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by May, McKinley

  "Do you know what Alexandra got on her SAT and ACT?"

  "Uh..." I shrug at the random question. "I'm guessing near perfect?"

  "Not near perfect. Perfect." I hear the scratch of cardboard as she sets the top aside. "And the MCAT? Her score was in the 99th percentile."

  "That's really impressive."

  The admiration in my voice is evident, and her mom nods in agreement.

  "It is. She's done many impressive things in her life."

  Her vision lowers to the carton in her arms and my eyes follow suit. I glance inside, greeted by a boatload of laminated certificates, science-fair ribbons, and old exams with a bright red 100! on them. I look at the outside of the box, the words Alexandra's Accomplishments scribbled in black Sharpie across the side.

  Over the next twenty minutes, she shows off her daughter's accolades one-by-one. For the first time tonight, I see a maternal side to her. It's faint—let's get that straight. But there's an undeniable hint of pride in her voice as she talks about Lexie.

  After we've shuffled through the majority of the content, she turns to face me, head cocked with curiosity.

  "How did you do it?"

  My brows furrow. "Do what?"

  "Convince Alexandra to renounce medical school."

  Wtf?

  Is she being serious?

  Before I can respond, she slices me with an accusatory glare and continues. "Perhaps a better question is why? Are you intimidated by her intelligence? Did you want to make certain she wouldn't outshine you career-wise?"

  Okay—this woman is batshit.

  "Jesus, no. I freaking love how smart your daughter is. It's one of my favorite things about her," I say adamantly. "And I didn't 'convince' her to pass up on school."

  She scoffs. "Well, you must've done something to change her mind. Before you entered the picture, she never once showed hesitation when it came to her future plans. Not one shred of reluctance."

  I seriously doubt that.

  I'm sure Dr. De Luca just used her selective-hearing to drown out any uncertainties Lexie brought up.

  "The only thing I did was let her know she had a choice with her career path," I explain. "Believe me, I couldn't force her to do anything if I tried. Lexie's strong-willed as hell. She figured out what she really wanted and made her decision. That's all there is to it."

  "Oh, but that's not all there is to it." Her head shakes back and forth. "We will be cutting Alexandra off this coming year. Money-wise, she will be completely on her own if she does not come to her senses."

  Her threat isn't as potent as she thinks.

  "I'm pretty sure Lex will have no issues finding a job to cover some of her expenses. And she can take out a loan for art school. Things might get tight sometimes, but financial independence isn't going to change her mind."

  Frustrated, her eyes narrow into dark slits as she scours her brain for more.

  It's like she's fishing for something that'll make me bite and agree with her.

  "I am harshest with Alexandra because of how intelligent she is. She is the brightest of all my children, but she is also the most troublesome. Rebellion comes naturally to her. The sole intention of most of her actions is to revolt against my wishes." Dr. De Luca clasps her hands together. "Can you relate?"

  I frown. "What do you mean?"

  "Have you ever made a rash decision about something major? Decided to go against the grain and later realized you were wrong?" She gives me a knowing stare. "With soccer, perhaps?"

  Fuck.

  Somebody did her research on me.

  A thorough job, too, 'cause it's like she's been in my brain the past week, like she knows what I've been mulling over.

  And now she's hit the nail on the head.

  I don't say anything, but my silence is enough of an answer for her.

  "That's what I expected," she states pompously. "And do you not think Alexandra may be making the same mistake you did?"

  She covers the shoebox and turns to face me square on.

  "I hope you will consider my words very carefully, Mr. Paine. You and my daughter are young and inexperienced, completely naive to the way the world works. It is best to listen to those who are wiser than you when it comes to things of this nature." Her ice cold hand gives mine a quick pat. "Opportunities may seem endless now, when you have no real responsibilities or burdens to bear, but you will soon find that is not the case. If you do not take advantage when the time is right, they may never be a possibility again. I'd argue that many are once in a lifetime. Don't waste them."

