“Thank you. I’ll check it out before I leave.”
“Oh, and don’t forget to stop by the front desk and grab a volunteer t-shirt,” she says. “We require that you wear those when you’re here, volunteering. But when you’re meeting with your mentee, feel free to dress as you normally would.”
Megan gets called away and I head to the office to get a shirt and to sign up for a few time slots for the month. When I’m finished, I sign out of the visitor’s log and head to my car.
Fortunately, my parents were thrilled to hear about my volunteering plans for the summer, though I suspect they just wanted one more thing to brag about to their friends at the Briardale Club.
Regardless, this will give me something to do this summer and ample opportunity to get out of the house with minimal questions asked.
I keep thinking about that talk I had with my brother two Fridays ago at his engagement dinner, and I know he isn’t wrong. I need to follow my heart, chase my own dreams, and figure out a way to take control of my life for once.
I also need to figure out a way to tell my parents I'm not going to medical school this fall …
Driving home, I cut through the middle of Olwine, passing the street where Madd Inkk is tucked into one of the little buildings. My mind drifts to Madden, the way it’s been doing ever since I met him earlier this month.
I go back in a couple of weeks for my follow-up—which I wasn’t going to schedule originally because the tattoo was healing perfectly and it seemed silly, but I wanted an excuse to see him one more time for some insane reason.
I don’t expect anything to come of it.
It’ll likely be a quick, five minutes, in and out kind of thing.
But just being in his presence makes me feel some kind of way that I’ve never felt in my entire life.
Alive?
Inspired?
Infuriated?
It’s the strangest little mix of sensations, one that I would bottle if I could. But I suppose I’ll have to settle for what small doses I can get.
I pull into the gates of the Iron Castle a half hour later and park in my designated spot beside my mother’s Range Rover in the drive behind the house. Killing some time before I have to go inside, I grab my phone and peruse my various apps aimlessly.
A memory pops up from a year ago on one of my social media accounts—a photo of Graeme and I in Mozambique where I tagged along and assisted him at one of the HIV clinics Doctors Without Borders had set up. As a non-MD, my job was to hand out prophylactics and provide community outreach services. I met so many people over there, locals and volunteers from around the world. It was a harrowing, heartbreaking experience at times but I left there knowing I’d helped save lives, and that was all that mattered.
Every summer for the past several years, I’ve looked forward to going overseas, to making a difference.
It’s the strangest thing this summer … having nothing big to look forward to. No impending trip or upcoming life-altering event.
Then again … I’m looking forward to seeing Madden again in a couple weeks.
I suppose that counts for something.
10
Madden
“We’re here.” I kill my engine outside the Boys and Girls Club. Two weeks ago, I’d filled out an application for Devanie to be a part of their mentor program, and earlier this week I got a call that she’d been matched.
“I can’t believe you’re making me do this.” Dev’s nose is buried in her shiny new iPhone. I’m already beginning to regret getting her the stupid thing, but I will admit that it’s come in handy a few recent times. Plus, she doesn’t know it, but I put a location tracking app on her phone. I can see where she is twenty-four seven. “I really don’t want to go in.”
“I know.” I yank the keys from the ignition and climb out. She doesn’t budge. I motion for her to hurry the hell up, and she rolls her eyes before yanking on the handle and stepping out. She slams the door next, which I fully expected, and then she meets me by the hood.
“Do you even have any idea how embarrassing this is for me?” she asks, crocodile tears forming in her blue eyes.
“Well aware,” I say as we walk to the front door. “But someday, Dev? You’re going to thank me.”
“Doubtful.”
We stop in front of the entrance and she digs into her bag, producing a baseball cap and situating it on top of her head, like that’s going to make her any less recognizable.
“I’ll pick you up in two hours,” I say as she heads in.
She doesn’t so much as look back once, and she lets the door fall shut with a hard slam behind her.
There’s a tightness in my chest, the kind of feeling I associate with parents dropping their firstborn children off at kindergarten, but I force it away and head back to my GTO.
I don’t have time for feelings.
I’ve got shit to do.
11
Brighton
I’m seated in the social hall of the Boys and Girls Club when Megan appears, her arm around a girl in a baseball cap. Tufts of blonde curls stick out from beneath it and she stares at me with the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.
“Brighton, this is Devanie,” Megan says, ushering her closer. “She’s twelve. Almost thirteen. And she’ll be your mentee for the rest of the summer.”
I stand, offering a warm smile that doesn’t seem to do much.
“Devanie, this is Brighton,” Megan says, rubbing her shoulder. “Based on your applications, we think the two of you are going to be a great match. The two of you are free to stick around here, hang out, get to know each other … or you’re free to pal around town for a bit. Just please keep the visit no longer than two hours.”
“Not a problem,” I tell Megan. She leaves and I direct my attention to Devanie. IF she’s twelve going on thirteen, she’s definitely tall for her age. I’d have put her closer to fourteen. And she’s gorgeous. Wild curls. Eyes like the ocean. “It’s so nice to meet you, Devanie.”
She doesn’t respond, just stands there with her hands clasped at her hips and a bag slipping off her narrow shoulder.
