Begin Again

“Uh, I think it’s safe to say we’ve been banned from the food science department until further notice,” says Shay, muffling a laugh in her scarf as we hightail it away from the science building.

I glance back as if afraid we’ll be followed, trying to wring out my very wet ponytail. “Well, on the upside, at least we know how to set off a LaCroix bomb now?”

“Ah, yes. Can’t wait to get into that specific vein of supervillainy with you.” She stops me, raising a thumb to wipe off the mascara under my eye. “Hold up, you look like you just got broken up with at prom.”

I sigh and let her fix my face, grateful that when we did, in fact, set off a small geyser, most of it spilled on me and not Shay or the other unsuspecting people around us.

Our shenanigans in the science building aside, two weeks into the semester, things are considerably looking up. Thanks to Valeria, I’m no longer failing statistics—once we showed Professor Hutchison my emails weren’t set up, she let me retake the exam. Thanks to Shay and the trivia team, I have accumulated enough blue ribbons to match pace with the other students, both for me and for Connor. And thanks to me . . . well. Shay isn’t necessarily any closer to finding her major, but she is certainly closer to finding out what it isn’t.

I pull up the list-making app on my phone and cross “Food Science” off the list. This recent disaster is one of three “let’s find Shay’s major”–related adventures we’ve taken already, which included an invitation from the premed students to watch a pig dissection (we made it about five minutes before peacing out and watching several episodes of The Great British Bake Off to bleach our brains), a workshop on connecting with your inner child from the drama department (they had us crawling on the floor and making animal noises; I’ve never had a full-grown woman moo at me with as much resentment as Shay did that afternoon), and an interactive experiment with the food science department that, well. Didn’t not end with us ricocheting a drink cap into a light fixture and onto a professor’s head.

While the progress on finding Shay’s major is approximately zero percent, the two of us, at least, are forever bonded by the mutual horror of Blue Ridge State’s curricula.

It’s helped that we’ve gotten into a familiar groove—Shay’s alarm goes off in the morning and I head right out to the recording studio with her and Milo, mostly to answer the emails (we’ve cleared out half of them now, I can’t help myself) but also because it’s an easy way to find out firsthand when ribbon events are happening for my sake, and when other departments are doing open classes for Shay’s. That, and I do feel just a little responsible for Milo’s well-being, considering I am weaning him off a legal drug one version of Semi-Eternal Darkness at a time.

But as it turns out, I am justified in my meddling. A few mornings after we started half-caffing him, Milo showed up to the studio looking slightly more alive than dead. And now, as Shay and I make our way to the studio for the prep meeting they always have on Sunday afternoons, he looks downright human. The skin under his eyes is considerably less dark, and for once he doesn’t look like he’s on the perpetual verge of a yawn.

“You know we’re not paying you, right?” Milo asks when we walk in, his customary greeting for me most times I’ve followed Shay here.

“Our company is priceless,” says Shay.

Milo looks up with a smirk, then zeroes in on me fast. “What happened?” he asks, with undisguised concern.

It’s more eye contact than I’ve gotten from him in the last week, ever since that awkward moment when we hugged in the dorm hallway. I haven’t worried about it so much—I knew it would resolve itself on its own if we just let it. It’s not like either of us is actually interested in the other, especially given that I am in a committed relationship and Milo has declared on multiple occasions that love is a scam.

Even so, I’m surprised by the heat in my face when I touch it. “Oh—uh, we had a small calamity.”

“You still look like a cautionary teen tale.” Shay groans. “Here, I’ve got a mirror somewhere in my bag.”

I wave her off, thumbing my eyelids to scrape at the last of the mascara. “It’s fine. Only the computer screen can judge me.”

“Plus that wall of former Knights, ever watching,” says Shay wryly.

My eyes flit over to it, immediately locking on the picture of my mom. I could give a hundred reasons why I keep following Shay here. I enjoy their company. Answering these emails makes me feel a bit more like I have a role in this big campus where I haven’t found my place. It’s nice to have some kind of routine.

But those are just the little things that add to the big one: it’s the closest I’ve felt to my mom in a long, long time.

I still feel Milo’s eyes on me when I look away.

“Looks like a pretty slow week on campus, so we’ll mostly be on the lookout for local news,” says Shay, handing over the emails we printed earlier from the student board, campus organizations, and academic office.