  Hook, line, and sinker.

  35

  I know something's up the second my mother and Weston step out of the parlor thirty minutes later. Her smug expression, his uncomfortable demeanor...I can feel the change in the air.

  I shouldn't have let her steal him away.

  Not with the way things were going.

  I mean, she was on a roll tonight: Insulting, passive-aggressive, and patronizing as heck. It was impressive how awful she was. Impressive in a super fucked-up sort of way.

  She even broke down mousy Evan in record time. During Christmas, he made it all the way to the Bûche de Noël before bawling like a baby at my mom's critique of his X-mas gifts. To be fair, a fly swatter and rock-solid fruitcake are shitty presents. And I have no idea what he was thinking with his outfit choice tonight. If Abigail's serious about this dude, she needs to help the poor sucker out. Maybe teach him a few tips and tricks so he's not the butt of Alice's harassment every time he comes over.

  Getting Evan to crumble was inevitable, but never in a million years did I think my mom would sink her poisonous claws into my boyfriend. He's a tough guy...headstrong and confident. Not someone who's easily swayed or succumbs to pressure.

  But obviously something's going on.

  He's uncharacteristically quiet through dessert, barely putting a dent in his Americano as he picks at his slice of pie. Most concerning is the familiar look on his face—that same far-off, distracted stare he's been sporting as of late.

  After a round of awkward goodbyes and contrived 'hope to see you again soon's, I announce I'm walking Weston to his car. I've been dying for a moment alone with him for the last hour, so the instant the front doors shut, I dive straight in.

  "What did she say to you?" I ask abruptly.

  "Your mom?"

  He doesn't even look back as he responds.

  "Who else would I be referring to?" I break into a jog to keep up with his lengthy stride. "What did she say?"

  "Nothing."

  "Bullshit, Weston." Reaching forward, I grab his shoulder and spin him around until we're face-to-face. "What's going on? Talk to me."

  Finally, he relents. "We had a conversation that made me...reflect on some stuff, I guess." Pinching the bridge of his nose, he stares at the pavement beneath us. "Do you think you're not being practical about things?"

  "Huh? What 'things'?"

  "Med school shit. Turning it down. You ever considered your mom might be right?"

  A burst of anger sweeps over me. "Are you kidding, Weston? Half an hour with her and she's got you on her side?"

  He can't even look me in the eye as he continues. "I'm not on her side, Lexie, I just—I don't know." He shoves his hands in his pockets and frowns. "I don't want you to realize later on that you made a mistake. That you didn't think it through."

  "You know I've thought it through." My words are sharp, annoyed. "Where is this even coming from? Like, who are you? The Weston I know wouldn't fall for her crap that easily."

  The muscles in his neck work as he finally looks up at me. "Me and you...we're similar. Stubborn, think we've got everything all figured out and don't need input from anybody else. But maybe we're wrong. Maybe we're making irrational choices for shitty reasons. Maybe people around us have a point and we should listen to them."

  We?

  "This isn't really about me, is it?" The realization comes like a flash of lightning. "It's about you."
/>   Bingo.

  He plows a hand roughly through his hair, sticking it in a million different directions. A deep exhale precedes his next statement.

  "I'm going to London."

  I knew it was coming, but the confession still stings like a harsh slap to the cheek.

  It also doesn't make a lick of sense.

  "Why are you going? Why?" The whiny inflection of my voice is beyond irritating, but I'm too upset to care. "It's not what you want. I know it's not."

  "I don't know what the hell I want, Lexie. Shit." He curses, kicking at the ground in frustration. "All I know is it would be fucking stupid of me not to go over there and give it a chance. It's what I'm supposed to do."

  "What you're supposed to do?"

  I scoff before biting down on my tongue, trying to hold back my personal thoughts on the matter. But even the coppery taste of blood can't stop me from spilling my guts.

