I grab his arm and tug him up the stairs to my room before he can even say anything. He turns to me, running a hand through his messy hair. “Kiki told me your parents are home. Why are they here a day early?”
I wave my hands. “Something about getting an earlier flight and not having internet to tell me. I don’t know, it’s just thrown me off kilter. I’m so glad you’re here.”
He sets his guitar down and pulls me into a hug. I didn’t realize how much I needed a hug until this moment. Warmth envelops me as I cling to him.
“Hey,” he says, putting his hand on the back of my head, holding me tight and grounding me. “It’s okay. You can do this.”
I nod, but I don’t let go of him. “I know. I just don’t know what to say.”
“Then let’s go over it together.”
We spend the next hour talking it through, practicing my speech, and going over the points I want to make. As we talk, my spirit lifts. There are lots of good reasons why me changing to online school and switching my major make sense. Courage fills me as I make a plan for what to say.
“You’ve got this,” Micah says, squeezing my hand.
I nod, feeling for the first time like he’s right. Like I can do this. “Okay. I’m ready.”
Micah puts his hand on the small of my back as I walk out of my bedroom. I know he’s there for me. We make our way down the stairs, and my heart pounds. This is it. I’m going to do this.
We walk into the living room, my chest heaving like I just ran a marathon instead of down a single flight of stairs. My father looks up from his conversation with my mother, surprised by our sudden appearance. They’re sitting on opposite ends of the couch, my mother curled up with a throw blanket, my father in his reading glasses with what looks like a travel magazine in his lap.
“Did you get all your homework done?” he asks, his tone casual, completely unaware of the bomb I’m about to drop.
“Yes.” My mouth feels like it’s filled with cotton, dry and sticky. I try to swallow but can’t. I press on anyway, forcing the words out. “But that’s not what I need to tell you.”
“Oh?” He raises one eyebrow, his expression shifting from casual interest to mild concern. He sets the magazine aside and removes his reading glasses with deliberate slowness. His gaze bounces between me and Micah. “What do you need to tell us?”
Great. I’m already messing this up. I had the perfect opening sentence I was going to use, something calm and rational that Micah and I practiced at least twenty times. And now my mind is completely blank, and I can’t remember a single word of it. Panic floods through me, making my hands shake. Micah puts his hand on my shoulder in quiet reassurance.
“I mean,” I say, stumbling over my words. “There’s something I have to say, and I want you to listen to it before talking.”
He blinks at me and frowns, and I can see his defenses going up. His shoulders square, his jaw sets, his eyes narrow just slightly. The face he gets when he’s preparing for anargument. My mother leans forward on the couch, the blanket falling away, her expression shifting from relaxed contentment to maternal concern. “What is it, dear?”
The tension in the room rises like humidity before a storm, thick and heavy and suffocating. I feel like I’m on the defensive even before I tell them anything, which is not what I wanted. Not how we planned this at all. I was going to be calm, logical, and mature.
But now everything is messed up. Our carefully constructed speech has evaporated, leaving me with nothing but terror. I have no idea what to say, so I open my mouth and let words just spill out like water from a broken dam.
“I went to the mainland and changed my enrollment so I’m doing online school. I want to do this so I can?—”
“Wait.” My father’s face flushes red, the color creeping up from his collar to his temples. “You quit school?”
“No!” My hands shake harder as I try to calm my nerves, pressing them against my thighs to stop the trembling. Micah squeezes my shoulder, and I gain confidence.
“I’m still in college, taking my classes online. But I’ve decided I’m going to change my major. I’m going to study English and creative writing because I want to be a writer.”
My father works his jaw. “You changed your major? What about marketing?”
“I’m not interested in marketing. I want to write novels. It’s what I want to do with my life. And Micah asked me to be his manager, so I’m going to do that as well.”
My father sighs and rubs his forehead. “Writing is a wonderful hobby, honey. But you can’t earn a real living with it. And being a manager is great, but how much can you earn with that? You need a reliable career path.”
I knew he’d say this. Of course I knew. I’ve heard variations of this speech my entire life. He always talks about practical careers, stable income, reasonable expectations. Myheart sinks as my shoulders hunch inward, my confidence crumbling. What if he’s right?
Micah nudges me. “Tell him about the advance.”
I straighten my spine and give him a nod. Micah is right. My father isn’t moved by what my hopes and dreams are. He’s a businessman, and actual numbers are what makes a difference for him.
“I got Micah a recording deal with Atlantic Coast Records and a one-hundred-thousand-dollar advance. I get fifteen percent—fifteen thousand dollars. I got the check yesterday.”
