2. Wren #2
I glance over. His hood is pulled up, his expression holding too many questions for this time of day.
“Yep,” I say. “First day. Thriving.”
“You look like you fought a raccoon.”
I grin at him, dramatically sweeping my hair away from my face. “Did I win at least?”
He doesn’t smile. “Wren.”
“I’m good, Holden.”
He watches me for another second, then nods like he doesn’t believe me but is choosing mercy. “Text if you need me to pick up the twins later. I can walk.”
“You have practice.”
“I can miss.”
I glare at him, appreciative that he continues to offer, but displeased that we keep having to have the same conversation repeatedly. “No, you can’t.”
“It’s one practice.”
“And you love it, you’re good at it, and you need it for a scholarship.”
His jaw shifts, but he gets out. Before shutting the door, he leans back in and says, “There’s some money in the cup holder.”
I look down.
There’s a twenty and a few dollar bills folded under an old receipt. My throat tightens. “Holden.”
“For gas. I’d rather not have you stuck somewhere and leave me alone with the littles tonight,” he says and shuts the door before I can argue.
I sit there for a few moments with my hands on the wheel, trying to figure out how exactly we got here.
My junior year of high school wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.
Dad had a great job, Mom was able to do what she had always wanted and stayed home with us kids, never missing a single game or competition, a school recital, or anything in between.
Sure, they had had their moments over the years, but I don’t think any couple who had been together for twenty-three years wouldn’t.
The end of my junior year is when it all went to hell.
I came home from school one day to my mom crying at the kitchen table, my dad nowhere to be found. She told me that Dad would be gone for a few days, which turned into weeks, then months. By the time the first day of senior year came around, they had filed for divorce.
I’ve seen my dad twice since then, refusing to speak to him either time. Eventually, we found out why they split. He cheated, had been for years, but this was the first time my mom had ever found out. It destroyed her.
She had devoted most of her life to making sure everything at home ran smoothly, so he could focus on his job. From the outside looking in, you’d think we’d have been the perfect family.
I guess perfection is only as good as the illusion.
My phone buzzes, breaking me from my thoughts.
8:04 — HEAD TO CLASS. DO NOT CRY IN A SCHOOL PARKING LOT. BAD FOR UR REP.
I laugh once because the alternative is worse, tuck the money into my wallet, and drive to campus.
By the time I make it to Pacific Coast University nearly forty minutes later, I am twelve minutes late to being early, which is basically on time if you’re a glass-half-full kinda gal.
I have to park in the far lot because all the good spots are gone, shove my laptop into my bag, and speed-walk toward the humanities building.
“Wren!”
I turn just in time for Harlow Mercer to appear out of the crowd, looking like a golden angel with two cups of coffee in her hands.
She carefully wraps both of her arms around me in a quick hug.
“Please tell me that coffee is for me,” I say into her shoulder. “Also, hi.”
“Hi.” She pulls back, eyes immediately scanning my face. “You look—”
“Beautiful? Radiant? Like winter term is already my personal runway?”
“Like you slept in a dryer.”
I nod, accepting my fate. “Honestly, that feels valid.”
Her smile softens. “Rough morning?”
“A new normal morning.”
Not that I enjoy it, but we will get through it. The mornings in London when I could wake up closer to eight or nine before heading to my internship and doing online classes were much more my speed, but here we are.
She sighs. “Wren.”
“First rule of this term—don’t fact-check my emotional stability before nine a.m. There’s not a lot there, and it is already dangling by a thread.”
She links her arm through mine as we start walking. “Fine. I’ll wait until nine-oh-one.”
“Generous.”
We make it to Ethics and Social Responsibility with thirty seconds to spare. The room is half full, everyone doing that first-day thing where they pretend not to judge seating choices while absolutely judging seating choices.
Harlow and I take two seats near the middle.
The professor starts right on time and begins talking about obligation, harm, moral responsibility, and the difference between what is legally required and what people owe each other anyway.
So, a light and breezy start.