“Thanks,” says Milo. He barely glances the pages over before he shifts in his stool, looking at each of us in turn. “But, uh, are we going to address your whole ‘Dear Abby’ situation ending up on the air, or . . .”

My ears burn. Shay and I both had early shifts at Bagelopolis on Friday, so we weren’t here for the broadcast. But of course I heard the full thing afterward, including a listener using “Call-in Friday” to thank the Knight for the advice he gave on time-management strategies for double majors. Milo was fast on his feet—“I’m only the Knight, not the cavalry answering the emails, but I’m glad it helped”—but it was definitely an unprecedented moment in the history of The Knights’ Watch.

I clear my throat. “So, I might have gotten carried away answering those New Year’s resolution emails.”

“Shock me,” says Milo, with a hint of amusement.

“But I can totally stop,” I add quickly, even though the idea of it makes my stomach turn.

The emails have become more than just practice for giving advice. They’re a reason for me to be here, close to my mom, when I don’t have any real business being here. And they’re also a way to distract myself from the ache that still rises up sometimes, in the quiet moments when Milo’s not at the mic and I catch myself staring at it, wondering about the girl I used to be. The one I might have been.

“Nah, it’s fine. Follow your weird, unpaid-advice-columnist bliss.” I’m getting at least 50 percent eye contact from him now, so I know he means it. “But judging from that caller, I’m guessing people are going to use ‘Call-in Friday’ for more advice. So we’re going to need some kind of plan, because the only advice I have begins and ends with ‘have you tried another cup of coffee.’”Content rights by NôvelDr//ama.Org.

“I’m sure you won’t get any more callers,” I say, but just then Shay taps the computer screen to get our attention.

Somehow we’ve amassed a dozen new emails overnight. Not from people sending events or information for the broadcast, but people directly asking for advice. I click on one of them and skim the words, You answered back a friend of mine, so I was wondering if I could ask you . . .

“Shit,” says Milo. I can’t tell if he’s horrified or impressed.

“Okay, um—if someone else calls I can . . . type out an answer really fast for you?” I suggest.

Milo leans down to squint at the computer screen, close enough that his shadow feels like some kind of heat lamp. I’m so aware of the edges of him that I sit as still as I possibly can until he pushes his wheeled stool away. “Or you could just go on and give advice yourself.”

My stomach drops. “Oh. No way.”

Milo frowns. “Why not?”

“Because The Knights’ Watch is—” The air has that too-thin quality it used to get when the stage fright reared its ugly head. Before I realized it was insurmountable and gave up on crowds altogether. “It’s just supposed to be the Knight. It’s always been that way.”

Milo shrugs, spinning slightly in the chair. “Doesn’t mean it always has to be.”

“It does,” I say, more forcefully than I intended. Milo stops spinning and Shay glances up from her planner. “I mean . . . they picked you for a reason.”

Milo puts his hands up in surrender. “Alright. But if you change your mind . . .”

“I won’t,” I say quickly, turning my attention back to the computer. “I’ll just get through these in the meantime while you guys plan.”

I’m left mostly to my own devices after that, but even as I blaze through the rest of the emails, I have one ear perked to their conversation. Less paying attention to what it’s about, and more to the tone of it. Milo laughs a bit more than usual. Cracks a few jokes that for once don’t sound like they were stolen from a deadpanning Disney villain. When we leave for the night, Milo heading out to get dinner with his siblings and us back to the dorm, I swear there might even be the slightest of springs in his step.

“I think it’s about time I introduce the next phase of the decaffeinating plan,” I say to Shay.

Shay raises her eyebrows. “You’d be messing with something much bigger than you are, Andie Rose. Bigger than all of us.”

Having been raised by Gammy Nell, patron saint of all things delicious, I would never compromise the taste of something so beloved as Eternal Darkness. But now that I’m on my eleventh batch, I’ve perfected a blend that was every bit as unholy and bitter as the original blend, except without a trace of caffeine.

“It would just be one he could drink in the afternoon. I mean, just look how much better off he is on the half-caf version. He didn’t run into one single stationary object today,” I remind Shay. She opens her mouth to protest. “Or do that thing where he blinks just long enough that you think he’s fallen asleep standing up.”

