Chapter 8
At the crack of dawn, Mom and I leave for Lizbeth while Dad stays behind to take Gideon and Everly to school.
He almost breaks a rib hugging me before I clamber into the car with all of my stuff and watch him as he waves goodbye, finally succumbing to the tears he’d successfully held at bay.
My throat feels like it might collapse in on itself as I fight against hot, stinging tears of my own.
Out of nowhere, Mom asks matter-of-factly, “Did you and Noah get to say goodbye the way you wanted?” A knowing smirk hints at the corner of her lips.
The heat pricking my eyes drains to my cheeks. “Um, yeah. We did.”
“Good, I’m glad.” She winks and I recoil in my seat, mortified. If I could sink into the cracked asphalt beneath the car, right now, never to resurface, I’d be only too happy. She peers at me sidelong and laughs. “Don’t worry, I won’t ask for the details.”
I release a relieved breath, but the burn in my cheeks still rivals the surface of the sun.
“Did you guys talk about your relationship at all?” she asks.
I sigh, settling back into a comfortable position. “Yeah, a bit. We both want to stay together.”
I think back to the conversation we had last night. He’d been adamant he didn’t want to break up, and I’ll be the first to admit, I was grateful. I didn’t want to either.
Mom refocuses her attention on the road. “That’s good then. You’re both on the same page.”
I nod. “Yeah, I’m just worried it’ll be hard. It’s been so much harder than I thought it’d be with Alexis.”
“The best things in life are usually difficult,” Mom says sagely. “Think about your art. Painting isn’t always easy, is it?”
My nod morphs into a shake. “No way. It’s always difficult.”
“And yet, it brings you joy and happiness regardless, right?” Her eyebrows slide up her forehead as she makes her point.
I consider that for a moment. Does it? The act of painting is a high, for sure, but do I love painting as much as the praise I get on the back end? I’m not sure, and yet I decide to agree anyway. Regardless of how I feel about painting, I know Mom’s right. She usually is.
“Right,” I say after a moment’s hesitation.
“Noah’s a nice young man, and you’re so easy to love, honey. So I wouldn’t worry too much. I don’t think he’s going anywhere.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
We drive in comfortable silence for a few minutes, listening to the rhythmic hum of the car’s engine before she speaks again.
“I’ve been thinking about something important this past week.
Maeve, I think your father and I owe you an apology,” she starts, her voice breaking a bit on the last word.
“We haven’t supported you and your dreams the way you deserve.
We’ve been so focused on Grayson’s accomplishments and caring for the younger two that we’ve let you get lost in the shuffle.
” She pauses and I’m stunned silent, my mind wiped clean of thought.
“I’m so sorry. I’ll be better from now on, I promise.
Just give me a chance to prove it to you, okay? ”
Mom’s dark eyes swim with tears as I stare at her and struggle to restart my brain, and process her words.
“Mom,” I say, my voice quivering, “I love you so much.”
“I love you too, sweetie,” she replies, grasping my hand in one of hers. “And I’m damn proud of you. You’re setting such an amazing example for your brother and sister.”
My face breaks into a watery smile, but I don’t say anything else. No words feel big enough. This is unbelievable. Just last Saturday—six fucking days ago—I was wishing for everything I have right now, in this moment.
Love. Attention. Acknowledgment. Praise. Support.
I have all of it now, and truly, life couldn’t be sweeter.
I don’t know if I deserve it, this sudden change in fate, but I’m going to embrace it like I do.
We arrive at Lizbeth at eight and have two hours to unload my stuff before my orientation begins at ten.
From the looks of it, the dorm’s architecture is far more modern than that of the academic buildings I’ve seen thus far on campus.
The sharp-angled exterior is made of slate gray concrete and towering floor-to-ceiling windows.
The harsh lines and minimalist design are far more suited to the big city than a quaint little town like this.
We grab a luggage cart from the art-filled lobby, skillfully avoiding several student-made sculptures on display pillars as we push it out to the parking lot before piling it high with my stuff.
Back in the lobby, we take the paned glass elevator to the third floor and walk down the plush carpeted hall to room 313.
Since I haven’t been issued a key yet, I knock on the door.
Muffled shuffling reaches my ears seconds before the door creaks open.
