Chapter Fourteen #2
Patty is somewhere nearby, arguing with a printer.
A student worker is taking down tape.
But the space around us feels quiet.
I carry an empty archive box to the media office.
Maren follows with the folder.
When she sets it down, the folded page I wrote slides halfway out.
Things I did not understand then
I freeze.
She sees.
“I made a copy,” she says.
“What?”
“Of the list.”
My chest tightens.
“Oh.”
“I hope that is okay.”
“Yes.”
Immediate.
Too immediate.
Still true.
She runs her fingers over the edge of the folder.
“I did not copy it for the wall.”
“Okay.”
“I copied it for me.”
That does something to my breathing.
Not good.
Not bad.
Too much.
“Okay,” I say.
She looks up.
“I may need to read it again when I am angry.”
“That seems fair.”
“Or when I forget you are trying.”
“That also seems fair.”
“Or when I want to remember that understanding came after damage, not instead of it.”
I swallow.
“Yes.”
Her face softens.
“And maybe when I want to believe trying can matter.”
The room changes.
Small-medium.
No.
Medium.
Definitely medium.
I set the box down.
“Maren.”
She steps closer.
Not all the way.
Enough.
“I am not going to kiss you in the media office,” she says.
My mouth curves despite everything.
“Clear boundary.”
“Good.”
“Painful but good.”
“Carter.”
“I support it.”
Her eyes drop to my mouth.
Rude.
Intentional?
Maybe.
“You said not here yesterday,” I remind her.
“I did.”
“Any updated approved locations?”
Her mouth twitches.
“Are you asking for a map?”
“I would accept a general region.”
She laughs softly.
Then looks toward the open door.
The hallway beyond.
The new hallway.
“Not tonight,” she says.
The words land.
Not as rejection.
As boundary.
I nod.
“Okay.”
Her eyes search mine.
“You are disappointed.”
“Yes.”
Her face flickers.
“But not upset,” I add. “Different.”
She exhales.
“Good.”
“I am learning categories.”
“You are.”
“I want credit.”
“No.”
“Harsh.”
“Accurate.”
I smile.
Then let it fade.
“I am glad you said what you wanted.”
She looks at me.
“Not tonight?”
“Yes.”
“It was easier than pretending.”
That might be the whole book.
No.
Do not narrate your life like a dramatic idiot.
I nod.
“Good.”
She gives me a look.
“Now everyone really has ruined that word.”
“See?”
Her smile stays this time.
A little longer.
I go home before I can push for one more second.
That is also new.
Leaving while the room still feels good.
Not because I am running.
Because ending well is a skill.
At home, my mother calls.
I answer from the kitchen while Nolan eats cereal directly from the box and Green studies at the table.
“Hi, Mom.”
Nolan immediately sits up straighter.
“Tell Ms. Vance hi.”
“No.”
My mother hears him.
“Is that Nolan?”
“No.”
“Hi, Nolan.”
Nolan lights up.
“Hi, Ms. Vance.”
I stare.
“Betrayal.”
Green waves awkwardly at the phone like she can see him.
“Is the freshman there too?” Mom asks.
“Everyone is here. Apparently we live in a sitcom.”
“Good. Are they feeding you?”
“I am feeding them.”
Nolan nods.
“He cooked eggs.”
Mom says, “Good boy.”
Nolan whispers, “She loves me.”
“She loves vegetables. Do not get comfortable.”
Mom laughs.
Then says, “Carter, can you talk privately?”
My stomach drops.
“Knee?”
“Not knee.”
I step into the back hallway.
“What?”
“I watched the feature preview link Coach Adler sent to families.”
I close my eyes.
Of course he did.
“Already?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
Silence.
Soft.
Dangerous.
“I cried,” she says.
My throat tightens.
“Sorry.”
“Do not apologize.”
“Okay.”
“I need you to hear me.”
I lean against the wall.
“Okay.”
“You were never useful to me because you made things easier.”
I stop breathing.
“You were my son,” she says. “That was enough before you ever made a room laugh.”
The hallway blurs.
I press my hand over my eyes.
Ridiculous.
I am a college hockey player.
I have been hit by defensemen built like vending machines.
This is worse.
“Mom.”
“I know life made you feel like being wanted was safer than being loved,” she says. “I am sorry for the ways I could not protect you from that.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No, you worked—”
“I know what I did,” she says gently. “And I know what it cost you.”
I slide down the wall until I am sitting on the floor.
Good.
Normal.
Fine.
“I was okay,” I say.
“You were a child.”
That ends the argument.
Completely.
I put my head back against the wall.
“She is very good at the feature,” I say, because I need another subject or I will become water.
“Maren?”
“Yes.”
“I can tell.”
“She also put a quote on my panel.”
“What quote?”
“The loudest guy in the room is still allowed to be known.”
My mother is quiet.
Then, “I like her.”
“You have not met her.”
“I like her work.”
“Safer.”
“Do you?”
“Like her work?”
“Carter.”
I close my eyes.
“Yes.”
“To which question?”
“All of them.”
There.
Small.
No.
Huge.
True.
My mother breathes out.
“Be careful with her.”
“I am trying.”
“Be careful with yourself too.”
That one surprises me.
I do not answer.
She lets me not.
When I return to the kitchen, Nolan sees my face and says nothing.
Miracle.
Green pretends very hard to read.
I sit back down.
Nolan pushes the cereal box toward me.
An offering.
Terrible.
Touching.
I take a handful.
“Thank you.”
He nods.
“Good?”
I chew.
Stale.
Sugary.
Kind.
“Good,” I say.
This time, nobody ruins the word.
Later that night, I open my notebook.
Not the apology list.
A new page.
Things I want to stop earning
I write the first line.
Love.
Then stare at it until the word stops looking like a word.
I do not know what to do with it yet.
That is okay.
Maybe.
Senior Night is coming.
My mother is coming.
Maren is staying careful.
I am trying not to make wanting into pressure.
And somewhere in the media office, there is a copy of the ugliest honest list I have ever written because Maren Ellis may need proof that trying can matter.
I hope it does.
I really hope it does.