I contemplate this while Hal orders a PBR. If I had somethingelsegoing on in my life—even temporarily—would my career-related anxiety feel more manageable? More acceptable? Less isolating?
“What about your dad?” he asks.
“What about him? Should I behisuninvited houseguest?” For all I know, my father has been an uninvited houseguest in his girlfriend’s place for a long time.
“Sell yourDaredevil #1—”
“No.”
“—and that’s four months’ rent and a security deposit,” Hal says.
It’s not. A collection like that is almost a living, breathing thing. It’s an entity my dad and I developed over time: the culmination of personal taste, good and bad memories, travels, business acumen.
Hal sees the collection as a placeholder for a pile of cash. He doesn’t understand the double whammy of disappointment I would trigger if my dad learned that his “prodigy” had become desperate enough to plunder his collection.
“Hey,” he says. “It’s gonna be fine.” I must look really distressed because he pulls me into another hug, which feels so good I don’t care about my still-sweaty back. “You can always crash with me if you need to.” He pauses. “Or—”
I feel that familiar flicker in my chest. Is it hope? Excitement? Recognition?
“—we could go to New York together,” he says. “I have a place to stay.”
“Then what are you still doing in Ohio?”
“Waiting for the right opportunity,” he says. “But I might have something on the horizon.”
“God, I wish I had that feeling.”
“Listen, I’m sure we can snag you a job at some terrible theme restaurant in Times Square. Or you can be one of those obnoxious bitches who works in an art gallery.”
I nod, playing along. “Okay, sure. Let’s do it.”
“I’m serious,” he says. And I kind of buy it. But I see his eyes move over my shoulder, distracted by something. He takes a step to the side. “I mean it, Samantha.”
“Great. I’m ready to go.”
“I’ll be right back,” Hal says as he backs away from me. “I need to talk to some people. Don’t leave for New York without me.”
I watch him disappear around the corner to the back room where Treehouse usually hosts bands. Tonight, it’s set up with rows of chairs and people are already trickling in. I didn’t think anybody really showed up to readings, aside from somepick-mes in the creative writing department at Ohio State. But this author has drawn a decent audience.
The drinks are starting to hit me. My brain eases up on the constant replays of the conversation with my mom.
Instead, I let myself imagine this new chapter.
Panels 1-8:A full-page montage of Lydia and Jughead doing classic New York activities together: walking around Prospect Park, packed in close on a crowded subway, getting rescued by Spider-Man on the Roosevelt Island Tramway.
What kind of mere Friend with Benefits suggests a joint move to New York? Where does that fall within Romily’s quadrants? It’s bullshit, but is itmeaningfulbullshit? There’s a kernel of honesty in there.
I don’t recognize anyone else in the room, so I pull out my phone and do my best to look slightly overwhelmed by the number of messages I’ve received.
For the record, I’ve received exactly one message, and it’s from a nine-year-old.
waterwingluna16
r u there
its me kira
Okay, so it’s not a surprise last-minute acceptance from UCLA, but I’ll bite.
