Chapter 55
Chapter Fifty-Five
Savannah
“So Ms. Burke…or do you go by Mrs. Forsyth?” Monet, the financial aid counselor, asks me. She’s an older woman with slate-gray hair and an attitude like she’s seen almost everything and knows how to handle it. I like her immediately.
“Savannah’s fine.”
Monet skims over the paperwork that Forrest walked me through while I filled out, telling me it was like a tax form until I confessed I’d never filled one of those out, either.
“I know my situation is a little unusual,” I say.
“The good news is that, because you’re married, your parents’ income and assets aren’t counted against you in your financial aid calculation.”
“What’s the bad news?”
“You’re still married, correct?”
For now. Who knows how long that will last, given that I’d taken my things and fled from our house—Brayden’s house—and blocked his and Asher’s numbers. “I am.”
“And as for your husband’s assets…” She glances at the paperwork and up at me as if realizing who that Forsyth is.
“Big Peaches fan?” I ask warily.
“We’re season ticket holders.”
And now I’m here, in her cramped office that’s piled with various manilla folders, about to tell her that I’m separating from a Peaches player.
Maybe instead of worrying about financial aid paperwork, I should have brought an NDA.
“I’m not sure—” There’s no real way to explain the situation.
“I’m exploring my options. Financially speaking. ”
Monet goes back to reviewing my papers. “If you’re married, your spouse’s income qualifies as yours. And unfortunately his salary puts him well above the threshold where we’d be able to extend financial aid. Now, if you’re legally separated…”
“We’re not.” Just separated in all the ways that matter.
“Then I’m sorry. Much of my job involves dealing with these kinds of complexities, and there are times when I’m afraid there isn’t much we can do.”
I swallow around the tears suddenly in my throat.
Not for the first time, I wish I’d taken Brayden’s aunt’s advice and squirreled away some of his money in a secret account.
But you didn’t. My vision pulses. My migraines are back—triggered by stress, disappointment.
Heartbreak. Poor little rich girl. The phrase feels like a mental slap.
I have a vial of meds in my purse, a ninety-day supply I convinced the pharmacy to dispense for me.
Who knows what will happen when the season’s over?
“Thank you,” I say. “I realize it was a longshot.”
Monet’s face softens. “Is there a possibility that you and your husband will reconcile?”
I shake my head. It isn’t possible. Not when I married him to help clean up his image and only managed to drag his name through the mud. Various internet message boards are starting to post rumors that something is wrong in the Peaches clubhouse. Yeah, me.
I’m not a homewrecker, technically. But technically doesn’t matter when I feel like I’ve taken a wrecking ball to the life we were building together. It turns out that some things, once broken, can’t be put back together. Sometimes you just have to pick through the pieces and move on.
I apply for a job at the local clinic doing patient intake.
They’ll call me, they say. But my phone doesn’t ring.
I check at the medical library—no, they only take volunteers—at various campus services.
Work-study students only. Half of the jobs listed online bounce my resume back, the chirpy AI chatbots thanking me for my interest and telling me I don’t have the necessary qualifications.
Fine. Business is often best handled in person. So I dress carefully and go down to the local drugstore. Request an application.
The clerk—a goth kid with a face of white pancake makeup who can’t be more than eighteen—stares at me as if I’m a time traveler. “The application’s online.” She tacks on an obviously under her breath.
“Sorry,” I say, “I didn’t know.”
She eyes my nails—acrylics that cost a few hundred dollars for the set, which felt reasonable at the time and now feels garish—the wedding ring I can’t bring myself to remove from my left hand. “Did you grow up under a rock?” she asks.
Just up in a tower. One I dreamed of flying away from. But I’ve come down from that now and it doesn’t feel like a flight. No, it feels like a fall.