Chapter 2 Henri #2
I pause, taking a moment to conjure up a memory of Cab Guy.
“He looked like someone just woke him up after he fell asleep in a library. And he had all these freckles, like a billion. Not hot, but handsome.” I shake my head.
Why am I even entertaining this conversation?
“But that doesn’t matter. I ate good food.
I got paid,” I say firmly. I walk out from behind the bar and grab a few abandoned glasses off a hightop table. “And now I’m working.”
“Working? You? Never. If you don’t hear back from the admissions office soon, I’m going to go there in person. When you go back to school at least you’ll be able to sit and make connections with people in your classes.”
“It’s the holidays; it’s normal for there to be a delay.” My eyes fix on the counter as I scrub at a red, sticky spot of dried Grenadine.
Truth is, I got the email notification that my admission status had been updated on Monday, but that would mean I’d have to log on and check it.
Even after transferring from Brown to an online state college to save money, it took me four years of putting away every dollar I had to pay off my loans.
I’d taken the privilege I’d grown up in for granted, and once my dad was arrested, I didn’t know the basics of how to be a person. It was embarrassing.
The first time I tried to wash my own clothes I used bleach instead of detergent and ruined the entire load of laundry.
I’m proud of the simple skills I’ve learned—the basics of checking cost per ounce on items at the grocery store, knowing exactly which gas station I could save a few cents at, using my local library’s computer to submit a final exam when my laptop broke and I couldn’t afford repairs.
Getting my master's in counseling will open doors, but it’s the biggest financial risk I’ve taken.
I initially wanted to start a new online program, but Iris encouraged me to apply for my dream program here in New York, and thus reclaiming a college experience I never fully had.
I have nearly enough saved to completely cover the first two years of tuition and rent, but only if I get financial aid.
After years of building a new life, I’m not sure I’m ready to take the risk. And there’s the fact that it will be the first time I’ve settled down anywhere. I’ve grown used to being unmoored.
A master's program means committing to one place. One topic. One cohort of people. It means committing to being the same person day in and day out, and I’m not even sure who that person is. Or worse, if I like that person.
Last time I was in school, I was lazy and stuck up, cheating my way through the entrance requirements. What if that part of me is still lurking beneath the surface just waiting to break free the moment I relax?
“You’re going to get in and you’re going to go. It’s not like you can bartend and date people for money forever. Those are things you’re going to age out of.”
“I don’t know, I think I could break into an older market,” I joke.
A beat-up fuchsia leather purse thuds on the bartop next to Iris. Jasmine, one of Fender’s afterwork regulars and Iris’s current flirtationship, slips onto a barstool.
“I think I just set a record for how fast you can get the hell off Long Island,” Jasmine says.
“All the cousins have kids now and won’t do edibles with me anymore, so I was there sober, while my aunt told us about all the wart removals she’s had this year.
And it’s been nearly a decade since I’ve come out and my dad still thinks that if I ‘give football a chance I’ll really like it.
’” She looks at me with wide, pleading green eyes. “Please help me not be sober anymore.”
Coming to the rescue, I make her a Negroni while she and Iris chat.
“Here,” I say, placing the deep amber cocktail in front of her.
“Iris is saying you might stay in New York a bit longer.” Jasmine cocks a brow.
“Not you, too,” I groan.
“All I’m saying is, I wouldn’t be mad if you stayed,” Jasmine says, coyly, as her eyes flick to Iris.
“I’ll get to it faster if people stop reminding me. And there’s nothing that says if I leave you have to go with me,” I tell Iris.
I hate the feeling that I’m holding her back, but she never complains. I don’t do relationships, but she does. Yet, she always cuts them a month or so before we move.
“Nope, you’re not getting rid of me anytime soon. I worked my ass off to be your friend and I’m getting a return on my investment.”
At first, I was determined to make sure she was just a normal roommate, but she made it her mission to get to know me.
She’s the only person I’ve opened up to about how I really feel about what happened the winter of my sophomore year of college with my dad and how everyone in my old life stopped talking to Mom and I the moment the news broke.
“God,” Jasmine groans. “My roommate’s the same way. He’s planning on moving home after the holidays.”
I point between them. “See if we both leave then you could live together. Now if you'll excuse me, I have drinks to make.”