Epilogue
“IT’S BEEN LOVELY HAVING YOU all in class,” Deonne says to her students, sweeping her hands wide.
“Have a wonderful Thanksgiving. I hope to see you in the new year, and don’t forget there’s one slot left for Blair’s polymer clay miniature series next month if you haven’t had a chance to sign up!
” She claps once, and the students begin to clear their stations.
“Is it ridiculous that I’m stressed about that last spot still being open?” I ask as I pluck a mask from the box on the windowsill.
“Blair,” she says with a laugh, “you had seven students sign up in the first week. Out of ten slots! I think those are pretty good stats for your first class.”
I smile, a pleased flush burning across my cheeks as I don my mask. While the students from her wheel throwing class file out, I begin to scrape the plates, and then I detach them from the base and carry them one by one to the big cleaning station in the back room.
“Hey, don’t forget the window washers are coming a day early the third week of December,” Deonne calls. “And there’s a stone delivery Friday after five your first week.”
“I’ve got it in my calendar,” I shout back to her.
“And Melissa—”
“—will pick up her check the second Tuesday of the month,” I call. “It’s in the first drawer of your desk. I will be here.”
Starting next week Deonne is heading out on a monthlong vacation to Paris with her mom, and she won’t return until the new year. The studio will be closed the first week of December while I finish my exams, and then I’ll spend the next few weeks running things solo.
I’ve been Deonne’s assistant for four months now, which started when I told her I wouldn’t have time for fall sculpture studio due to a part-time job I’d gotten doing overnight restocking at the store where Jamie works.
It was the only place I could find, even though the shift was a nightmare.
Deonne matched the pay and the number of hours, and as a bonus, I get to take any of her classes for free as long as I pitch in for my materials.
And now, while she’s out of town, I even get to run my own small polymer clay class, since my regular hours will be much lower with her out of town.
It’s the only way I can afford my rent now, since my financial aid is measly, and I’m barely scraping by with scholarships and student loans.
My saving grace has been Alejandra, a woman in the financial aid office who’s gone to bat for me with FAFSA to get as much as I can out of them, since they have me classified as a dependent despite my parents almost completely cutting me off.
I say “almost” because I still have the emergency credit card Mom gave me, even though we haven’t spoken in months.
But I’m holding out hope that we’ll be able to repair things one day.
I won’t be home for the holidays anytime soon, but I did get an alert from the UGH leasing office just a few days after my return.
It’d thrown me into a panic for as long as it took me to read the email.
My lease had been updated with a cosigner replacement. Mom.
This voided my original lease, releasing me of any fear of retaliation from Victor. Mom must have decided that turning me in for a felony was one step too far.
For what it’s worth, both Sawyer and I also seem to still have active health insurance despite the threats. Though we’re on our own for everything else.
Speaking of Sawyer, when I step out of Stone Mikey’s band; even Gabi from the APM, who tracked me down after I dropped out; and Izzy, who officially moved out of Starr and Leni’s house in August. The three of us have weirdly become a unit after we all landed in the same Cinema Survey class this semester.
I haven’t seen or spoken to Starr or Leni since the disastrous Fourth of July party, but when Izzy moved out, they were both still living in the house and decidedly not speaking.
I no longer feel the need to check up on them, which I think means I’ve finally moved on from mourning the loss of my oldest friendships.
As Sawyer and I step inside, Goose bounding ahead of us into the living room, I’m struck with the feeling of coming home—the familiar creak of the front door, the sounds of my roommates’ voices, the sight of the hole in the wall where I put my elbow through it all those months ago.
“Is something burning?” I say, coming to an abrupt stop in the entryway.
“Yes,” Felicity calls from the kitchen at the same time that Mikey bleats, “No! It’s just crisp! It’s not burnt!”
“The Tofurky is burnt,” says Felicity. “The turkey is somehow undercooked.”
“It’s fine,” Andres says, yanking a leg off the turkey and shoving it onto a plate in the microwave. “I’m fixing it.”
“I’m ordering delivery,” says Tallulah, the drummer from the Coconut Heads, formerly the Swamp Asses, formerly the Swampy Malompy, formerly—again—the Coconut Heads. “Who wants pizza?”
“No one is getting pizza!” Mikey shouts. “It’s fine!”
The microwave beeps.
“Just remember—if any of us gets food poisoning, we’ve only got two bathrooms,” Felicity says.
Mikey and Andres exchange a look.
“I’m getting the pizza,” Tallulah says. “It can be an appetizer.”
I’m about to go to Gabi and Izzy, who are involved in what looks like an intense game of Uno in the living room, when the front door swings open behind me. Arms slide around my waist before I can turn.
“Hello,” a low voice says in my ear.
“Hi,” I say, settling back against a familiar chest.
“Gross,” Sawyer says. “I’m outta here.”
Jamie turns me in his arms, leaning back against the door and dragging me with him. “I got an earful from him earlier. Apparently I’m not allowed to show any affection in front of him at all—not even hand-holding.”