Shay sighs, using her student ID to buzz us back into Cardinal dorm. “You’re right. But I’m telling you, he’s not going to go for it.”

“I’ll just have him take a taste test tomorrow to see. Even Sean said he couldn’t tell the difference, and he’s almost as much of a coffee monster as Milo.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I tense up fast enough that Shay frowns. I’ve already spent an hour on the phone today with Grandma Maeve and Gammy Nell, and another hour and a half talking to Connor, so there’s only one person it can be—except when I look at the screen, it’s not my dad. It’s Connor’s mom.

“I . . . gotta take this,” I say, pressing the phone to my chest. Shay tilts her head at me in a way I’ve already recognized as “I won’t ask now, but I will later.” There’s this rush of gratitude so intense that I can’t help associating it with all the times I’ve wanted, more than anything in the world, to have a sister. It seems a little wild to think it after such a short time of knowing each other, but this is the closest I’ve ever come.

“Hi, Mrs. Whit,” I say, hovering in the stairwell as Shay walks off. “How are you?”

“Andromeda,” Mrs. Whit greets me in her usual even tone. The only reason I don’t wince is because Connor’s mom has a way of making anything sound dignified, even the original name on my birth certificate that my mom pushed for and then promptly never used. It was a running family joke for years—just one of many spur-of-the-moment decisions my mom had that my dad ran with. But ever since she died, Connor’s parents are the only ones who use it. “I trust you are doing well?”

I’m too naive to realize this is less of a question and more of a test, so I answer, “Yeah. Wow. It’s great here.”

“I’m so glad you’re enjoying yourself.” Only then do I realize the usual warmth in her voice has taken on a different temperature entirely. “I wouldn’t want you to be as miserable as my Connor. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

My heart stutters in my rib cage. “I . . . I’m sorry?”

The thing is, I’ve been talking to Connor every day. I’ve been talking to him a heck of a lot more than we did last semester. If anything, it’s been a relief to know we still can. There are a lot of words I’d use to describe those conversations, but “miserable” would probably come in dead last.

“Well, it’s to be expected,” says Mrs. Whit primly. “Connor’s well aware that he’s not meeting any of the standards we’ve held for him by attending a community college. An idea that never would have passed through his head a few months ago.”

The tears are already pricking at the back of my eyes before I can get a handle on her words. I love Connor, but I love his parents, too. They’ve always accepted me as one of their own. Mr. Whit helped me apply to my first part-time jobs. Mrs. Whit took me on trips to the mall to choose my homecoming dress, my prom dress, my graduation dress. I can’t even count the holidays and reunions and town events they pulled me into. It’s a lifetime kind of debt.

“I . . .” The words come so easily when I’m giving advice to someone that isn’t me. But right now, the well of my brain is so dried up I have no idea where to start, let alone end. “I didn’t know he was going to transfer, too. Really, I didn’t. I was just trying to surprise him.”

“Let this be a hard lesson in transparency with your partner, then,” she says. “If this is something Connor will even be able to recover from, that is.”

I don’t remember deciding to sit down against the cool glass of the stairwell’s massive windows, but it’s all my muscles can take. Mrs. Whit is the closest thing I’ve had to a mom of my own for so many years now. I never thought I could do anything she’d disapprove of. I never imagined having a conversation like this. We’ve both always wanted the same things: what was best for me and what was best for Connor.

For the first time I can remember, those two things don’t overlap. I close my eyes, and another fresh round of tears spills out.

As generous as the Whits have always been to make room for me in their lives, I’ve always felt like I have to be careful not to take too much of it—not to presume that I can. A part of me understood that while they love me, some of that love will always be conditional.

And now, despite all my best efforts, I’ve stumbled into the condition.

“Connor will transfer back,” I reassure her. “The transfer won’t even show up on his grad-school applications. I checked.”

“I sure hope so,” says Mrs. Whit, the words clipped.

For a few moments neither of us says anything, and I realize she’s waiting for me to speak. “I’m so sorry,” I say again, because I can’t think of anything else. “I really didn’t know.”

Mrs. Whit lets out a small hmmph noise that would concern anyone else, but is a comfort to me. I know the ins, outs, and weird noises of her. I know that sound is an admission that I’m at least semi-right, even if she doesn’t want me to be.

“Well,” she says tersely. “At least we know you’ll be behind him, no matter what.”