Standing before me is a strikingly beautiful woman around my age.
She’s dressed in what might be the most stylish outfit I’ve ever seen: a high-waisted plaid skirt over fishnet stockings and pointed booties, with a cropped sweater vest under a colorfully embroidered black leather jacket.
The ensemble is a walking contradiction: chic, yet rebelliously edgy at the same time.
Her black hair falls in curly ringlets to the tops of her shoulders and the color of her eyes nearly matches the dark brown of her skin.
She scoffs. “You must be my new roommate, then.”
“Uh, yeah. Hi, I’m Maeve.” I hold out my hand for her to shake. “It’s nice to meet you.”
She scrutinizes my hand for so long that, after a few awkward moments, I force myself to drop it.
“Mhm, well, I gotta get to class. Your key is on your desk, but first, you should know that I have three rules when it comes to roommates.” She pauses to make sure I’m paying attention, but like, what the hell is wrong with her?
Of course I am. “One. Don’t touch my stuff.
Two. Don’t bring other people into our room without my permission.
Three. Don’t assume us rooming together makes us insta-besties, okay? ”
Mom and I stare at her slack-jawed; two deer caught in the headlights.
My lips open and close a few times before I’m finally able to produce words. “Yeah, okay.”
“’K, bye,” she says as she pushes past me and Mom.
“Well, isn’t she sweet as pie?” Mom asks with a conspiratorial giggle.
“It’ll be fine,” I assure her, brushing off the awkward tension.
With a glance, the dorm room comes into view, spacious and well-furnished; the gigantic windows I noticed from the parking lot let in copious amounts of natural light.
Now that I have a second to look around, I understand why my new roommate was less than pleased to suddenly have to share her space.
Her stuff is everywhere. A mixture of pictures, posters, and art prints take up every spare inch of wall space, both closets are filled to the brim with her clothes, and the only unoccupied space in the bathroom is a single measly drawer.
I put away stuff where I can and leave the rest in boxes.
We’ll just have to figure it out later. I check the time on my phone and realize I have twenty minutes to make it to the Dalí Building for orientation.
Mom and I go back down to the parking lot and get in her car.
Our destination is close, so it only takes us five minutes to drive there.
Before I get out, Mom squeezes the breath from my lungs.
“Good luck,” she murmurs in my ear, lingering in the hug a while longer.
“Thanks.” I swallow hard against the emotions that threaten to boil over. “I love you, Mom.”
“I love you too, sweetie.”
With less fanfare than earlier this morning, I watch her drive away, an uneasy feeling blooming in the pit of my stomach, and suddenly, I feel too alone.
For a heartbeat, I worry whether transferring to Lizbeth was a mistake, but before I can dwell on the budding uncertainty, an unfamiliar voice calls my name, “Maeve Johnson! Hey! Is that you?”
I turn toward the sound and reply awkwardly as I watch someone approach, “Um—hi. That’s me.” A young man sporting a wide grin comes to an abrupt stop before me.
“Awesome. Hi, I’m Franco. He/him pronouns. I’ll be your orientation tour guide.”
Franco is not much taller than me, even with his wavy brown hair swept up into a bun at the crown of his head.
When he turns his brown-eyed gaze toward the building for a moment, I notice the hair at the nape of his neck is buzzed short in an undercut, and as he holds out his hand for me to shake, I take in the charcoal stains on his tan fingers.
He must have been sketching just before this.
When I shake his hand, his smile miraculously brightens, teeth white and perfectly straight.
“Hey, nice to meet you. I’m Maeve. She/her pronouns.”
I let him go quickly, and his arm falls back to his side. “Are you ready to get started? I’ve got to have you back here in an hour for the boring part of your orientation.”
I chuckle, pleasantly surprised by his candor. “Yeah, I’m ready.”
“Great. So, obviously, this is the Dalí Building,” explains Franco with a flourish of his open hand to our left, “the main building for the painting courses. From what I’ve been told, you’re a painter, so you’ll likely be spending most of your class time in here.”
The red brick building is colossal and gothic with its pointed arch doorways, slender, dome-topped windows, and thick, tangled vines of dark green ivy splaying up toward the roof.
