Chapter 2 #2
My chest tightens. “I just—” I swallow hard.
“Herman finally stopped talking to me like I was a cautionary tale. He lined up that Florida opportunity through his old buddy, moved some Pentagon mountain for me, and I was actually going to earn it. Graduate early, start on the project, prove that dragging my life through Illinois with Gavin wasn’t the end of my story.
And now I have to call my dad and say, ‘Hey, funny thing, my internship is a felony now.’”
“First of all,” Wynter says, “you didn’t drag your life through Illinois alone. Gavin dragged it too, and then he dropped it. Second, you were nineteen. Third, you already proved you’re not her anymore, and I’m not gonna let you talk about yourself like you’re still stuck back there.”
“How?” My voice cracks on the word before I can stop it.
“You picked yourself up and busted your ass to get into Northbridge,” she says.
“You’ve been top of your cohort for, what, five years now?
You got Dr. Healy wrapped around your little nerdy finger.
You work, you study, you tutor, you keep Big Mama’s rent paid on time.
You do not get all the way here by accident. ”
I swallow, fighting the instinct to shrug it off.
“And before you say ‘anybody would’ve done the same,’ they wouldn’t,” she adds. “If this was one of your tutees calling you with this exact problem, you’d be like, ‘Okay, babe, take a breath. Let’s look at what’s true and what’s just fear talking.’ So do that for yourself.”
I flop back onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling. “What’s true is that my whole plan just went to shit.”
“What’s true,” she counters gently, “is: one, you still have your brain, your GPA, and Healy in your corner; two, Northbridge is literally extending deadlines because they know this is messy; three, the only thing that changed today is the route, not the destination.”
I suck in a slow breath and let it out through my nose, counting without meaning to. My shoulders loosen a little, tension unspooling one knot at a time. She knows my tells; she’s been talking me down off ledges since we were eleven.
I know, objectively, I’m smart. My GPA says so. Healy’s recommendation letters say so. The Florida project says so. But none of it feels bigger than the tiny, vicious voice in my head that sounds like Herman on a bad day.
“I miss you,” I say, the words slipping out quieter than I mean to. “Like, physically ache miss you.”
“Yeah, I know,” she says softly. “I miss you too. But you’re not alone in this, okay? Even from a stinky-ass tour bus, I got you.”
The tightness in my chest eases another inch.
“Where are you anyway?” I ask, needing a lighter subject. “Sounds like a damn circus back there.”
“On the bus,” she groans. “Somewhere between Munich and Brussels. This big-ass tour bus smells like feet and BO had a baby. When I’m headlining, I’m flying everywhere. This shit is for the birds.”
I snort. “You in Amsterdam sounds like a recipe for disaster.”
“Only if I get caught,” she says, smug. “Hold up—” The line muffles. “Marco! Touch my pizza and you’ll be playing with nubs!”
There’s shuffling, a thud, an indignant yelp.
“Marco, I swear to God, eat my pizza and you’ll be shitting toes,” she snaps.
A male voice whines, “Did you just throw your shoe at me?”
“Yeah, and you’re lucky my foot wasn’t in it.”
The bus roars with laughter. I’m laughing too, tension bleeding out of my shoulders.
“Not you committing assault over pizza,” I wheeze.
“Listen,” she says, breathless with her own laughter, “I am tired of Marco’s Hungry Hungry Hippo ass. Always trying to eat somebody’s food.”
“You said you loved me!” he calls in the background.
“I love pizza more,” she fires back. Then, without missing a beat: “Have you ever seen a hot winter? Outside of me, that is.”
I groan. “You and these weather puns.”
“With a name like Wynter, I gotta stay on brand,” she says. “Anyway, back to you bailing on being my plus one in Europe to sling books and sweat through summer classes.”
“I didn’t bail to work at BookNook,” I protest. “I need money for my half of the rent. When school starts back up, I have to cut hours, and now I have to find a paid internship on top of five classes. I can’t just let you cover me forever.”
“Bills my songwriting skills are paying for,” she reminds me. “You are riding this wave with me.”
“And what happens when Herman pops up asking why I’m in Berlin instead of Northbridge?” I tug at a curl, the dryness catching between my fingers. “He already thinks Chicago was a wild choice. He was barely okay with me leaving the East Coast.”
“Because he’s controlling,” she says bluntly. “We’ve been knew. You’re grown, Lee. It’s time to stop letting your daddy dictate every move.”
“Easy for you to say,” I mutter. “You have two supportive parents who believed in your career from day one.”
“True,” she says without apology. “Because they know their baby is a star.”
I smile despite myself. It’s true. Wynter’s been a menace with a melody since we were kids. She deserves every arena she sets foot in.
“Meanwhile,” she continues, “you’ve been trying to be Herman’s perfect daughter since the day I met you. Doing everything his way so you don’t end up on his bad side again.”
I stiffen. “Again?”
She sighs. “Lee, come on. We both know he punished you for leaving MIT.”
“He didn’t disown me,” I say automatically. “He just said if I wanted to run off to Illinois with Gavin, I had to pay for it myself.”
“And you did,” Wynter says. “You worked your ass off. You dug yourself out. You transferred, you finished. You’ve been fending for yourself since you were eighteen, whether he wants to admit it or not. So why are you still living like he’s the one holding the leash?”
I pick at a loose thread on my comforter, throat tight. “Because we worked too hard to fix it,” I whisper. “To get me into this program, to get his respect back. I finally have a shot at the life he wanted for me, and I can’t just… throw it away because some internship went to hell.”
