“Sounds like you’re under a lot of stress.”
She softened and leaned into me more. “I took an overload of classes this semester. Nineteen hours.”
“Nineteen, Terri. Really?” I’d convinced myself to let her handle this whole college thing by herself, especially that second semester. “Why would you do that?”
“I want to graduate early,” she confessed. “Get on with my life.”
“Sweetheart, there’s no prize for finishing early. Take it at a pace that works for you,” I told her.
We sat in silence for a minute. Then she asked softly, “Please don’t tell Dad about this.”
“Your father wouldn’t—”
“No.” She sat up and looked me in the eye. Her black eyeliner and mascara had smeared all the way into her hairline. “Please.”
“Fine. I won’t tell him. But I need you to agree to stop overloading yourself,” I bargained with her.
She’d sniffled, then whispered, “Okay.”
I pushed past layers of box braids and kissed the side of her head. “It’s going to be all right, Terri. Everything always works out the way it’s supposed to in the end.”
Those words, declared back when I used to have more faith, came back to me now. Terri and I were water and oil, but I had to believe we loved each other still. Otherwise, she would have done what all the other people in her generation do—block and unfriend and change the password to the streaming-music app we share.
She sighed. “Well… I hope you enjoy your time in Robin Creek.”
She was trying to sound all hard, but I heard the tiniest crack in her voice. I continued, “And you’re welcome to visit me. When you’re ready.”
“Do you have room for me?”
“Yes. Another bedroom. Just enough space for a short visit.” It took everything in me not to emphasize the wordshort.
“Did you do a background check on your tenant?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Credit check?”
“No. She’s already paid the deposit, though.”
“I guess. You got a weapon?”
“It’s Robin Creek, Terri.”
“I’m just sayin’… People do weird things these days. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
Well, at least she was concerned for my basic human safety. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. Sounds like your daddy’s keeping you busy, anyway.”
I heard a scratchy speaker call my daughter’s name in the background: “Dr. Riley.”
“I gotta go, Mom. My next client is here.”
“I love you, Terri.”
“Love you, too, Mom.”
The day of my new roommate’s arrival had finally come. Andgone. Wouldn’t be too long before the sun set, and there was no sign of Gabriella Santos. Today, this last Thursday in May, was to be her move-in day, according to text messages mostly. People barely talked these days, especially after the pandemic. Which suited me just fine except when what I needed to say couldn’t be adequately conveyed by tapping my thumbs across a two-inch keyboard. Who thought of that foolishness, anyway? These optometrists are going to be rich from all these kids who grew up with their eyes glued to a screen, Terri and Eric Jr. included.
It was 7:45 p.m. already.