I mock gasp. “Not hand-holding.”
“I know. Which means he’s going to really hate this.”
I’m already grinning as Jamie leans in, catching my mouth with his.
I’m trying to savor every kiss and every smile and every second we get together before he leaves for EmTech in a few short weeks.
I’ve already started setting aside a fund for the bus tickets I’ll be buying to visit him as often as I can.
Even though he’s the only one of us with a car, I’ve insisted on making things fair, visiting him as often as he visits me.
Plus, there’s Goose to consider. (And Sawyer, I guess.)
Over my shoulder, someone catcalls, and Jamie and I break apart. Gabi puts her fingers in her mouth and lets loose an earsplitting whistle.
I ignore her, burying my face in Jamie’s shirt. “I do have some bad news.”
“What’s that?” he asks, rubbing my back lightly.
“I think Andres ruined your turkey.”
Jamie groans, pulling away. “Dude! You had one job!”
Two hours later there is a feast of pizza laid out on the tables, the living room full to bursting. It wasn’t exactly intentional, letting our Friendsgiving get this big, but we’ve all been lucky enough to pull these people into our orbit.
Six months ago, Starr and Leni had me convinced I was irrevocably broken, unworthy as I was.
But now I know there are people who love me exactly as I am: no changes, no caveats.
Some of those are friends. One of them is my brother.
The last is a boy so wonderful, I sometimes have to pinch myself to prove I’m not dreaming.
And wouldn’t you know it? I am wide awake.
Sawyer, Jamie, and I spend Thanksgiving Day on the couch, half watching football and playing games. I make Jamie teach me card tricks that I can’t master. Sawyer shows us how he’s learning origami, which his therapist suggested as an outlet.
“She said it might help me channel my emotions if I have something to do with my hands.”
“I’ve been telling you that for years,” Jamie says, flicking another card between his fingers and then out of sight.
“I’m never figuring this out.” I push his arm away. “Enough with the cards. It’s better if I don’t know. Besides, I already have an outlet.”
“Yeah, but sculpting is work now,” Jamie says. “You need a hobby.”
Something my own therapist, found in the campus counseling center, has pointed out many times—that a hobby should be something I do for me, not for the approval of others.
I’m still working on it, like everything else I’ve learned in therapy so far.
(As it turns out, I probably should have started therapy years ago. Who could’ve possibly guessed?)
“Hmm. Maybe you can help me find a new hobby,” I say, hooking a finger into Jamie’s collar and pulling him in for a kiss.
“Guys, seriously,” Sawyer complains. “I’m already feeling sick.”
“That’s because you ate that cursed turkey,” I say.
“The turkey was fine,” Jamie argues, digging his fingers into my side. “I tested the temperature.”
“I don’t trust it.” Which is why I, the only smart one here, ate leftover pizza for dinner.
“Did Mom text you back?” Sawyer asks.
I hesitate. I sent Mom a Happy Thanksgiving text this morning, but so far it’s been radio silence.
I shake my head, and Sawyer sighs.
“Did you tell her you declared a new major?” he asks.
“Technically I’m still undecided. I’m not planning to declare till next semester.”
Sawyer waves me off. “You’ve already decided. Graham told me you’ve been talking to that girl he knows.”
Between sculpting and my foundations in computer science, I’m leaning toward majoring in animation.
It’s something that makes sense, that I could probably be good at, that I could possibly even enjoy.
When I told Sawyer, he offered to introduce me to that webcomic artist he met on Fourth of July, Graham Isham, who writes The Green Wave.
He knows someone in an animation studio, a friend of a friend, who’s given me some guidance on how to approach it as a career.
It’s been nice having something I might want to do. It sounds interesting. And best of all, it’s something I want—not something someone else wants for me.
Jamie squeezes my waist. “There’s no rush.”
“I know. I’ll tell her eventually.” I glance at my brother. “Have you tried talking to her?”
“Nope.”
I don’t push it. As always, Sawyer will do whatever he wants in his own time.
Later when he heads into Andres’s room, where he’s staying while our roommates are gone, Jamie and I settle on the couch and turn on a movie—Star Wars, of course.
“You know, we never said what we’re thankful for today,” I say, tilting my head up to look at him.
“I think mine is obvious.” He presses a kiss to my temple.
“I think mine is too.”
He grins. “Oh yeah?”
It should be. I’m thankful for my new friends.
My roommates. The ad that brought me here.
My recovered relationship with my brother.
The full and complete life I’m living now.
Not perfect—not even close—but mine. Every choice I’ve made for myself has brought me right here, to this place, these people, and especially this boy.
Wherever it takes me next, that will be my choice too.
Not knowing—not having a plan, for once in my life—might be the best part of all.
“I’m thankful for all of it,” I say, leaning up to kiss him again. “Every choice that brought me here. Because it was mine.”