“I’m not telling you to throw it away,” she says, softer now. “I’m saying you deserve a life that belongs to you. Numbers can be part of that. Space and math and Florida can be part of that. But if you’re only chasing it because it makes Herman proud, that’s not a dream, that’s a job.”
I breathe through the sting, fingers twisting in the comforter. I do like the math. The modeling, the systems, the way probability bends but never breaks. But I also know half the papers I rave about landed in my inbox with a forwarded note: Thought of you. Proud of you. – Dad.
“I can’t start over again,” I say finally. “Not after MIT. Not after Illinois. I just… I can’t be shortchanged at the finish line. That’s why I called you. I cannot watch this all fall apart.”
There’s a quiet beat on the line, like she’s choosing her words carefully.
“Then don’t,” Wynter says simply. “This email is not the finale. It’s a plot twist. You’re still the top of your cohort.
You still have Healy. You still have options.
You just need to breathe long enough to see them.
Let tomorrow-You and Dr. Healy tag-team the fix.
Tonight-You is allowed to put the panic down for a second. ”
I inhale slowly, counting again without meaning to. Four in, hold, six out. My heartbeat eases back from sprint to jog.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Okay. I hear you.”
“Good,” she says. “Because if I have to fly back across an ocean to slap some sense into you, I’m charging Herman for the ticket.”
A reluctant laugh slips out of me. Some of the buzzing under my skin finally starts to settle.
“I miss you,” I admit again, but this time it doesn’t feel like I’m drowning in it. “How’s the tour, really? Besides toe-based threats.”
“Messy,” she says, brightening. “You’d love it. Or hate it. Remember that bassist I told you about? Arms like he could bench-press a small car?”
“Oh Lord,” I groan. “What about him?”
“Turns out he’s got a girlfriend back home who’s cool with tour hookups as long as he reports back.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “That’s… one way to live.”
“Tour life is wild, babe. But that’s not even the crazy part…”
She launches into a rapid-fire recap—Berlin afterparties, drunk crowd-surfing in a hotel lobby, Marco’s near-death by stage dive. I let her voice paint neon pictures over the faded walls of Big Mama’s back room. For a few minutes, I’m just Harlee, best friend of the chaos goblin taking over Europe.
The smell of peach cobbler drifts in from the kitchen, mingling with Kirk Franklin floating down the hallway. Two halves of my life: worship music and tour bus debauchery, existing side by side.
A small part of me aches. What if? What if I’d chosen something that lit me up the way music does for her?
“Lee?” Wynter’s voice pulls me back. “You still with me, or did I monologue into the void again?”
“I’m here,” I say quickly. “Sorry. Zoned out.”
“Don’t do that,” she scolds. “I was just talking to my parents and didn’t realize the call dropped for half the convo. Did you at least hear about the video?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I bluff. “He’s cute. Not really your type. Where’s he from again?”
“Liverpool.” She sighs. “And God, I need to get laid. The way I would have given him my panties—”
“Please do not refer to his ejaculation as coconut milk,” I interrupt.
“I wasn’t,” she giggles, “but it is white on the inside. Ah!”
I gag. “Great. Adding coconut milk to the list of things I can’t look at anymore. Right after strawberry milkshake.”
“Mmm. Good times,” she purrs. “I wonder what ever happened to him. Probably somewhere with sweat dripping off that anaconda of his.”
“On that note,” I say primly, “I’m hanging up so you can be alone with your thoughts.”
“Oh, hush. You’re just as twisted as I am. Remember, I shared a wall with you.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Rude.”
“Rude but right,” she sing-songs.
I flop back against the headboard, the ceiling fan doing absolutely nothing for the Chicago heat. Somewhere in the house, Big Mama’s voice booms, calling the pastor by his first name, and I groan.
“Your Big Mama is killing me,” I complain. “She still won’t get the air fixed in this back room. And if Pastor Mosley Barnes shows up one more time today, I might evaporate on sight.”
Wynter cackles. “Eww, they fuckin’, ain’t they?”
“Wynter. Gross.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “I don’t want to think about your grandmother and the pastor knocking boots. The walls are thin enough. I already hear her snoring.”
“She deserves to get dick just like the rest of us,” Wynter says matter-of-factly. “She marched with Dr. King and raised nine kids. Let her throw that back in peace.”
I choke on a laugh. “I hate you.”
“You love me,” she corrects. Then, gentler: “Only three more weeks. I’ll be back before you know it. In the meantime? Try getting out of that house. Take your mind off school, Herman, the heat—hell, your whole future. Go do something that’s not on your syllabus.”
“And go where?” I ask, even though I already know she’s won.
“Go downtown,” Wynter urges. “Movie, bookstore, art schoolboys, dick—dealer’s choice. You’re young and fine as fuck, Lee. Go live. The internship, Healy, Florida—none of that is getting fixed by you sweating in Big Mama’s back room.”
I exhale slowly, tension unknotting one stubborn inch at a time. She’s right. Me sitting here refreshing my email like a maniac isn’t going to change a single policy at Northbridge.
“You know I hate you, right?”
“I love you too. Bye.”
“Love you,” I say, but she’s already gone.
I stare at the photo on my lock screen—Wynter kissing my cheek before she left, hot pink lipstick stamped against my brown skin. We look so young and stupid and hopeful. Like we believed adulthood would be some neat little equation we could solve.
Wynter’s last words echo in my head. You’re young and fine as fuck. Go live.
My thumb hovers over my phone until muscle memory takes over and opens the train app. The departure list populates, a scrolling list of escape routes from this hot ass room and my spiraling brain.
“Fuck it,” I whisper.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I tap the next departure downtown.