One
The Envelope
Onehourandforty-fourminutes in, and my morning study block is as good as wasted. Unable to make sense of a single word of this case study, I glare at my laptop, as if my vacuous state is entirely the computer’s fault. My head is too full—of doubt, hesitation, and perhaps guilt—to focus. Despite my best efforts, my eyes keep drifting to the pink envelope on the coffee table, sitting innocently on a pile of textbooks—
A chime from the train station outside makes me jump, and I shake my head. “Sixteen minutes left.” Squinting and blinking through the storm behind my eyes, I stare blankly at incomprehensible legalese, hoping it’ll magically click. After two years of law school, I should be used to pushing myself. The nagging feeling that maybe I’m not cut out to be a lawyer eats away—
My phone lights up, and the steady buzz on the coffee table brings welcome relief.
With a huff, I scramble to answer. My mom calling is a convenient excuse to give up on pretending to study. Becoming alawyer has been my primary objective for four years; I just need a break. This inner doubt stems from the mental bedlam caused by this damn envelope, that’s all.
Stretching my neck, I practice a convincing smile and hit accept. Mom’s calls always include video; she needs evidence that I’m not miserable and living in squalor. Carefully, I angle the phone away from the clutter and the half-eaten food left out on the kitchenette behind me, just as her face pops on the screen. The haphazard stacks of textbooks behind me are just as messy as the rest of my apartment, but she’ll be happier with a view of my bookshelf. “Hey, Mom.”
“Morning, Blakey-poo!” Mom beams, though I can only see the smile in her eyes because of how close the phone is to her face. Her messy bun of frizzy red hair takes up most of the screen; she cares more about seeing me up close than how she looks. “How’s my favorite daugh—sorry, adult offspring doing on this beautiful Saturday morning?”
I fight to keep my smile bright. At least she caught herself today. My mother tries, even if she doesn’t quite get it. “I’m good. How are you?”
Mom tsks, endearingly dramatic as always. “I’ll be better when your father gets back. I want my cinnamon roll!”
My dad is presumably the cinnamon roll she’s referencing, but I choose to believe my mother is talking about baked goods. That’s my parents’ Saturday routine: Dad drives to the middle of nowhere at the ass crack of dawn to sit by himself in silence and bird-watch, then picks up cinnamon rolls on his way back when loud people start scaring the birds away by midmorning. I miss those quiet mornings with Dad in the woods and wetlands, watching the sun rise and the world awaken. I miss Mom’s comfortable chatter, the aroma of fresh coffee while inhaling a cinnamon roll larger than my head.
“What are you up to today?” Mom asks, startling me out of my memories.
“Studying.” Same answer as always, except for the additional, “Exams are next week.”
Mom tsks again, this time in disappointment. Her sound effects are their own language. “I love how dedicated you are, Blake, but remember to relax too! Enjoy the city while you have the chance to live there.”
My face freezes into the nice mask Mom prefers, but inside, I’m squirming.Thisconversation should be avoided. She’s half-right; I’ve barely explored Chicago in the two years I’ve lived here, and I don’t want to move back to Minnesota before I’ve given myself a chance to enjoy it.
Or ever.
But Mom isn’t ready for the wholeI’m actually not moving backtalk. I should probably tell her I already have a job lined up. Though whether I can keep it is contingent on if I pass the bar, and she knows my lease isn’t up until September. So really, I can delay that uncomfortable conversation for at least a month. Maybe two. “I am! I’m actually going to brunch with Adrienne in a few.”
For my mom’s peace of mind, Adrienne is my new best friend. In reality, I barely know her, though I’m closer with her than anyone else in Chicago. Adrienne took me under her wing during orientation, and she’s kept me there since. It’s unclear if she’s merely being nice to the only other queer person in our law school cohort, or if she actually likes me.
Making friends as an adult, even a grad student, is very different from making friends in undergrad or high school. I haven’t quite got the hang of it, not that I was ever that great at it back in Solberg either. Adrienne’s monthly invites to brunch, with her other misfit queer friends, are my lifeline to a semblance of a social life in Chicago.
“Oh, that sounds lovely! You were always such a social butterfly!”
I snort. I’veneverbeen a social butterfly.Mattwas a social butterfly; he always dragged me along with him when we were kids. And the only friend I made in college was Allie.
“Are you going to fix your hair before you go? It looks like you could use a trim.”
Self-conscious, I fluff the soft black curls on my forehead and squint at my tiny picture on the phone. “I just got it cut last weekend.”
“Oh. You’re growing it out again? That’s great, sweetie!” Mom squeals. “You always looked so pretty with your long curls! I told you that pixie cut didn’t suit you, and now look, you practically have a mullet until it grows out again. Maybe they could do some layers next time you go?”
I swallow the defensive sarcasm that bubbles in my chest, like a burp that would besosatisfying to let rip. My mullet is intentional, and my “pixie cut” was a buzz cut. But Mom prefers to interpret my appearance through women’s styles. When I came out as non-binary three years ago, she said she loved and supported me no matter what. It was the same speech she gave when I came out as bi in high school. But apparently, that hasn’t extended to hair.
I must take too long to respond because Mom hums, her signal that she’s changing the subject. “Anyway, I was calling to check in. See how you’re holding up with the news?”
“News?” I squawk. News isn’t a good word. There should be no news coming from Solberg. “What news?”
Mom exhales through her teeth, which makes me more nervous; that’sDad’snervous tick when he’s avoiding a sensitive subject. “You know…about Mattie and Allie. Their wedding?”
“Oh.” That’s not news. That’s been coming. I’ve known they would get married since I moved to Chicago two years ago. Inthe small town of Solberg, Minnesota—where I was raised and stayed for college—I left behind my two best friends: my high school sweetheart and my college roommate. In my absence, the boy next door (who didn’t want to do long-distance) grew even closer to my bubbly roomie, who stayed with my parents after graduation for an internship. By the time summer was over, Matt and Allie had moved in together.
Which I wastotallyfine with.
