Must be a biology major.
I begin to unpack the bag, trying to ignore how his presence and the faint scent of his cologne still linger but notice how it feels a few degrees warmer. “I wouldn’t blame him,” I tell Frankie. “You’re a beautiful specimen.”
Getting up, I lower the thermostat before trying to figure out who sent the food. With perfect timing, my phone begins buzzing across the coffee table. I race back to catch a text from my best friend: If you hear from me in ten minutes, call me right back.
Quick to respond, I type: Another bad date?
Ruby Darrow, the heiress to the Darrow Enterprises, and I have been close since we roomed together freshman year. I can’t wait for her to move into her apartment next door. Her return message reads: I’m not sure. If you hear from me, then yes. Yes, it is.
Me: I’m on standby.
Ruby: Because you’re the best.
I take my duties as her friend very seriously, so I set the phone down next to the bag and pop open the plasticware. When my phone buzzes again, I’m fully prepared to make the call, but this time it’s not Ruby.
Mom: I had food delivered for you. Did you get it? Chicken and dumplings. I’m in the mood for comfort food and thought you might be, too.
I wish I would have known ten minutes ago. Eyeing the bag, I smile. I can’t argue with her choice of dish, but I’m just not sure if the pain in the ass delivery was worth the trouble.
Even a baseball cap flipped backward didn’t hinder his appearance because, apparently, I just discovered I have a type. Small-town hero with a side of arrogance. Jesus. This is Connecticut, not Texas.
Despite his appearance, I wasn’t impressed. Dating cute guys has not worked out well for me in the past. The local bad boy doesn’t fit into my plans or help with my “balance” as he points out I evidently need.
So rude.
I balance just fine. School. Trying to think of more, I get frustrated. I’m at Yale for one reason and one reason only—to get into the medical school of my choice—and to do that, I need to keep my brain in the game. The school game, not the dating game. “What does he know anyway, Frankie?”
Returning my mom’s text, I type: Got it. Thank you.
Mom: Promise me you’ll live a little, or a lot, if you’re so inclined.
She’s become a wild woman in the past two years. I’m happy for her, but that doesn’t mean I have to change my ways to fit her new outlook on life.
As I look around my new apartment, the cleanliness brings a sense of calm to me. After living in my parents’ homes over the summer, it feels good to be back at school and on my own again.
Me: That’s a lot of promises. First, caring for Frankie, and now for my own well-being. I laugh at my joke, but I know she’ll misinterpret it, so I’m quick to add: Kidding. I will. Love you.
Mom: Hope so. Live fearlessly, dear daughter. Love you.
Feeling like I dodged another lecture on “you’re only young once,” I smile like a kid on Christmas when I find a chocolate chip cookie in the bag. With just one bite of the food, I close my eyes, savoring the flavor. “Patty sure knows how to cook.”
I click on a trivia game show and spend the time kicking the other contestants’ butts as I eat.
Soon, I’m stuffed but feeling antsy about the dough sitting at the bottom of my stomach, so I get up and slip my sneakers on before hopping on the treadmill. I warm up for a mile with that bag and the red logo staring back at me, so I pick up the pace until I’m sprinting. “I’m not trying to go anywhere. It’s good exercise,” I grumble, still bothered by what the delivery guy said. A bleacher seat therapist is the last thing I need.
I start into a jog and then a faster speed, though my gaze keeps gravitating toward the bag and the red printing on the front—Patty’s Diner. The food might have been delicious, but I can’t make a habit out of eating food that heavy or I won’t be able to wear the new clothes my mom and I just spent two weeks shopping for.
I barely make four miles before my tired muscles start to ache. I’m not surprised after a day of moving, but I still wished I could have hit five. I hit the stop button and give in to the exhaustion.
I take a shower and change into my pajamas before going through my nightly routine—brushing teeth, checking locks, turning out the lights, and getting a glass of water. I only take a few sips before I see Frankie in the living room all alone. My mom’s guilt was well-placed. I dump water in the pot and bring it with me into the bedroom. “Don’t get too comfortable. You’re not staying here.”
Returning to the living room to grab my study guide for the MCAT, I hurry back to bed and climb under the covers. But after a while, I set the guide aside, behavioral sciences not able to hold my attention against my mom’s parting words.
Classes. Study. Rest. Routines are good. They’re the backbone of success. I click off the lamp, not needing my mom’s words—live fearlessly—filling my head. Those thoughts are only a distraction to my grand plan. Like that delivery guy.
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