The sight gives me a sense of centuries past, even though I know the university isn’t that old.
The goth vibe must be an aesthetic choice then, I note curiously. Interesting.
Franco asks, disrupting my thoughts, “You were accepted into this year’s sophomore class, right?”
“Yeah. I’m a late bloomer, I guess,” I admit, trying my best to ignore the warmth rising to my cheeks.
“Nice,” Franco says, completely unbothered by my admission, his strides loose and casual as we begin to walk. “I’m a sophomore too, but I doubt we’ll have many classes together. Painting’s not really my vibe. I’m a sketch artist.”
“I gathered that,” I say with a chuckle.
He questions me with raised eyebrows.
“Your hands are covered in charcoal dust,” I explain.
“Well, would you look at that? They are,” he remarks as he assesses his stained hands. “Sorry about that.” He wipes them absentmindedly on his jeans, but to no avail.
“How many students are in the sophomore class, then?” A light, lukewarm breeze tosses my hair about my shoulders, the faint aroma of mums and freshly mown grass enveloping me. I’m grateful to be walking around campus on such a mild, sunny day.
Along the paved path, we pass a large, bubbling outdoor fountain, at the epicenter of which resides a life-size sculpture of the nine muses engaged in song and dance. Their marble faces are eerily lifelike, displaying varying expressions of contentment and serenity.
Franco studies the fountain too as we circle it. “Just under fifty. It’s approximately the same for the other classes as well. Since Lizbeth is so selective, it’s a pretty small university.”
I rattle my head, trying to make sense of a place like this—so beautiful, and so terribly elite. “It’s crazy to think freshmen can even get in here. I knew so much less about art before I started community college.”
“Well, I’ll tell you a secret,” Franco confides, leaning in closer.
A whiff of his bright, peppery cologne infuses the air between us.
“Most of the freshmen that get accepted straight out of high school are legacies. Non-legacy students usually don’t get accepted until their skills are more developed, so don’t feel like the oddball out ‘cause you’re definitely not. ”
“Really?” I ask, my lips bent skyward.
Franco dips his chin with a flourish. “Really, really. And I would know, I’m a third-generation legacy.”
I pause mid-step. “Your parents and your grandparents went here?”
Franco turns to me, pushing his hands into his pockets. “Yup. Good ol’ Grandad Giovanni Bianchi was the first. He was a damn good sculptor in his prime. In fact, he and one of his classmates sculpted those muses we just passed.”
“That’s amazing,” I exclaim, looking back to marvel at the statues again. “I’m the only artist in my entire family.”
“I bet you’re not used to being around artsy types then.”
“Nope. Definitely not,” I admit.
“You’re in for a wild ride then,” Franco says as he jerks his head toward the path before us.
I don’t get to ask him what he means by that as Franco goes off on a tangent about the school’s history, architecture, campus layout, and student resources.
He must give these tours all the time, because his spiel is perfectly memorized.
He talks for so long and at such a fast pace that I’m impressed he remembers to breathe in between sentences.
Before I know it, the hour’s slipped by, and we’re nearly back where we started.
“The campus isn’t very big, but it’s gorgeous,” I say as we finish our lap around the quaint, well-maintained lawn that serves as a quad at the center of campus. “I can’t wait for all the leaves to change color.”
“You’ve got to remember, we’re all artists here, Maeve. We require beauty above all things,” says Franco as he winks a thickly lashed eye at me.
“Right,” I reply, refusing to acknowledge the flirtatious tone behind the wink.
In the next breath, we come to a stop before the Dalí Building once more.
“If you walk right through those doors, you’ll find the receptionist, Sadie,” Franco explains while pointing at a set of large wooden doors. “She should have all of your orientation materials and will let you know where to go from there.”
“Cool.” I return my gaze to Franco. “Thanks for giving me the tour.”
Sure, he’s chatty and a shameless flirt, but after the last hour, I realize I don’t mind. Something in my gut tells me he’s a genuinely kind person, and that’s damn near priceless in this economy.
“No prob. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around.” He waves a still-stained hand in the air as he walks away.
I turn around and study the building again. A deep, measured breath helps to dampen my nerves, but my hands still bunch into clammy fists as I walk up the steps.
No going back now.