  "You know who inspired me to take that final step and really follow my passion, my dream? You, Weston. You. Because in the midst of all the pressure and expectations, you were paving your own way despite the backlash you'd face." I tilt my head and squint at him. "Unless that whole story at the park was utter bullshit?"

  He shakes his head. "It wasn't."

  "So you talk the talk, but when it really comes down to the wire, you don't walk the walk, do you? You're a hypocrite," I spit out.

  His brows lower, jaw ticking as his exasperation starts to surface. "Can I not change my mind? Damn."

  The deafening hum of a plane engine pauses our argument, both of our heads lulling back as we watch the machine soar steadily through the night sky.

  I immediately picture Weston in the window seat, gazing down at the Earth below. He sees me, nothing more than a tiny little ant from his perspective, growing smaller and smaller as the plane ventures higher. Pretty soon, he isn't able to make me out at all. I'm not even a speck in his eyes.

  Suddenly, my anger melts into sadness. The realization that he's going away takes over my entire being.

  And that's when a revealing thought drifts through my mind.

  My resentment towards him isn't actually about his hypocrisy or giving in to the pressure...I mean, for all I know, he could've changed his mind. Not one ounce of me believes he did, but who am I to tell him how he feels?

  My lashing out is directly related to something else, a revelation that hits me as the airplane disappears from view.

  If he goes over there, I'll lose him.

  "When are you leaving?" I ask, my voice quieter than before.

  "Thursday."

  Thursday.

  Four days from now.

  I swallow, forcing a brief nod and the fakest smile I can manage. "Okay. Great."

  When he sees the tears pooling in my eyes, his face immediately softens.

  "Lexie. Baby, don't be upset." He speaks in a deep whisper, his gentle plea just making my heart hurt even more. "This isn't gonna change anything with us."

  How could it not?

  He steps forward, reaches for my hand to comfort me, but I jerk my arm away.

  "Don't. Please don't."

  My watery voice and trembling chin are cutting him deep; I can see it in his wounded expression.

  "Lex—"

  "I think you should just go," I insist as I take a few more strides backwards. I blink, shedding the first of many tears that are to come. "Just go, Weston."

  Pulling his keys from his pocket, he gives me one final look. Sorrow and struggle swim in his hazel depths.

  He wants to protect me, offer me solace, but how can he?

  How can he be the solution to my distress when he's also the cause?

  His car engine rumbles to life and he makes his way down the drive. I try not to fully lose it because I know he's looking in the rear-view mirror, watching. Worrying.

  When he fades into the dark night and the formidable silence engulfs me, I let the tears fall at will.

  The steady stream pours down my face, soaking my cheeks and the top of my dress and my pillowcase when I crawl into bed a little while later. They don't stop until I finally fall prey to exhaustion at 4 a.m., crying myself to sleep because I'm so overwhelmed with emotion. Because I don't know what's going to happen with us.

  Because this really feels like goodbye.

  36

  "Your champagne, Mr. Edwards. Mr. Paine."

  In my peripheral, a silver tray appears out of nowhere. Two glasses are balanced atop it, tall and thin, golden liquid bubbling within their confines like a hot tub jet.

  "Don't mind if I do." My dad's assistant plucks one from its perch with no hesitation.

  The eager-to-please flight attendant turns to me with a smile that takes up her entire face. With a quick "thanks", I grab the remaining glass.

  After downing half the drink in one gulp, I lift a brow at the smooth consistency and sharp taste.

  I'm no expert on bubbly, but even I can tell this is some fancy shit.

  Not sure why this comes as a surprise to me, though. What else would I expect on a fucking private jet?

  Sleek, tan leather interior with state-of-the-art entertainment consoles, first-class airline staff hired to get us safely across the Atlantic, and a shit ton of leg room—arguably the best amenity on the luxurious plane.

  Of course the drinks are gonna be top-notch.

  Mr. Edwards noisily empties his glass, smacking his lips in satisfaction as he looks over. "Good, isn't it?"

  I produce an appreciative nod. "Not exactly what I'm used to."

