No, I think.I don’t.And ninety percent of me knows he’s right—that I need to talk to Gray, figure out if this is over, or—or whatever.But there’s this stubborn ten percent that wants to be hurt and mad and sad and—
And not get hurt again.
Maybe that’s how it happens, I think.Maybe, sometimes, you don’t even know you’re making a choice until it’s too late.Like Dad.
I sound like I’m sixteen and Gran needs to tan my hide, sulky and stubborn and the words being drawn out of me, when I finally manage it.“I don’t know what to say.”
“You do, actually.You’re just nervous about saying it.”
“I don’t even know if he wants to talk to me.”
“That’s one of the risks, I guess.”
And even that sulk can’t keep the hurt out of my voice.“He hasn’t been coming to work.”
“He’s taking some time for himself.He’s okay.”
There are another hundred questions or so I can think of, and I guess Mr.Somerset would sit here all day answering them because he seems bound and determined to make this happen.I can’t help noticing that he wasn’t this eager to answer questions when we were doing our read-through ofWhy Most Mentees Fail.
None of those questions matter, though.Not really.So, what I say is “What if he hates me?”
Mr.Somerset opens his mouth, and I can tell he’s got an answer locked and loaded for that one.But he doesn’t say anything.He closes his mouth, and he’s got a funny smile on his face.“I gave Gray some relationship advice once.I’m not sure if it was the right thing, but it felt like it at the time.Would you mind if I shared it with you?”He holds up his hands like he’s making a promise—or warding off a defense.“And this’ll be the last time.No more advice.No more mentoring.”Every time he smiles, I realize, it’s like he’s your best friend.And the weird thing is, I think some part of him means it.“I need to work on getting my own shit together.”
I don’t trust myself to say anything, so I shrug.Gran wouldfor surebe cutting a switch by now.
“Do the hard stuff,” Mr.Somerset says.
I want to complain.I want to tell him I don’t know what that means, or it’s too vague.It doesn’t sound good or smart like it came out of a book.
But the thing is: Idoknow what he means.
Not that I like it.
I take my phone out of my pocket.I unlock it.I rub my knee with my free hand as I scroll through my contacts, and I unblock Gray.
The phone buzzes as a message comes through.And then another.And then another.
It’s a dog meme.And then another.And then another.They’re all apologies.One’s a yellow Lab pup with the guiltiest look on his face.One’s a Beagle, his head down except for his big, sorrowful eyes.And because this is Gray we’re talking about, another is a Husky, and it says,Sorry, it sounded like you were hurting her.And I can’t help it; I laugh, but I’m also kind of crying, because he’s been sending them every day.Every day.
Mr.Somerset rubs my back.
“Thanks,” I say.“Thank you, Mr.Somerset.”
“John-Henry,” he says gently.“I may not be a good mentor for you, Sam.But I’d like to be your friend.”
25
Sam
When I get to WISP, the lights are on, but something’s different.It’s late afternoon, and campus is busy with students, but the little hallway where WISP is located is quiet, and that’s what it is: the WISP offices are quiet too.The door is shut.There’s one of those hanging signs you can buy at the hardware store that says CLOSED.
It’s probably locked, I tell myself.And I’ll drive home.
But it’s not.And the door opens.
The quiet seems even deeper after I pull the door shut behind me.And everything’s different.All the furniture has been moved against one wall.The computer on Robin’s desk is gone.Boxes line another wall.The ones on top are still open, and it looks like they’re full of old desk phones.
A thud comes from the back of the maze of rooms, and then a familiar, “Come-sucking son of a bitch, comeout!”
