“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be ready.”
She scans me, finding no injuries, and gives a slight smile. “I’d expect nothing less.” Steepling her fingers, she watches me closely. “So I did something.”
Confusion furrows my brow. “Ma’am?”
“The day I forwarded your essay for the scholarship, I sent it to someone else too. A very prominent someone whom I happen to know personally from a project we did together at the University of Houston, way back when. Are you familiar with Maxim Holland?”
My spine straightens. “Of course. I’ve read everything he’s written, and I’ve been following his podcast for over a year.”
She smiles. “Yes, after reading your essay, I figured as much. A lot of what you had to say correlates with his latest studies. Now, I didn’t want to say anything until I heard back from him, and, well, today, I heard back.”
I shift in my seat, anticipation clawing at me. I don’t want to get my hopes up, but, shit, I can’t help it. Working with someone like Maxim Holland is the kind of thing dreams are made of.
“You don’t have to respond immediately, but if you’re interested in pursuing Health and Science rather than Medical Science, he’s offering you an internship in Southern California while you pursue your degree.”
I scratch my head, my newfound hope sinking quicker than it rose. “Ah, California? I thought he had an office in El Paso too?”
“He does, but the one focusing on dementia prevention is based near Los Angeles. Additionally, for employees who have family members suffering with forms of dementia, Maxim’s foundation for the elderly in Manhattan Beach will take them in free of charge.”
A dry laugh escapes me, yet the backs of my eyes burn as I think about what this could mean for my mom. For me. I shake my head. Just my fucking luck, Blue returns to Texas the same day I’m invited to California with the chance of a lifetime.
“Like I said, you don’t have to answer today.” She jots down some info on a scrap of paper and hands it to me. “This is Judy’s email address. Keep her posted, and she’ll get your answer back to Maxim.”
I push out a breath. “Thank you, ma’am. For ... well, for everything. I can’t tell you how much it means to me.”
She nods, and I stand. “But Mr. Hunt? Don’t take too long deciding. Knowing Maxim, he won’t give you more than a week, and the internship starts in three. There’s no shortage of people willing to break down doors for an opportunity like this.”
My thumb raps against the steering wheel faster than a drummer on crack. Blue’s probably home right now.
Adrenaline buzzes through me as I think about Maxim Holland’s offer, and the one person I want to share the news with is Blue. For a split second, I pretend the internship’s not in another state. That Blue and I have a real shot of being okay. That I could be happy for myself.
But reality crashes in like a bulldozer, shattering the stupid image, and anxiety settles deep in my stomach instead, leaving me restless.
I just have to talk to her. Patch up everything we spoke about before, then I’ll tell her about it and see what she thinks, and we’ll go from there.
My pulse is on a percussion kick by the time I turn onto our street. Then I see her standing on the sidewalk, her back to me, and the sound morphs into amateur hour with no sense of rhythm. I slow the truck to a snail’s pace, about to pull over, when all the details I missed a moment ago become glaring. She’s pulled into her dad’s arms, and, Jesus. They’re crying.
What the hell am I thinking?
Facing the road, I pick up the truck’s speed and drive straight past them.
Tell her about the internship? Now? I can’t put a decision like that on her shoulders. No way in hell.
I drag my hand through my hair as frustration coils around me, then shake my head at my stupid fantasies telling me we’ll be okay. I’ve been over this—us—countless times in my head, rewinding everything she said the last time we spoke, and I’m pretty fucking aware by now that I can’t take care of her until I learn how to take care of myself properly.
Pulling over to the curb in front of a random house, I put the truck in park and untuck my phone from my back pocket. My thumb idles above the number I programmed last week, and the longer I stare at it, the more nervous I get. It’s the same pathetic way I stared at the number yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. A bead of sweat drips down my spine, my knee bouncing. When I can’t stand it anymore and am two seconds from tossing my phone, just like I always end up doing, I reach into my glove box with my free hand and find the list I made six days ago.
My dad pops into my mind a lot ever since he screwed me over. When I think about my fear of becoming like him, it’s enough to cripple me. For years, I’ve been fucking petrified of destroying my life the way he destroyed his, and as I scan each item scribbled in my sloppy handwriting—short fuse, bad coping mechanisms, lack of self-control—the feeling only multiplies. I have a lot of room for self-improvement.
Turmoil courses through me as I think about Blue’s mom, and especially the conversation Mr. Everest and I had the day she passed. The one thing I know for certain is that I have a chance to ask for help—something not everyone gets. It might not make a difference ... or it might.
At that thought, Blue’s voice filters through my head.
We need to figure out who we are.
I ... I need to grow up.
A swallow pushes through my throat. Then I narrow my eyes, looking back at the therapist’s number.