“You want to sit?” I motion toward the chairs beside us.
She nods, taking a seat. I follow suit.
“So where are you from?” I ask.
She hesitates before clearing her throat. “Olwine.”
There’s a flutter in my chest. My mind goes to Madden. I’d been doing better recently, not thinking about him so much. Not projecting, I should say. But of course, my mind uses any excuse it can to go right back to inserting him into the littlest moments of my life.
“I’m from Park Terrace,” I volunteer to keep the conversation flowing. “But I went to school at Rothschild.”
None of the names register. I’m sure she’s young enough that she’s not so much as thinking about where she wants to go to college someday, and there are so many suburbs in this area, I doubt she’s even heard of Park Terrace.
“So, you’re going into eighth grade this fall?” I ask.
She nods, glancing around the room. I’m sure she’s terrified of running into someone she knows. I don't take it personally.
“What do you do for fun?” I ask.
Devanie shrugs. “Hang out with friends. Watch TV. Swim.”
“I have a pool at my house,” I say. “Maybe you and your friends can come over sometime and use it?”
Her eyes meet mine, widening. “Seriously?”
Now we’re getting somewhere.
“Yes, seriously.” I chuckle. The thing rarely gets used anyway, save for my parents’ annual Memorial Day and Fourth of July parties. I doubt anyone would mind.
“You want to go get ice cream or something?” I ask. “We can talk over two scoops of mint chocolate chip? Or we could get our nails done? Both if there’s time.”
“Really?” Her natural brows rise.
I’m not sure why she seems so surprised that I’m offering to do fun things with her. I thought that was
kind of the whole point of this arrangement. We do fun things, we hang out, and I mentor her along the way.
“Yeah. Let’s go!”
Devanie licks the green ice cream from the back of her spoon before admiring her fresh flamingo-pink manicure. She’s just finished giving me the condensed version of her life story. Her dad’s in prison—she didn’t get into specifics, just that he’s been there since she was a baby and he’s serving a life sentence. Her mom works a ton and is never home. When she is home, she’s sleeping. And her twenty-eight-year-old brother is the one who signed her up for this program because he thinks she has nothing better to do with her summer.
“No offense,” Devanie says. “Because I think you’re really cool.”
“None taken.” I check the time. It’s been almost two hours, and I need to get her back soon. “You want to do this again soon?”
“For sure.” She dabs her mouth with a napkin before crumpling it and tossing it in her empty ice cream cup.
“I was thinking twice a week?” I propose.
She shrugs. “Okay.”
We clean up our table, toss our garbage, and head to my car when we’re done. I’m halfway back to the Boys and Girls Club when I get a text from my mother, asking me if I’ll be home soon and reminding me that Laurel’s dress fitting is in an hour.
Shoot. Almost forgot.
Laurel’s been engaged to my brother barely two weeks now, but wedding planning is moving full speed ahead. It’s like she had everything already in the works, just needed that ring to make it official.
“We should exchange numbers,” Devanie says when we pull up outside the club a few minutes later.
I hand her my phone and she hands me hers.
“Call me anytime you need,” I tell her as she gets out. “Day or night. And I’ll see you Thursday? Same time?”
She turns, leaving me with a smile and a wave as she heads back inside to wait for her ride, and I step on it, rushing back home to get ready for Laurel’s dress fitting.
The instant my mother and I step into Montbleu Bridal in Schaumburg, we’re greeted by a sales associate in a Chanel pantsuit and two glasses of champagne.
“You must be with the Townsend party,” she says, referring to Laurel’s current last name. A year from now she’ll be Laurel Karrington, which I admit has a nice ring to it. “Come this way. We’ve got you set up in our Blushing Bride Suite.”
The woman whisks us to a room in the back with silk curtain-covered walls, pale pink velvet furniture, crystal chandeliers, and an abundance of mirrors so the bride-to-be can see herself from any and all angles.
“You made it!” Laurel rushes to my mother first, giving her a hug. And then it's my turn. “Thank you so much for coming.”
Three other women are already seated with champagne flutes in hand—they must be her friends.
“Temple and Brighton, I’d like you to meet Autumn, Yasmine, and Hadley,” she says, “my bridesmaids.”
The redhead clears her throat.
Laurel chuckles. “Sorry. Yas and Had are my bridesmaids. Autumn’s my maid of honor.”
“So lovely to meet you ladies,” my mother says before taking a seat on a pink settee and crossing her legs at the ankle.
Laurel’s mother is finishing up a phone call from a seat across the room, and when she tucks her phone away, she makes her way over.
“So good to see you again, Temple,” she says. Her name escapes me. Though there’s a chance I was never given it in the first place. I was a little out of it the night of the engagement dinner. “Brighton, would you mind if I sat between you two? I’d like to discuss some wedding details with your mother.”
“Not at all.” I scoot to the end of the velvet sofa. Laurel disappears behind the fitting room curtain with her assigned associate, who’s carrying an armful of enormous gowns.
