
“I don’t think I need anyone thrown in a trunk over this.”
Her scoff was swallowed by a yawn. “They don’t do that anymore. Do you want me to ask?”
I didn’t even call Cat on her office phone. It was probably being monitored by Interpol. The last thing I wanted was a favor from the Ivans and the NSA knocking on my door when their trunk-throwing ways returned someday. With Cat, I had no doubt she could talk her way in to and, more importantly, out of anything. But I wasn’t thin enough to slip through the bars of any prison.
“No, but whether they accept my application or not, I can always come down to visit you.”
“I can come up. I know cash is tight.” Empathy radiated through every word. Cat knew what it was like to scrimp and save, to double-check your accounts before you bought a candy bar, but she’d left that behind once she put those language skills into action and hadn’t looked back. She had enough shit to deal with when it came to her family and her new healthy paychecks.
I wouldn’t be another hand held out, expecting her to take care of things.
“The odds of you scoring a whole twenty-four hours off the clock seems unlikely. Plus, I don’t know if this building has a helicopter pad for when you’re called back by the Ivans like a homing pigeon.” Sometimes it felt she worked for a much hotter version of Miranda Priestly from The Devil Wears Prada—with even worse boundaries.
“They’re seriously not paying me enough for this shit.” She said it like she’d repeated it to herself many times in her head already. “Either way, we’ll see each other, yes?”