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“He turned down a tour?”
“Yeah, because we agreed to wait till Summer. But summer’s getting kinda close now.”
“I know.”
“Do you, though?”
“Eli, I am going to pass the classes. I’m going to get the money. We restart in summer, on our own terms, and it’s going to be exactly what I promised, and Luca’s going to wish he’d never modeled a single cardigan.” I keep it light. I keep it so light, because if I let one ounce of how scared I am into my voice, he’ll hear it, and if he hears it, the whole thing comes apart. “Trust me.”
“Alright.”
“Talk next week,” I say.
The line cuts.
I sit on the floor and look at the cursor blink in the empty Word doc.
This fucking class is the only thing standing between me and letting down every single person I love.
Chapter Six
Bea
Sunday is laundry day. Whites first, then darks, then the delicates I refuse to trust to the dryer no matter what the label claims.
Tumble dry low is exactly the kind of thing a manufacturer puts on a tag before ruining your favorite bra.
I hum along as I fold. Socks paired and tucked. My burgundy UMS sweatshirt gets folded last and goes on top.
Gianna pokes her head through my open door. “Laundry day?”
“Yup.”
“It’s scary to watch you do this. You’re like a tiny domestic robot.”
I shoot her back a grin. “Some of us respect our socks and do laundry more than once a month.”
She clutches her chest. “Ouch. Hit me where it hurts, Walker. I’m going to Dora’s with some friends. Wanna join?”
I glance at the half-empty basket. Tempting. But I’ve got three lectures to review, two loads left and exactly four hours before my protected Sunday-night relaxation window. Current agenda: shower, clean sheets and three hundred pages of werewolf romance on my Kindle that I would deny owning under oath. A habit I inherited, for the record, from Gran, whose bookshelf contains more smutty novels than you’d be able to read in a lifetime.
“Nah, I’m good. I gotta finish this, then get some things done.”
“Booo.”
“Have fun.”
“Have fun folding your underwear.”
“I always do.”
She disappears down the stairs.
My phone rings before I’ve finished the next T-shirt.
Mom.
I never know when I’m going to hear from her. Her calls happen at the exact intersection of good cell service and her remembering she has a daughter.