“So Laurel and I were discussing venues,” Laurel’s mom says to mine. “We’re thinking somewhere in downtown Chicago since the two of them work in that area. She’s wanting someplace with a view but not the Pier. There’s one place—the Skyline Tower—that has a ballroom, dining hall, and sweeping views of the city at night. I think it’d be perfect, but they’d have to get married on a Friday night the week before this Christmas, which of course is less than ideal given the fact that it gives us only six months to plan, but the place is booked every single Saturday for the next sixteen months, so ...”
“A Friday night wedding in December could be fun,” my mother says. “Sometimes there’s nothing wrong with bucking tradition.”
The two of them ramble on about flowers—Laurel is leaning toward calla lilies—and groom’s cake—Eben wants German chocolate, and her three bridesmaids scroll through Pinterest boards on their phones, agreeing to disagree on several of the bridesmaid dress options.
I lift my champagne flute and watch the dressing room curtain move. Any minute now she’s going to step out and we’re going to have to give our opinion.
“I don’t know about you, Temple, but I have a feeling this is going to be the wedding of the century,” Laurel’s mom says, her hand over her heart. “And have you ever seen two people more in love than Laurel and Eben?”
From what I know, Laurel’s an only child. I imagine, like most loving parents, all they want is for her to be with someone who loves her and wants to take care of her as much as they do.
And Eben is that someone.
There truly is someone out there for everyone. I believe that with all of my heart.
I just can’t help but wonder who my someone is.
12
Madden
“You’re late.” Devanie climbs into my car and slams the door.
“I texted you. Didn’t you get it?” I ask.
“Yeah. But still.”
I’m twenty minutes late, which I’m sure to Dev felt like an eternity since she didn’t want to be there in the first place, but I can’t help it if my last appointment ran long. I wasn’t going to leave the tattoo unfinished when we were so close to being done.
“So how’d it go?” I ask. “With the mentor thing?”
“She’s okay,” Dev says, buckling up.
“Just okay?”
She pulls out her phone, firing off a text to someone, and I notice the garish pink paint on her nails.
“She take you to get your nails done?” I ask.
“Uh huh.” Her fingertips tap against the glass in warp speed. You’d never know she’s only a couple of weeks into having a cell phone.
“Tell me about her,” I say as we pull away.
“She’s nice,” she says, not looking up once. “Pretty.”
As soon as we get to a stoplight, I reach over and yank the damn thing from her hands mid-text.
“Hey!” She tries to grab it back, but I’m too fast.
The light turns green.
“If you’re going to be one of those assholes, then I’m going to start setting limits,” I say. “A hundred text messages a month.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Trust me, Dev. I know exactly what I can and can’t do. The guy at the cell store gave me a whole list of shit I can use to keep tabs on you.”
I pass a car ahead, and she seizes the opportunity to steal her phone back. “Ha.”
“I’m serious,” I say. “Don’t be that asshole who can’t look away from their phone when someone’s talking to them. That shit’s not cool.”
Placing her phone screen side down in her lap, she turns and gives me her full attention. “Better?”
“Better,” I say. “So tell me about your day, about your mentor.”
“I told you. She’s nice. Really pretty. Took me to get my nails done, then we got ice cream and she took me back.” Dev shrugs. “Not much else to tell.”
“When do you get to see her again?”
“We’re going to meet twice a week, noon to two,” she says. “And she gave me her number.”
“Does she have a name?” I’m sure it w
as on the paperwork, but I didn’t see it before Mom signed off on everything and sent it back. Honestly, I was surprised I didn’t have to nag her fifty times to get it done, but who knows. She probably looked at it as though it was free childcare. There’s nothing Mom won’t do for a handout.
“Yep,” she says. “It’s None of Your Business Jones.”
“Smartass.” I pull into the driveway of Mom’s house and Dev climbs out of the passenger side. “Got to head back to the shop. I’ll check on you later.”
My sister rolls her eyes. “Or you know. You could get a life of your own.”
I know she’s right, but I don’t dignify her comment with a response.
Dev shuts the door before leaning in the open window, elbows resting on the open frame. “Can I ask you a serious question?”
“Yeah. Okay. What?”
“Are you asexual?”
I choke on my spit.
That was the last question I’d expect anyone to ask me, especially my kid sister. “Why would you ask me that?”
“Just answer it,” she says, biting her lip.
“Devanie.”
“Do you like boys, girls, or nothing?” she asks. “I don’t care. Not going to judge you. Love is love. I’m just wondering.”
“First of all, I’m not discussing my sexuality with you, Devanie,” I say. “Second of all, no. I’m not asexual. I’m very much into women. Not girls. Women.”
“Then why don’t you ever bring anyone around?” she asks. “I mean, you haven’t since Veronica.”
“Dev, I ...” my voice trails. She hasn’t brought up Veronica since shit hit the fan two years ago, and now she says it so casually. But she’s just a kid. I won’t hold it against her.
“You should get back out there then,” she says. “Start dating or something.”
“What do you know about dating?” I wrinkle my nose at her. “Dating’s for people who give a shit about dating. And I don’t give a shit about dating, therefore I don’t date.”
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