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He chuckles. Our eyes connect, and his face grows serious. “I really am happy for you. You’re gonna kill it in the league.”
I hold the connection for another moment as much more is said through the silence. I sense that we could repair everything that happened in the past if we had more time. We were friends once, and I’m sure we could be again. Regardless, there’s mutual respect between us now, replacing the disdain that was there last spring.
“I appreciate that,” I say solemnly. “I think they’ll be calling your name sooner rather than later.”
Oakley places her hands over her ears as she stands, facing away from me at the stove. “I don’t want to hear that, Sam.”
I chuckle.
“Do you want some eggs?” Chase asks. “We have enough.”
“Thanks,” I say, motioning toward my mug. “But the coffee is all I can stomach right now. The guys plied me with alcohol last night.”
It’s Chase’s turn to laugh. “I saw that. I popped in toward the end of the night, but I don’t expect you to remember. I’m surprised you look as good as you do this morning.”
“What can I say? I might need a liver transplant at some point, but I can hold my liquor.” I take a sip of coffee and turn to go. “I need to finish packing.”
“If I don’t see you before you go, kill it out there in Cali.” Chase fist-bumps me.
Oakley turns with the wooden spoon in her hand and hugs me. “We’ll be rooting for you.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, feeling weirdly sentimental.
I squeeze her with my free arm and let go. I’m not sure what Oakley and I are now—friends, I guess—but it feels nice to not leave as enemies.
Chase’s arms collapse around Oakley from behind, pulling her back against his chest possessively as I walk out of the kitchen. Mike’s door is open, but his room is empty when I pass by it. I enter my bedroom to see the bags that I started packing yesterday lying half full across the floor. It takes me another hour to get everything organized and ready.
I eat a quick lunch with Mike, who comes home about thirty minutes after I walked through the door, before leaving for the long trip to the airport. Driving through the small college town feels strange because I know I won’t be coming back. At least not anytime soon. But I’m excited about this new start. It feels right. I’m ready to play at the next level. I’ve been ready for a while now.
And when the wheels of the plane lift off the ground a few hours later … I leave college, everyone and everything there, behind.
CHAPTER NINE
EMERSON
THREE YEARS LATER …
I brush a few strokes across the canvas and step back to view my work from a distance. My lower lip is lodged between my teeth as I tilt my head and study the painting. I take another step back and bump into the wall, like I’ve done a million times before in the small space.
After college graduation, I followed Suki back to her hometown of Chicago. I didn’t have any reason to move closer to my parents since our relationship is basically nonexistent at this point, and my sister is here, too, which was another reason to plant roots in this city. I’m currently living in a townhouse with my best friend. Her parents purchased the place for her after graduation. It’s in the Arts District part of town with trendy restaurants and locally owned coffee shops on every corner.
We moved into the house the week after leaving Sinclair and haven’t looked back since. It’s a three-story, a narrow but tall space with high ceilings, hardwood floors, and tons of stairs to climb each day. I insisted on paying rent for the room I occupy, but Suki won’t let me pay much. She knows exactly how limited my budget is. But we split the bills at least, making me feel like less of a mooch. There wasn’t an extra room for my art, so I paint in a small corner of my bedroom. I barely have space for an easel and my paints, but I’m making it work. I’m just thankful for a place to lay my head. Suki has the master bedroom, as she should. The spare bedroom holds Suki’s pottery wheel and clay.
The front door opens and closes. I hear her stop in the kitchen before climbing the stairs to the second floor.
“Hey … I’m home,” Suki announces, walking into my room.
She moves closer to look at my latest creation.
“How was work?” I ask.
“It was a paycheck,” she murmurs with her eyes on the painting. She sits on the edge of my bed.
Suki graduated with an accounting degree. She works for a small firm, playing with numbers by day and sculpting by night. In hindsight, I should’ve done something similar, though I’d never admit that my parents were right about that. Watching Suki make a grown-up salary while I’m still working in a café, scraping by each month just to pay the bills, is a reality check. I’ve worked my way up to manager in a small family-owned café a block from our place, but still. I don’t make the kind of money where I’m comfortable affording day-to-day living expenses. I guess hindsight really is twenty-twenty. I don’t regret my path though. And I wouldn’t change it. I just know the term starving artist intimately.
“I love the colors in the sky. It looks ominous, like a storm is blowing in.”
“That’s exactly what I am going for,” I admit.
