Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 133655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
“No one says that,” she responds, and a faint hint of a blush touches her cheeks.
“Trust me, Cynthia. Everyone says that.”
She smiles as she starts to work on updating my schedule, and I have a sneaking suspicion that my sweet Cynthia is buttered up enough to secure all the classes I need to solidify another phase of my plan to win Julia’s heart.
Wednesday, June 25th
Julia
My mom walks around the apartment I’m nearly certain is the one, while I hang back to give her space. Her mouth is set in a firm line as she moves from the living room to the kitchen, opening each cabinet like she’s inspecting them for hidden sins.
My phone buzzes in my purse.
Ace: how’s apartment hunting going
I glance toward my mom, who is now inspecting the freaking range hood over the stove. She squints up at it like it’s personally offended her.
“I wonder if this is up to code,” she mutters to herself. She knows jack shit about range hoods or stoves or anything that requires technical knowledge, but she’s certainly putting on a good show of testing the fan.
Me: I mean, I found a place I love, but Georgia is still a skeptic.
Ace: you think you found THE place???
I move my eyes around the apartment, taking in the way the sunlight casts gorgeous shadows across the hardwood floor. Goodness, I can picture myself living here. I can picture myself making this space my own.
Me: Yes. I really want this one.
“Are you sure you don’t want to live at home, honey?” my mom asks, wringing her hands with nerves as she continues to move around the kitchen, running her fingers across the small butcher-block island in the center of it. “I’m sure your dad would pay for a driver or even bring you in himself when he’s coming into the office.”
I smile toward the living room windows and adjacent fire escape without turning around so she can’t see, gentling my response appropriately. My mom means well in every sense of the phrase—she is kind, generous, patient, and honestly the best mom I ever could have asked for. She’s not trying to control me or cramp my style or keep me a kid like I know some other moms might be if they suggested I stay home instead of spreading my wings—she’s just a worrier. She wants the most for me—safety, happiness, success—and is downright terrified of making a decision in opposition to that goal.
For my freshman year at Dickson, I lived in the dorms. Which is still technically moving out, but it’s not as big of a deal as moving out into your own apartment. Which is what I’m trying to achieve right now. I can imagine it’s creating a little bit of an internal crisis for my mom.
Her job for nearly the last nineteen years has been to mold her life around mine, and now I’m just moving on? I get it. It’s got to be hard.
“I’m sure. We researched, remember? This place has a doorman twenty-four hours, good lighting, and is really close to campus. I can walk or, if the weather’s bad, take the subway because it’s right downstairs.”
I also happen to love the arched doors and windows, the hardwood floors, the wainscoting, and the open concept kitchen. It’s not enormous—this is New York after all—but it feels big. The landlord doesn’t mind if you paint or personalize, so long as you put it back as it was before you move out, and I like the idea of choosing everything for my own space. I’ve been looking at places since May, and this is the one. I’m sure of it.
“You’re right. I know.” I look back at her, and she winces. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to be a buzzkill, really. You’re an adult, and I respect that. It’s just my lifelong job to worry about you.”
“I know, Mom. But this will be good.”
“Okay. Maybe I’d feel better if one of your friends were living here with you, but I understand you not wanting a roommate. It’s a lot. Even the best of friends can be too much sometimes, and you know I know—”
“Just what do you know, Wheorgie?” a too-familiar voice calls, making me jump.
Cassie Kelly strides in like she owns the place, her giant sunglasses perched on her head and an iced coffee in hand.
I’m used to the Kellys being in close proximity at pretty much all times—hell, I was just texting with Ace—but having them materialize out of thin air seems a little much.
And a little poltergeist, to be honest.
“Cassie? What are you doing here?” my mom asks, evidently feeling the same confusion as me.
“Ace told me you guys were looking at apartments today and says he wants to live off campus too, so I tracked your location.”
“You…tracked… How do you have my location?” my sweet mother asks, her hand to her chest. I, for one, am not even a little surprised, and for as ridiculous as it is, it makes me smile. I never have any doubts about why my best friend is the way he is—the proof is in his DNA pudding.