This is family.
Heath jogs out of the hotel lobby, his heavy breaths coming out as smoke in the cold air. I slap my arm around his shoulders and thank him continuously while he shivers.
“You’re crazy.” He hands the pink USB over to me, and I kiss it, cherish it. Stuff it deep into my cargo pants and zip the pocket shut. “I can’t believe you came all the way here for a USB. How did you even do that?”
In the chaos of traveling via private jet and Locke lying to Keller about the huge, late night credit card charge, I didn’t have time to run Heath through our plan.
I move to the side and push Locke in front of me, grabbing onto his shoulders.
“Locke, this is my cousin, Heath. Heath, this is my little brother, Locke.”
They shake hands, rough and stern, but Heath’s smile is nothing by friendly. When Locke retracts his hand, he fidgets with his glasses.
I smile, too. “Locke flew us here on a private jet.”
“Holy shit. A jet?” We nod, and Heath laughs in bewilderment. “That’s crazy, but so cool. One of the perks of your rich dad, huh?”
He chuckles lightheartedly. Even with his knowledge of my life and how I feel about Keller, my cousin doesn’t fullyunderstand how touchy the topic can be, and how all the money in the world can’t make up for my father’s absence in our lives.
I side eye Locke, and the hole in my heart that is usually caused by thoughts of my neglectful father doesn’t feel so big. The corner of his mouth tugs. He gets it. Heath might not, but we understand each other, and that’s enough.
thirty-one
LILIANA
It’s eight am.My eyes are strained from the bright laptop screen that’s been my only focal point for hours. My wrists are aching, from typing and deleting and typing and deleting, but this might be the best I’ve felt all semester.
Rosie came into my room, just after midnight, to drop off snacks and water. I wasn’t even through my first act then. A whole hour was spent on a single paragraph I tried to recall from memory.
After she placed the bowl of popcorn at the edge of my desk, she leaned over to look at the messy and probably incoherent sum of words littered on the screen.
Smiling, she said, “I’m so proud of you, Lil.”
Rosie has said that sentence to me countless times before. And while I’ll always be happy to hear it, I didn’t hang onto it for everything it’s worth. I smiled back at her, thanked her for providing me with something to keep my energy going, and set my sights on making myself proud.
The words of my short story aren’t as messy now. They’re more organized, but passionately written, a tumble of thoughts a creative only gets a three am when it’s usually inconvenient.
I stare at the document. “THE END” stares back at me.
Pride, satisfaction, happiness, and every positive feeling I searched for previously, finally overtakes me. It’s the only sentence that’s transferred over from my first story, and that’s what makes it so much better.
I started the night sure I could rewrite the entire thing. Maybe not sentence by sentence, but the ideas were still fresh in my mind. I could piece together something that resembled my original and guarantee myself a passing grade.
Hours into it, when I was ready to move onto the second act that ruined so many of my nights, I realized how much I hated it. The story itself was okay, but it wasn’t mine. It was a product of Grant’s thoughts and my actions. I wrote the words onto the page, but does it really count as being mine if someone else was drawing the picture for me?
I remembered then. Liliana Kahale, ever the over-achiever, who succeeds at everything she does, did it on her own. There was no one to hold my hand through any of my accomplishments. Regardless of my motivation, that’s who I am.
I’ll never regret asking Grant for help. Without it, my life would still be lived for others, and I wouldn’t have met the love of my life. The man who helped me realize I can do everything I want to do, for myself.
Grant pushed me to success, but he will not lead me. That’s my responsibility.
My blinking clock reminds me of the time. This paper is due in less than an hour, and considering the morning foot traffic on the train, I had to start getting ready ten minutes ago.
I quickly save the document and file it away on my laptop. Upload it to my blue USB. Email it to myself and to Rosie, just to be safe. Then I shoot out of my desk chair and rush to my closet.
I’m tired, hungry, and a bit delirious, but I’ve never been so excited to turn in a piece of work in my life.
“Hello?” I press the phone harder against my ear. My shoulder knocks into another student rushing to their own class, probably overly stressed about their finals like I was eight hours ago. I wave my apology and continue to my class.
