Chapter 8
IT FELT LIKE SOMEONE WAS BEATING MY HEAD like a drum when I woke up the next morning, my mouth hanging open and throat too dry to swallow. The light beaming through the half-closed blinds was bright, but thankfully a glass of water sat on my nightstand.
How thoughtful, Drunk Audrey.
After gulping down the water, I located my phone in my tangled sheets and saw that it was a little after ten. I vaguely remembered Henry and me enduring Anyone but You and calling it a night around three a.m. Where had he slept? His favorite guest room?
I swiped to open a text he’d sent around nine a.m. Heading out, it read. Thanks for an ELECTRIC night!
My cheeks warmed. What had I been so worried about? The party had been easy!
Anything for you, Keeler, I joked, then added some nonsensical emojis that would’ve made Griff proud. I wondered if I would hear from him today.
I forced myself to climb out of bed so I wouldn’t stare at my screen and try to manifest his response.
My bikini and dress from last night lay discarded on the floor.
I tossed them into my hamper before experiencing a jump scare when I looked in the full-length mirror.
My sleep-rumpled blond hair made me look like a Muppet.
“You’ve looked better,” I muttered. “A lot better.”
Did I actually like this haircut?
I winced when I touched my mouth—it was tender, maybe even sore.
Parts of last night might’ve been blurry, but Henry’s and my after-party was crystal clear.
We made out, I admitted… and I vividly remembered liking it.
I’d really liked it. In fact, my swollen lips suggested it was the highlight of my night.
But did you like kissing Henry? I asked myself. Or just kissing someone?
I didn’t let myself ponder that too long, instead chalking it up to my being drunk. Henry’s next text also helped clear up any potential confusion.
Nothing can stop us now.
Right, I thought. I could really lean into my role now. Thanks to last night, whatever weird energy I’d had with Henry had been rechanneled into something that felt more like natural romance instead of an awkward sixth-grade play.
I emphasized his message with exclamation points, then took a step toward my door—only to step on something.
Paper crumpled under my bare foot, and I glanced down to see the Blue Ridge brochure.
Why was it on the floor? For the past year, it had been pinned prominently on my bulletin board.
My chest tightened, wondering if it was some weird sign.
The brochure symbolized my dreams, and my dreams were now worthless enough to be stepped on. I hadn’t been able to pay the tuition—
Every bone in my body jolted, as if I’d been struck by a bolt of lightning. My eyes darted to my desk, where my MacBook sat half closed. I didn’t, I thought. I didn’t, I didn’t, I didn’t…
Did I?
I held my breath as I crept over to my desk and woke up my laptop to see the worst sight imaginable: an open Google Chrome window with Blue Ridge’s logo in the top left corner and congratulations! stamped across the center of the screen.
Underneath it was a payment confirmation number. “Oh—my—god.” I could barely breathe the words, every ounce of blood draining from my face. My fellowship tuition had been paid.
Oh my god.
Oh my god, I was going to Blue Ridge.
Oh my god, I owed my parents ten thousand dollars.
Because by paying my tuition, I had stolen ten thousand dollars from them.
MY FAMILY’S PRIMARY BANK WAS WELLS FARGO, but they also had an account at the Bank of Fairfield, a local bank.
My parents had nicknamed the account “Expect the Unexpected.” It was an emergency fund of sorts: When our basement had flooded, my mom drew from the account to install French drains.
When my aunt needed to borrow some money for reasons I wasn’t supposed to know about, it came from the Bank of Fairfield.
I never kept tabs on how much money was stashed away—it wasn’t my account—but I had a debit card and knew the login credentials. Because: “We trust you, Audrey.”
Why? I wanted to wail. Why did I do this? Why did I stoop so low?
I was absolutely fucked, but before I attempted to take a metaphorical fire extinguisher to the dumpster fire that had become my life overnight, I wanted to run away from it. So I buckled my seat belt in Brigitta and sped into town for coffee.
Essex Harbor was idyllic, sitting right on the water with brick sidewalks, streetlights with hanging flower baskets, and not a single chain restaurant in sight. Starbucks? Sorry, Howard Schultz. Nothing beat Rise now it was time for a temporary cheer-up. Taro latte, taro latte, and oh! How about—
I put a pin in debating which pastry I wanted when I spotted Ellie waiting in line. Her hair was wet; she’d probably come from the athletic club down the street. Henry once mentioned she liked to swim on weekends. My shoulders slumped.
There was no way I could avoid her unless I left.
And no one could possibly understand how much I needed this latte…
Plus, I literally had no reason to avoid her. She hadn’t openly dedicated her karaoke performance to me.
“Hey!” I said upon joining her at the end of the line. “Tate text you her drink order?”
Everyone in town knew Tate Hopper and her fellow seventh graders were Rise he always got a number 14. Sliced chicken breast with melted Gouda, lettuce, tomato, avocado, cranberries, and honey mustard on sourdough.