“Of course.” I’m grateful she brought it up so I don’t have to. “We’ve always got each other’s backs. We’re best friends.”

“I hope you’re right.” There’s murmuring in the background. I recognize the low tones of Mr. Whit, and wonder if he’s every bit as mad as she is. “Just remember that, Andromeda. His success at Blue Ridge benefits him every bit as much as it benefits you.”

I try to breathe in without hiccupping, but I can’t help it. The words feel like they landed in my ribs and fought their way up to my throat. And vice versa, I want to say. But she knows that. She and Mr. Whit have always embodied that themselves. This isn’t a matter of Connor getting priority over me because he has more potential; it’s a matter of Connor being their kid, when I’m not.

The stupid thing is, I thought she’d be proud of me. I’d imagined a phone call like this so many times, except it started with a “congratulations” and ended with planning a day trip up to campus to check out the historic district of the town.

Mrs. Whit must take my silence as an answer, because she lets out a sigh. “I worry about you on your own out there, too. You’re doing alright?”

It’s the smallest of bends, but it’s enough for me not to break. “Yeah. Yeah,” I say brightly. “I’m doing fine.”

“I had a feeling you’d find your way to that school. Your mother couldn’t have spoken more highly of it.”

I rest my head against the window. Mrs. Whit and my mom grew up together in Little Fells. It’s one more reason why Connor and I were less of a possibility and more of an inevitability—our shared history goes back further than we do.

It’s one more reason why this conversation doesn’t just sting, but hurts all the way down. My grandmas were just that—my grandmas. Fiercely loving and quirky and always on my side. But neither of them could ever really be a mom to me. Not in the way it sometimes felt like Mrs. Whit could.

“I’m hoping that this all works out in the end,” she says. “And that this semester is over as quickly as possible.”

“You and me both,” I try to say, but before I can finish, Mrs. Whit cuts me off with, “Our dinner just arrived, so I have to go.”

We say our goodbyes and I hold the phone against my ear, the humiliation like a wave that hasn’t crashed over me yet. I feel suspended in this moment, like maybe if I just don’t get up, maybe if I squeeze my eyes shut, I can send myself back to December. Tell Connor I got in on the transfer. Relive the past few weeks the way we were supposed to, with both of us here, and with Connor’s parents still treating me like a daughter instead of some girl who might have just compromised his whole future.

That’s when the humiliation hardens and turns into something else. I didn’t ask for him to transfer. I would never. And Mrs. Whit must know that—heck, anyone who’s ever met me knows that. The idea that she could misunderstand such a fundamental part of me after all this time is the kind of blow that can’t fully land.

The thing is, I know why I’m calling my dad back before I even hit the button. He’s proud of me. I know he is. And even with everything between us so fractured, I just need to hear his voice right now. Not even necessarily because it’s his—but because he’s a person who knows what this school means to me. Who would never factor Connor into the equation.

“A-Plus,” my dad greets me, his voice booming through the phone. “How’s my favorite Blue Ridge student?”

The sound of the nickname makes me press my fingers on the charm of my necklace, and chases the last threat of tears away. He’s called me that ever since I can remember. My mom was Amy, the original “A”; I’m A-Plus.

“Good.” It’s only half a lie. Ten minutes ago, I really was. “How are you? How’s the trip?”

“You know, same old, same old,” he says. Ever since he took a new job based two hours away from Little Fells he’s been taking a lot of trips like this, so he’s used to living out of a suitcase. Even without knowing what the Airbnb he’s in looks like, I can still picture him now: he’s leaning against a counter, his button-down untucked from his jeans for the end of the day, nursing the single Corona he has with dinner every night. “Mostly subsisting off delivery pizza and your gammy’s snack cakes. You launched your Blue Ridge advice column yet?”

He’s teasing, the pride undeniable in his voice. I wish it didn’t grate on me. He still hasn’t mentioned the “Bed of Roses” clips I sent to him. I know I should just ask if he’s read them, but that’s the thing. I don’t want to have to ask. I want him to care enough to have read them and brought it up himself.

And then, almost like he heard the thoughts through the phone, my dad asks, “Hey, why haven’t you sent me your clips yet?”

I pull my fingers from the necklace in surprise. “Oh. I—I did. A few weeks ago.”