I try to take notes. I really do.
But my brain keeps snagging on phrases.
Responsibility beyond the self.
Invisible labor.
Systems of care.
I write them down and then stare at the words until they blur a little.
Harlow nudges my knee with hers under the desk.
I glance over.
She doesn’t say anything. Just raises her eyebrows.
I shake my head once.
Later. Maybe.
Probably not.
After Ethics, we grab coffee number two, because I believe in hydration when it comes in the form of caffeine. Then I survive my second class through a combination of note-taking, strategic nodding, and pretending I understand the syllabus well enough not to panic.
By the time I leave, my phone has fourteen notifications, three reminders, and one text from Mom saying her shift is slammed, but she loves me.
There’s also an email from the financial assistance office.
My stomach sinks before I even open it.
I read the first line.
Then I stop walking in the middle of the sidewalk so abruptly that someone almost crashes into me.
“Sorry,” I mutter, stepping aside.
I read it again.
There has been an adjustment to your aid package.
No.
No, no, no.
I go straight to the financial assistance office. There has to be a mistake.
The woman at the front desk is kind. That somehow makes it worse. She looks up my account, frowns at her computer, clicks a few things, and then says words that make the room tilt half an inch to the left.
“Part of your need-based assistance wasn’t approved because of parental income.”
I grip the strap of my bag. “My dad’s income?”
“It looks like both parents are still reflected in the financial review.”
“My parents are divorced.” I can’t believe this is happening. As if breaking our family wasn’t enough, this is just the icing on the cake of the chaos this man has caused.
She looks back at her screen. “I see that noted.”
“He doesn’t help.”
Her expression softens. “I understand.”
No, you don’t, I want to say.
But she’s not the villain. She’s a woman with a desk plant and tired eyes and a job that probably requires her to tell students terrible things in a calm voice all day.
“He doesn’t pay child support more than half the time,” I say, quieter. “I don’t have access to his money. None of us do.”
“I’m sorry. There’s an appeal process you can try. You can submit documentation of changed circumstances, divorce records, proof of lack of support, anything showing financial separation.”
“How long does that take?”
She winces. “It varies.”
That means too long. I already know that.
She clicks something else. “There may also be work-study options available if you qualify. It won’t cover everything, but it could help bridge part of the gap while your appeal is reviewed.”
Work-study.
Right.
Because all my very relaxed schedule was missing was a job.
“Okay,” I say, even though nothing is okay. “Where do I find those?”
She prints a sheet and slides it toward me. “The portal updates throughout the week. Some positions fill quickly, so I’d look as soon as you can.”
As soon as I can.
That’s funny.
I fold the paper and tuck it into my bag like it isn’t currently weighing a thousand pounds.
“Thank you,” I say, because my mother raised me right and capitalism raised me tired.
The second I step out of the office, the hallway feels too bright. Too loud. People move around me with backpacks and iced coffees and easy laughs, like their entire lives haven’t just been rearranged by a woman with a desk plant and a printer.
My thoughts start stacking too fast.
Tuition. Books. Gas.
The twins’ lunch accounts. Mom’s red-letter bills. Holden’s twenty-three dollars that are probably left over from last summer when he would find time to pick up odd jobs between baseball camps.
The apartment I’m not moving into.
Dad’s income, counted like a resource when all it has ever been is a weapon he gets to hold from a distance.
My chest tightens, and I can feel the panic rising in my throat.
Not here. I can’t do this here.
I turn toward the nearest bathroom, already calculating how long I can hide in a stall before someone notices, when my phone alarm goes off.
2:15 — PICK UP THE TWINS. DO NOT FORGET THE TINY HUMANS.
I stare at the screen before laughing. I laugh because if I don’t, I might start screaming, and screaming in the financial assistance hallway feels like the kind of thing that gets you gently escorted somewhere with pamphlets.
I silence the alarm and adjust my bag on my shoulder.
Fine. Great. Perfect.
Guess my mental crash-out can wait another hour.