Chapter 5 #2
His face twists. Grief, guilt, and self-hate all fighting for room. And then his expression flattens. Cold. Final.
“I am,” he says, voice like gravel. “And I won’t be back.”
He stands. Something breaks inside me, clean and deep.
“Swag,” I whisper, but it barely leaves my throat.
He’s already moving. And then he’s gone. The door shuts behind him like a period on the end of something I didn’t want to end.
Part of me expects him to come back. Maybe not right away, but eventually. The next day. The next week. After he cools off.
But he doesn’t.
Not after a week.
Not after two.
Not after three.
By the fourth week, the silence has carved something hollow inside me. Depression settles like fog—heavy and slow, creeping into everything. I go to work. I eat. I sleep. But it’s like I’m watching it all happen from somewhere far away.
Even Caroline notices.
She leans on the counter one afternoon, watching me restock the dessert case.
“What’s got you down?” she asks. “Boy troubles?”
I flinch, barely holding back a bitter laugh. “Just trying to figure out what I want to do with my life.”
I glance toward the small table in the corner, where the LSU catalogue still sits, dog-eared and scribbled on in pen.
“I keep looking at courses, but I don’t know what I want to do.”
Caroline follows my gaze.
“Well,” she says gently, “that’s what college is for. Finding yourself.”
She steps closer, peering over my shoulder at the pages I’ve marked up. “You’d be good at accounting. You’re smart. Organized. Quiet, but sharp.”
I swallow. My fingers brush over one of the circled courses. It was just dreaming at first. Maybe it doesn’t have to be. But then I look at the prices and sigh.
“Well, I can’t afford it, so I guess it doesn’t matter.” I toss the catalogue in the trash. “Mind if I cut out early?”
Surprise flickers across her face, but she nods. “Of course. Have a good night, Jo-Leigh.”
February turns into March. March bleeds into April.
By May, I’m starting to go out of my mind.
I still haven’t seen Swag. Not once. But the house?
It stays fully stocked. Like magic. Like clockwork.
Like he’s still watching from somewhere I can’t reach.
I try to catch him. I stay home on days he might show, check the fridge obsessively, and listen for the rumble of a bike but I never see him. He’s a ghost with a grocery list.
And slowly, my depression pulls me under.
I stop eating regularly. Some days I don’t even get out of bed. I just lie there, buried under blankets, pretending I’m somewhere else. Somewhere warmer. Somewhere he never left.
So when there’s a knock at the front door one afternoon, it’s honestly just annoying.
I drag myself out of bed and yank it open, fully prepared to snap. And freeze. There’s a man in a neatly pressed suit standing on the porch.
“Are you Ms. Lewis?” he asks.
“Who’s asking?”
“I’m Mr. Jones. I’m here to speak to you about a scholarship opportunity from Columbia University.”
I blink. I think my brain fries for a second.
“ Columbia? ” I repeat. “I think there’s been some kind of mistake.”
Mr. Jones smiles, calm and confident. “I assure you, there’s no mistake. You’re Jo-Leigh Lewis, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Then you’re exactly who I’m looking for.” He reaches into his sleek leather bag and pulls out a crisp folder. “It seems someone applied for you. A teacher, perhaps?”
I shake my head, stunned. “I don’t think so. I don’t know anyone who would’ve done that.”
But deep in my chest, something stirs. A whisper of a possibility. Of him . Could Swag have done this? The thought slips in before I can stop it. But then I think about how he left. No goodbye. No note. Just silence. I laugh quietly, shaking my head. No way. It’s ridiculous.
“Please, come inside,” I say, stepping aside.
Mr. Jones smiles and enters the living room, sitting neatly on the couch while I curl up in the armchair, still feeling like this is some kind of elaborate prank.
But an hour later, he’s gone. And I’m left sitting alone with a thick folder of paperwork and glossy brochures spread across the coffee table.
The scholarship comes with conditions. It’s not a free ride.
I have to maintain a certain GPA. Volunteer a minimum number of hours each semester.
Work a part-time job to cover my own personal expenses.
But in return? Tuition. Paid in full. The first two years, I’ll stay in the dorms. After that, I can opt to stay or move out, as long as I find a roommate. I trace a finger over the crest on the front of the Columbia packet, my heart pounding so loud it feels like it fills the room.
Before he left, Mr. Jones had said, “You just need to pick two electives, and then I can finalize your schedule for you.”
Like it’s real. Like it’s happening.
I sit there for a long time, staring at the pages. Wondering if I’m dreaming. Wondering who believed in me enough to set this in motion.
I’m nineteen years old.
If I don’t do this now where will I end up?
I think about my mom. How she believed my dad would take care of us.
How, when he didn’t, she did the best she could until she couldn’t anymore.
I think about the foster families I bounced through.
Some were kind. Some weren’t. But the worst part wasn’t the rules or the moves or the silence.
It was that no one ever fought for me. No one stood up and said, She matters.
I sit up a little straighter, the weight of it all pressing in and somehow steadying me at the same time.
I think I want to become a social worker.
Not because I want to relive my past but because I want to rewrite someone else’s. I want to help kids like me. And to do that, I need a degree. I need this.
Exhaling, I let the decision settle deep in my bones.
If I haven’t seen Swag in a week I’ll accept the scholarship. And I won’t look back.