  A deep belly-laugh rumbles from his seat. "I'd suggest you get used to it, my lad. These type of things will become your new normal soon enough. Prepare yourself for the lifestyle of the rich and famous."

  His statement takes me back to last night when Jamie said the same thing after I revealed the news to the kids.

  Well, his actual words were more along the lines of 'Get ready to live the motherfuckin' high life of a baller, man!'. I told him to watch his damn mouth, but he wasn't the only one who was too pumped up to keep the language PG. Pretty sure some of those dudes popped their f-bomb cherry on that bumpy field yesterday.

  It sucks to leave them. Majorly sucks, 'cause I seriously love those guys like little brothers, but Cam promised to take over the sessions for the remainder of the summer. He couldn't confirm Fall semester, though, which is a bummer. Maybe I can bribe Vaughn or Liam to lead my boys.

  Bzzzz. Bzzzz.

  My backpack vibrates against my foot twice. I reach down, shuffling through a mess of unfolded clothes and a dozen chargers before I find my cell.

  5 New Messages

  Liam: Have you left yet? Put in a good word for me, yeah?

  Rhett: I'm taking you out 2morrow, bro!

  Dad: A car will be waiting to take you straight to the facilities when you arrive. Paperwork and logistics to get sorted.

  Mom: Call me when you land!! Love you, kiddo :) :)

  Lexie: Have a safe flight.

  I read through each message, but only one has my thumbs flying over the screen with an immediate response.

  Me: Thanks, Barbie.

  Lexie: You're welcome. Good luck.

  The exchange is cordial and impersonal. So not us.

  It's an accurate representation of our conversations from the past four days, and it's seriously killing me.

  I haven't seen her since our fight Sunday night. We had Monday off, so there was no lab forcing her to sit beside me for three hours straight and hear me out.

  Tuesday and Wednesday were jam-packed for me; I had to squeeze all of my finals into those 48 hours, go get a fucking passport which is a damn hassle, and get all the details figured out for the 5,000-mile move.

  I still tried my best to meet with her, but she straight-up rejected my offers to chat over coffee or tea or steak or Mexican or Italian or doughnuts or frickin' McDonalds—I legit suggested every restaurant and cafe within a twenty-mile radius.

  She turned down each and every o
ne.

  I even went to her apartment, pounding on the door like a broken-hearted stalker, but she wasn't home.

  I dunno what's going through her mind and I fucking hate that. I hate leaving things like this, all up in the air and uncertain and shit. I hate that she's shutting me out. Hate that the last image I have of my girlfriend is her trying and failing to hold back tears.

  Tears that were all because of me.

  Fuckin' hurts my heart to think about.

  "This is your captain speaking. Please prepare for take-off."

  As the plane rolls down the runway, I turn off my phone, leaving my problems and worries behind for the time being.

  The roar of the jet floods my ears as we lift off. Mr. Edwards requests more champs, it arrives almost immediately, and I down my second glass in one massive gulp. As he starts to babble mindlessly about what's in store for me across the pond, I block his nasally voice out and glance out the window, watching as the green Texas land is swallowed by clouds.

  37

  Finally finished.

  The thought sends a wave of relief through me as I hand in my final final of Spring Semester (my fifth one in an equal number of days). I exit the building, pushing through heavy glass doors and walking straight into summer vacation.

  But this isn't exactly what I had in mind.

  When I pictured the first day of break, it was sunny and warm. Nothing but pale blue skies and three months of uninterrupted freedom on the horizon. Rayne, Ellie, and I working on our summer tans as we lounged by The Treehouse pool, donning oversized sunglasses and mango margaritas with swirly straws. Our boys would be kicking around a soccer ball, shirtless, their taut, bronzed muscles glistening as we enjoyed the show.

  An earth-shaking roar of thunder makes me flinch as I hover under the covered entrance. It's pouring down rain, dense sheets of it, and there's a slight chill to the air that has goosebumps rising on my arms.