“All I got were your transcripts. Great work, by the way,” he says. “No wonder you got into Blue Ridge midyear.”

I flush. My grandmas always send him paper copies of my grades. My dad keeps a bunch of paperwork in an old-school filing system, and one of the hanging folders has all of my transcripts from kindergarten on. I’m oddly touched that it didn’t stop in college.

And embarrassed that I’ve been annoyed with my dad for weeks now over something that couldn’t be helped. I’m so careful to be direct with people and try to consider all the possibilities in different scenarios. But when it comes to my dad, it’s all so personal it just goes haywire.

“Um—thanks. Huh. Well, I’ll . . .”

“Send them my way, when you get a chance,” he says easily. “Figure you’re busy taking Blue Ridge’s grading curve by storm.”

I half laugh, half choke at the idea of it. “Not quite.” Before I have to elaborate, I quickly pivot by asking, “Did they put you up somewhere nice?”

“Actually, I’m staying with Kelly.”

“Oh?”

I don’t mean for it to come out like a question, because it shouldn’t be. I know my dad’s been dating Kelly for a few months now. From the light stalking I did the one time some friends of mine back home split a bottle of Yellow Tail and went to town on her Facebook, she seems perfectly nice. Big smile, white teeth, shiny hair, a pediatric dentist with a passion for making soap out of offbeat molds like cheese wedges and skulls and corgi butts. My dad asked if I wanted to get lunch with her when she was passing through Little Fells last month, but I blew him off because of finals. And also because the idea of my dad even dating was such a foreign concept to me that watching a dog pop a wheelie on a skateboard would make more sense to my brain.

“Yeah, her family has a house in Lake Anna,” says my dad. “So we’re just parking it here so we can cut down on company expenses.”

He works for a nonprofit, and has always been big on saving money. Even if I can’t quite wrap my head around him staying with her, I’m relieved he’s not trying to squeeze into another motel.

“A lake house?” I say, wiggling my eyebrows. “Sounds fancy.” “You’d love it here,” says my dad without missing a beat. I press my back farther into the wall, not sure how to process this. He’s been saying stuff like that lately—these little invitations into his world. The ones I wanted growing up, but never got. I know they coincide with Kelly coming into his life, and I can’t decide whether to be bitter or grateful. “Beautiful view. Huge porch. Maybe if you take a long weekend . . . or during the summer, definitely. We’d love to have you.”

We. I’m glad he isn’t here to see me flinch. I barely heard enough of him as an “I” growing up to suddenly make him a “we.”

But I can’t say I’m not tempted by the offer. Despite my jam-packed schedule, I’ve been making an effort to try to explore some of the trails in the arboretum, to try to take a beat and center myself. I was worried it might remind me too much of the hikes I took with my parents as a kid, but instead it stirred up memories I’d forgotten—like this old, beat-up compass my mom always used to keep in her pocket and jokingly pretend she couldn’t read, saying we should let the trail decide where it wanted to go. Or when my parents made their special hiking granola with its generous chocolate-chip ratio for us to take along.

Or the few times my mom would be away for work, and my dad and I went out hiking on our own. How he’d patiently stop and explain what different plants were to me, or follow the occasional bird call, or point out the trail signs in case I wanted to go out on my own someday when I was older. How sometimes we’d just walk these long stretches in companionable silence, easy and familiar with each other’s rhythms without ever noticing the rhythms at all.

It’s strange to think back on now, on the other side of him leaving. I don’t think there has been silence with him that I didn’t feel compelled to fill since.

“Yeah,” I say. “Maybe.”

This is usually the part where the awkward silence settles in and one of us finds an excuse to hang up, but my dad surprises me by cutting right through it. “Your grandmas tell me you’re in Cardinal,” he says, with this hint of a smirk in his voice I recognize more from childhood than anything recent. “It’s no Bluebird, but I trust it’s treating you well?”

“Yeah,” I say again, but this time with feeling. “I love my roommate. Her name is Shay. She got me a job at the bagel shop near campus.”

“Bagelopolis?”

“Yup.”

My dad lets out a low whistle. “Listen. Take it from your old man. The strawberry cream cheese with the cheesy garlic bagel?”

“Dad,” I say, aghast.

“No,” he insists, a laugh in the back of his throat, “trust me. It’s great any day of the week, but it’s the best cure for a hango—uh. Well.”

