I cut him off. “How would I know anything about him?” A cynical smile twists my lips — somewhat undermined by the tears now leaking down my face. “We don’t talk anymore.”
It’s the truth.
The painful, excruciating, unfortunate truth.
It’s not exclusively Archer’s fault. Excommunication is a two-way street. He might’ve been the one to walk away, but I’m the one who bolted the door shut behind him. Not just him — everyone from Exeter Academy. It was easier that way. Easier to throw my whole former life out the window than risk seeing Archer’s face in the background of some snapshot on Facebook, or tagged in a video on Instagram by a loose acquaintance I forgot to unfollow.
It was shockingly easy to erase all traces of Josephine Valentine from cyberspace. A few minutes, a few finger taps on a smartphone screen. By the time the VALENT jet wheels hit the tarmac in Switzerland last summer, I’d scrubbed my social media presence completely.
A drastic measure?
Perhaps.
But in my eyes, also a necessary one.
I know myself too well. Given the ability, it would only be a matter of time until I caved to the impulse to internet-stalk Archer via our mutual acquaintances, or poured pathetically over old posts featuring our once-smiling faces. It was better to remove the temptation; to stop all association cold-turkey, like an addict entering rehab. Sure, the detox was a painful one. But in a foreign country with a new phone and an unlisted number, there was zero possibility of reaching out to anyone for an update on the great Archer Reyes.
“Look, Valentine…” Chris rubs the back of his neck, looking deeply unsettled. “It’s not really my place to say anything about this, but I think…”
“No, no! Seriously, don’t worry about it. I’m fine. I swear.” I brush the wetness from my cheeks. Mortification churns through my bloodstream. I can’t believe I’m crying in front of him. “It’s been great catching up with you, Chris. Really. But I need to get back on the road if I’m going to make it to Brown in time for my appointment.”
“Right,” he murmurs.
He’s still staring at me with that strange look. It leaves me unsettled. I feel like I’m missing something. Confusion and curiosity rise up inside me in a swift tide. The urge to ask what’s going on with Archer is so strong, it nearly knocks the wind out of my lungs. I bite my lip to physically contain the words as I reach for the ignition key.
“See you around, Chris.”
“Sure…” He blinks a few times to clear the faraway look from his eyes. “See you, Valentine.”
As my tires begin to roll from the shoulder back onto the roadway, I glance in the rearview when he calls out one last thing.
“Those big signs on the side of the road with the numbers on them? Those are called speed limits, Valentine. Pay attention to them, will ya?”
I smile through my tears as I hit the gas pedal.
“Miss Valentine, I presume? Right on time. Come in, come in.”
A thin woman in a camel brown blazer, tweed slacks, and wire-framed glasses ushers me into her office. The space is cluttered but cozy, with books piled on almost every surface and a perilously tall stack of file folders balanced on the corner of her desk. She grabs the one on the very top. I spot my name stamped across the tab as she flips it open.
“Let’s see here…” Her lips purse as she studies the pages before her. “So, you’ve already deferred your acceptance for one year…” Her eyes flicker up to mine. “I assume you’ve spent that time productively?”
“I’ve been interning at my parents’ organization, in Switzerland.”
“That sounds very impressive. Tell me a little about your work there.”
I know this answer by heart; I think my parents sang their mission statement to me in lieu of lullabies when I was a newborn. “VALENT is the world’s largest health nonprofit, dedicated to eradicating food insecurity in at-risk populations across the globe—”
“Spare me the corporate policy speech, Miss Valentine.” Smiling with closed lips, she pushes her glasses higher on the bridge of her nose. “I want to know what you did there, what you learned, what the experience taught you. How it changed you. Or how it didn’t.” Her eyes narrow a shade. “Because, while solving world hunger is surely a worthy endeavor, it is quite a leap from your intended course of study here at Brown’s School of Design. Or is that no longer a career you are interested in pursuing?”
My mouth gapes. “Well—”
“I assure you, if you’ve changed your mind, there are thousands upon thousands of other applicants who would jump at the chance to attend an arts program as prestigious as ours.”
“I’m still very much invested in studying design here,” I say, a hint of desperation in my tone. “It’s something I’ve wanted for… forever.”
“Then why the hesitation in enrolling for the upcoming fall semester? I’ll warn you, a second gap year is generally not permitted. If you defer again, you may need to re-apply from scratch — which offers no guarantee of admission. No matter who your parents are.” She pauses tactfully, steepling her fingers on the cluttered desk. The few visible stretches of varnish are marred with rings — the imprints of a thousand past cups of coffee. “I do realize there was a rather generous endowment to our institution made by the Valentine family, so an exception could be made… but we are not in the habit of holding spots in our freshman class for students who don’t genuinely want to fill them.”
God, I want to evaporate from my chair. If I could disappear into thin air, rather than continue this conversation, I’d do it in a heartbeat. This woman thinks I’m just another trust-fund brat buying entry into her university, with no actual interest in academics. I fight the impulse to squirm under her unflinching gaze. My voice comes out thready with humiliation.
“I didn’t know about the endowment.”
“Mmm.” She sighs. “Be that as it may, we are still at a crossroads here, Miss Valentine.”
Swallowing hard, I try to gather my thoughts. “Whether I defer another year is not entirely my decision to make. My parents believe it’s important that I get some real world experience in the workforce before attending school.”
“Again, all I’m hearing is what your parents think is important. What’s important to you, Miss Valentine?”
“No disrespect intended, Ms. Vaughn — but it’s somewhat difficult to disregard my parents, seeing as they’re the ones paying my tuition fees.”
“Fair enough.” She sits back in her leather armchair with a small squeak of springs. “Despite what you may think, I am not entirely unsympathetic to your situation, Josephine. I’ve read your file. I’ve also seen the sketch portfolio you submitted when you applied for the arts program. You’re a very smart girl with a heck of a lot of talent at your fingertips.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re quite welcome. Your parents must be very proud — I can see why they want you working with them.”
My mouth opens automatically, ‘Of course they’re proud’ poised on my lips. But the words never make it out. Because the truth is, Blair and Vincent aren’t proud of me. Or, if they are, they’ve certainly never taken the time to tell me so.