“I’d never doubt that.” She strokes the back of my hand. “You can do anything you try to. It’s the effort that’s been your problem. You give up when things get hard.”
It takes all of my willpower not to argue that. It’s not really true, but it’s how my family sees me. “I want to be a nurse, Mom. Like Nurse Bertha.” Bertha took care of Jamie when he was laid up with pneumonia in the Toronto hospital. My mother and I both worshipped her. “I always told you I needed to do something artsy, but I was wrong. There are a lot of ways to make beauty in the world. I want to help people who are scared and sick. It’s the most important thing I could do with my life.”
The expression on her face now tells me that I’m getting somewhere. She’s looking at me the way she looks at my sister Tammy. Like I just might be worth the effort. “How much does nursing school cost?” she asks softly.
“Well…” I clear my throat. “UC San Francisco is the most expensive, unfortunately. It’s fifty-five thousand the first year.”
“Fifty…” Mom makes a choking noise. “Sweetheart. We don’t have that kind of money.”
I feel smaller when I hear it. I mean, it’s a crazy amount of money. Nobody in my family drives a car that costs that much. But I have to wonder whether her reaction would have been less vehement if one of her other children had the same need.
“It’s…I…” My dignity is taking hits all over the place tonight. “I’ll find a way.” It sounds petulant coming out of my mouth, but I mean it. Even if my parents won’t help me, there has to be a way.
“There must be other programs,” Mom says, recovering from the shock. “Cheaper ones. I’ll help you look.”
“Okay,” I say slowly. But I have looked. Master’s programs are pricey. And if I’m going to do this, I want to do it right. “There are loans.”
She makes a face. It’s the face of a mother who thinks her daughter won’t follow through. “We’ll think of something.”
“No, I’ll handle it,” I tell her. “It has to be me.” I can’t keep running to Mommy to fund all my ventures. Not this time. With a little advice from Dyson, I know I can figure it out. And the only way to show my mother I’m serious is to be serious.
“Jess?”
I look up into the eyes of the least serious person on earth. Then I shiver because Blake Riley is that attractive in his suit. His roomy shoulders are like a ledge where a girl could rest her head in comfort. And a lock of his errant hair falls across his smooth forehead.
Blake is attractive, all right, but he’s totally wrong for me. He’s a big, playful guy. And the next year of my life won’t be about playing—it’ll be all about goals and how to reach them.
“Are you ready to head back to your apartment?” He gives me a broad grin that is not at all innocent.
“Let me give you my key,” I say, making a decision. “Here.” I grab my clutch purse off the table and rummage around. My house key is on a removable ring of its own, so it only takes a few extra seconds to do the right thing. I hand it over. “Make yourself comfortable,” I say firmly. “I’ll be a while.”
His puppy-like head cocks to one side. “You sure? Anything I can help you with here?”
“Thank you, but it’s under control.”
The key bounces once in his hand. “Okay. I’ll leave a light on for you. Goodnight, Cindy. Lovely party.”
My mother beams at him, then gives him a hug and wishes him a good night.
When he walks away, I don’t look back. Later, I’ll insist on crashing at my parents’ house tonight, to make it that much easier to take Jamie and Wes to the airport tomorrow morning.
Blake will spend the night in my bed. But I won’t be there.
8 Verbal Impulses
September
Blake
I trudge into the locker room after practice, all jazzed up. We killed it out there today. Everyone was gelling. Skating like champs. Just…clicking. Even Coach was smiling by the end, and that dude never smiles.
We’re winning the Cup this season. Mark my words. Hell, we could’ve done it last year if we hadn’t been hampered by so many injuries during that first playoffs series. I’ve never won a Cup before, and I wonder if the trophy is as heavy as it looks. Forsberg won one with Chicago a few seasons back. Said it weighs a ton, but I think he was just fucking with me.
By the locker next to mine, Wesley strips out of his sweaty jersey and pads and flops down on the bench wearing nothing but his hockey pants. His chest has a sheen of sweat, and his hair is a mess as he drags one hand through it. It’s his left hand, and I burst out laughing when I notice his ring finger.
“Dude, when’d you get that done?” I grab his hand and pinch just under the knuckle, where he now has a wedding ring tattooed on his skin.
“Ouch,” he gripes, shoving my hand away. “It’s still sore, motherfucker. Got it done last night.”
“Too cool to wear an actual ring?”