“Things are a little shuffled. I’m sorry. I had a little incident in the lobby. My nerves. I may have tossed everything around the floor on my way in.” I pick at my cuticles as he nods and lightly chuckles.
“No need to be nervous. I read your application. Your husband, Brandon, he works in the psychology department, am I right?” He glances over the rims of his glasses, and my sudden, awkward pause must have caught his attention because he clears his throat.
“We’re separated,” I clarify.
He nods and drops his attention back to my work. The quiet seconds feel as if they stretch on for hours, and sweat builds in my armpits. I don’t know why I thought I could do this. I’vebeen out of school for four years, and while that’s not a long time in most worlds, in a discipline that depends on technology and being able to adapt, it feels like light years.
“I didn’t include it in this portfolio, but I do volunteer my services at my boys’ preschool, running their social media for special event days, and?—”
I stop my rambling when his gaze lifts again. I swallow hard as he smiles.
“Lindsey, your work is very strong. And you are transferring credits from one of the best programs in the country. You’ve already been accepted.” He closes the cover on my portfolio and folds his hands on top as I quiver in my seat with a sudden sob.
“Oh, I . . . that’s wonderful. I’m grateful. Thank you.” I reach my hand across the desk, and he takes it in both of his for a soft shake. I really like this man’s smile. It ticks down a hair, though.
“You’re going to have to take a few prerequisites. Not everything has transferred, and new standards have been put in place, but we should be able to get you into the core classes within a year, maybe two? Assuming you can’t attend full time.”
My heart sinks. I was hoping to avoid this for lots of reasons, most of all the big-dollar-sign one. Divorce means no more freebies from the school. I never got to take advantage of them in the first place.
I suck in my upper lip.
“I see.” I nod and do my best to hold back the tears threatening to fall from my eyes. I was on the verge of a happy cry and suddenly, I feel desolate.
“It can be done, and you can take a lot of the classes online, and at the community college for a lower cost. They all transfer.”
I nod, not really ingesting his words. If things transfer so easily, then why didn’t all of my prereqs from a few years ago?
“How many hours do I need?” I quirk a brow.
“Twenty-two, roughly. Of course, you’ll be able to take some of those along with your advertising courses, so it won’t all be the boring stuff.” He chuckles, but it sounds forced. It is.
I let out a heavy sigh, then stand, leaning forward to take my portfolio. Will drops his hand on one end, stopping me briefly, and my head bobs up to meet his eyes. He shakes his head slowly.
“This isn’t insurmountable, Lindsey. I mean that. Start slow, and we will support you. You have talent.”
I smile, but even I can tell it doesn’t reach my eyes.
“Slow and steady wins the race,” I say, rattling off the most cliché thing that comes to mind. Slow and steady more likely gets smooshed under a heavy boot on a sidewalk somewhere.
I shake Will’s hand one last time, then stop at his assistant’s desk on my way out. She validates my parking ticket and hands me an envelope of enrollment forms and financial aid information. It’s overwhelming, and I’m growing angry at the dreamer side of my brain that thought I was one of those single moms who could pull off miracles.
I check my phone for the time and see a text from Brandon. He stopped by my parents’ an hour early and picked up our boys for his weekend. While I’m relieved that I don’t need to see him, I hate the sudden feeling of being alone that fills my chest. Even more, I dislike the sudden uneasiness tickling my nerves as I approach my minivan, where a gray sedan with a dent in the driver’s side door is parked a little too close, and the male driver is eying me as I get close.
I grip my key fob in my fist, wishing my van were just a little older so I’d have a real, jagged key to push through my fingers like a weapon. At least with the fob I can press the alarm and heave a decent punch.
My steps stall when the man exits his driver’s side door, and a flash of heat washes down my body from head to toe. Mystomach rolls as if I’m taking the first drop on a roller coaster. Then, I see it. The yellow envelope, and the stark grimace buried under the ratty, salt-and-pepper mustache on my process server’s face. Motherfucker filed before I could.
“Lindsey Blackwood-Berchaund?” I always hated my married name.
“It’s just Blackwood now,” I say, jutting out an open palm in anticipation for the divorce papers.
“Right, I understand. But for the sake of accuracy, it’s legally Blackwood-Berchaund, correct?”
His smugness suits this situation. I huff out a short laugh.
“I couldn’t afford to file for divorce yet, so, yeah, I guess paying a few grand to get rid of that barnacle of a last name hasn’t been a priority. Legally speaking, of course.” I dim my eyes and hope he gets the point. The quick swallow and drop of his Adam’s apple are satisfying.
“You’ve been serv?—”