“Noted,” I say, muffling a laugh of my own. “For all the ragers I’ll be attending.”

“I do hope you’ll get out to some of the parties. Responsibly,” he emphasizes. After the smallest of beats, he adds, “Not that I ever worry about that with you.”

Usually I’d be annoyed that he feels like he gets to worry about me at all. But tonight feels different. Maybe because we aren’t talking just as father and daughter—we’re talking as father and grown-up daughter. Not quite equal ground, but closer than it’s ever been up to this point.

“I’ll take your unholy bagel pairing into consideration,” I say.

My dad lets out a chuckle. “You’re welcome in advance.”

“Any other food recs while I’ve got you?”

“Oh, too many,” he says. My sweet tooth probably came from all sides of this family, but my dad takes it to the next level. Cookie Monster would bow down to him. “How much time do you have?”

“Plenty.” I pull up the Notes app on my phone. There’s a smile on my face so sneaky and wide that the conversation with Connor’s mom might have never happened at all. “Hit me with them.”

“Okay, first of all, in the historic district of town there’s a candy shop with giant peanut butter cups. It’s bright pink, you can’t miss it. And if you walk a little farther from it, there’s a hole-in-the-wall crepe place—your roommate probably knows it, most of the students there—What’s that? What happened to your bunny?”

I blink. “Sorry, what?”

But my dad doesn’t hear me. The pitch of his voice is slightly higher. I recognize it; the memory goes so far back that I feel like I’ve been snapped into another time. A time my mom was still alive, and I was little enough that I could still stand on his toes, and he used that same voice with me.

“Don’t worry, that’s an easy fix. We can sew it right up.”

And then I hear the sounds of sniffling. More specifically, little-kid sniffling. I freeze with the phone still pressed to my ear, my heart beating like a drum. It realizes what’s happening a few crucial seconds before my brain does.

“Whiskers will be fine. Trust me,” says my dad.

There’s a muffled reply. I can’t make out the words. Or maybe I just don’t want to.

“Sorry,” he says, using his normal voice again. “A stuffed-animal medical emergency.”

“Whose stuffed animal?” I ask, even though I already know. Even though my throat’s already thick, and I already feel guilty for it. Even though I already resent this kid I’ve never met, knowing she’s done absolutely nothing to deserve it.

“Kelly’s daughter, Ava,” says my dad, as if to remind me.

A tear streaks down my cheek. “Right,” I say, my voice so perfectly even that the tear might not even exist, if it didn’t just stain my coat. “I, uh—didn’t realize she had a daughter.”

There’s a pause. “Your grandmas didn’t mention it?”

I bite my tongue so I don’t say, Wouldn’t that have been your job?

And this right here is a bitter taste I know all too well. Every time we have a conversation that seems normal, we hit one of these snags. Like we have all the construction of what could be a normal parent-child relationship, the walls all secure, a roof overhead, but if I let myself step in, it’s only a matter of time before I take a step that opens a hole in the floor. We never built a foundation to stand on.

But this feels different. It feels personal. We’ve spent so long being cordial with each other, this surface-level getting along—part of it is because we barely know each other, but another part of it was so I would never have to worry about something like this. So none of his choices would feel like they had anything to do with me, and they couldn’t affect me.

It’s hard to let myself keep pretending that when there’s some other kid he’s playing dad for. Some kid who brought back that voice of his I barely even remember myself.

“Guess not,” I say. “But, uh—I just got a text to grab dinner with my roommate, so I actually have to run.”

He sounds surprised, but not enough to think I’m lying. “Oh. Where are you headed?”

“Dining hall,” I lie, booking it out of the stairwell so I can make it to our room. None of the usual tactics are going to work. I am going to cry, and I am going to cry hard, and I can practically feel my body counting down to it like a ticking time bomb. “Talk to you later?”

“Yeah, I’m around whenever,” he says. “Keep me in the loop.”

It’s the closest he’s ever come to telling, not asking, me to stay in touch, but my brain can’t even register it. I’m too busy trying to keep my face intact. After we hang up I manage to make it to the door when the key gets jammed, and even that second costs me—a tear slips out, and then another, and then finally the stupid door opens. The room is pitch-black and Shay-less, so I heave a breath of relief, shut the door behind me, sag into my bed, and just let myself cry.