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“Life Sciences at the University of Toronto.”
Even in the dark I can tell the corners of his lips pull up as he says, “Try not to soundtooexcited about it.”
“No, no, I am. It’s just . . .” I trail off. What’s the point of telling him what I really want when my own parents won’t even listen?
“Just what?” he encourages.
I wrap my arms around myself. “Nothing, it’s stupid.”
He gently knocks his shoulder against mine as we walk, forcing me to meet his eyes as we come to a stop.
“It’s not stupid,” he says. “Tell me.”
It must be something in the tone of his voice or the seriousness in his eyes because I open my mouth and blush as I say, “I want to take a year off and backpack through Europe. I want to see the world—figure out who I am and what I want to do with myself, you know?”
“That’s not stupid,” he reassures me. “Why aren’t you doing that instead of going to U of T?”
We start walking again, and he falls in place beside me. Now that he’s not intensely gazing into my eyes, I feel less flustered and start talking freely.
“I brought it up to my parents, and they shut it down immediately. They want me to get my degree right away and then go to med school. They’reveryexcited about med school.”
He looks thoughtful. “That sucks. I guess traveling can get pretty expensive, though.”
“Oh, no. I would pay for it. They just don’t like the idea.”
“Well, how hard did you fight for it?”
Not hard at all. “Umm . . .”
He laughs, assuming my answer from my hesitancy.
“If you really want something, fight for it. Life’s too short to let other people make your decisions for you.”
That’s a good philosophy in theory, but Dean doesn’t know my parents.
“It’s not that easy . . .”
“But itisthat easy. Figure out what you want in life, and don’t let anyone take it from you.”
I frown and study my feet as we walk.
Dean’s silent for a second, then says so quietly I almost miss it, “I had a twin brother, you know.”
My head snaps over to look at him.
Had?
He’s not looking at me; instead he’s gazing out at the ocean.
I can imagine a sadness in his eyes. “Dustin. He died when we were fourteen; he had a heart defect.”
I don’t know what to say. What could you possibly say to something like that?
“I’m so sorry,” is what I come up with.
He looks over at me briefly with a small smile. “It’s been just over five years, but it still hurts. Sometimes I think about all the things he didn’t get to do but that I still can.”
Again, I don’t know what to say, so this time I say nothing.
