“This is Will Grant, from Ellis,” I say. “Revenant’s consultant of choice.”
There’s a brief, stunned silence as my words land, followed by two scoffs from the Carlisle team and one wince from Derrick.
“We had a handshake agreement,” Kyle says.
“I changed my mind,” I say.
Another scoff. “You changed your mind?”Kyle throws a hand in Will’s direction. “Don’t fall for him, Josephine. He doesn’t care about you. He’s only doing this to get at me.”
“Josie, that’snottrue,” Will says. “I didn’t even know Kyle was here until I showed up.”
I try to care, try to focus on the conversation unfolding, but the animosity in this room isn’t coming from me at this point, nor is it directed my way. I didn’t sleep last night, and I don’t have time for this, and Ididn’t even want a consultant in the first place,and when was the last time I ate something? Every useless, hypermasculine word Kyle says pushes on my skull with sharp edges. My vision starts to dance.
“I need a minute.”
My feet carry me toward the glass door, heels echoing now that the room is silent. When I pass by Will, he stands, but I don’t stop. Can’t. Not when I’m feeling this woozy.
Lucky for me, there’s a ritual for this, too.
CHAPTER FOUR
I adore the UT Austin campus. In particular, Whitis Court. Knobby, ancient trees that stretch out overhead and blanket the space in dappled shade. A constantly overstuffed bike rack, concrete picnic tables, old grills. The whole thing is enclosed by buildings I used to frequent. Six years out of college and I still find excuses to visit once a month.
I swear the chain restaurants around campus taste better, too. When I need to decompress, I’ll go by the nearest sandwich shop and bring my lunch here, unrolling the blanket I keep in my car to have a picnic at my old stomping grounds.
I like people-watching the students—especially the freshmen. I wish I could bottle the looks on their faces, figure out how to feel their peace. Walking to class, gazing into the eyes of their crush, lounging in the grass reading a textbook. Since it’s summer, campus is mostly deserted right now, but still. This is how I keep that period of life in my pocket, how I uncork the peaceful memories when I’m feeling some type of way.
“The problem,” my mother says, the sound of her chipper voice wrapping around my heart through my AirPods, across three states and eight hundred and fifty miles, “is that Mindy Meyer is already bringing red velvetcookies. So, I can’t exactly bring my red velvet cupcakes with cream cheese swirl.”
“Fuck Mindy Meyer,” I tell her, my hands wrapping around the sandwich in my lap. I’m sitting cross-legged, my picnic adjacent to the dorm I lived in almost ten years ago when I first moved to Austin. The dorm where I got to know Camila. “Your red velvet cupcakes are orgasmic.”
“Darling, I don’t care to know what inanimate objects give you an orgasm.”
“I’ve never even heard of a red velvet cookie.”
“Right?” Mom screeches. “It’s diabolically brilliant!”
“What’s the occasion?” I ask before taking another bite of my lunch.
“Oh, her daughter Ellen is getting married. We’ve been gently asked to throw her an engagement shower. Which reminds me. As far away as you are from receiving a proposal, I hope you don’t mind I put a large chunk of your wedding fund into the stock market.”
“Mom,what?”
“But all’s well that ends well, because I doubled it just yesterday.”
I smirk and shake my head, standing up and grabbing the blanket. “Does Dad know?”
A pause. “He doesnow.”
My mother, God love her, has never worked a traditional job a day in her life. When I was fifteen, she used to call me in the middle of the school day and ask if I needed anything. Tampon, brownies for chemistry class, fresh underwear?
There were years—many years, after Robbie went to college and I got my driver’s license alongside my independence—when Mom fell into a depression born from the absence of being needed. But now she has hobbies, and one of them is the stock market.
“And look, we both know I adore your sister-in-law. But I don’t think her parents put more than fifty thousand into that wedding, and I just wantmorefor you—”
“I’m getting married at Lake Como,” I announce, walking back to my car.
“You’re very funny, darling, but Grandma Jeancannottravel to Italy at her age.”
