Chapter 3

I drove Callie to school the next morning because neither of us could stand the quiet at the breakfast table.

The sink was full of unwashed coffee mugs.

Evan had left before dawn.

I had poured cereal into a bowl for Callie, but she hadn't touched it.

She spent ten minutes peeling her paper name tag off her denim jacket, folding it into a tight square, and leaving it beside her untouched breakfast.

Her phone had lit up on the counter at six in the morning with a message from Evan:

I’m sorry you heard us arguing last night. Have a good day at school.

Callie had read it, turned the screen facedown, and left the phone by her plate.

Callie set her portfolio in the back seat when we got into the car.

She sat in the passenger seat with her hands flat on her knees, staring at the rain streaming down the windshield as we idled in the drop-off line.

"When did Dad first bring up staying local?" I asked, keeping my eyes on the wet street ahead.

Callie kept looking out the window. "I don't know."

"Before this week?"

"Maybe."

"Callie."

She unbuckled her seatbelt with a loud snap, then immediately buckled it back in.

"Fine. A few weeks ago."

"What did he say?"

"That going away would make everything harder," she whispered. "That you were already tired."

"Did he ask what you wanted?"

"He didn't force me, Mom!"

"That wasn't my question."

Callie’s hand moved toward the door handle, her knuckles white. "Can we not do this right now?"

"Is staying here what you want?"

She finally turned to look at me, her eyes red-rimmed. "Is the money going to be back by Friday or not?"

"I am working on it," I said quietly.

"That’s not a yes."

"No. It isn't."

Her mouth tightened. "At least Dad had an answer. You’re just mad at him."

The words stung, sharp and unfair.

Callie looked sorry almost immediately, her hand dropping from the door handle, but she didn't take them back.

Outside the passenger window, two girls from her senior design class walked past our car. They were talking about dorm room assignments and packing lists for August.

One of them glanced toward our windshield.

Callie immediately lowered her head, pretending to search through her bag until they passed.

"He wasn't trying to hurt me," she mumbled.

"Then what was he trying to do?"

"He said he was keeping everything from falling apart."

"By letting you lose your school?"

"He didn't say it like that!"

"How did he say it?"

Callie wiped a clear patch in the fogged passenger window, watching the rain pool on the curb.

"June would’ve lost the studio," she whispered. "I can stay here."

"No," I said, reaching out to touch her hand. "He decided you would be the one to give something up."

"That's not what he said," she muttered.

"I know."

Callie sat still for a long moment.

Her hand hovered over the door latch, hesitating, as if stepping out meant facing a future she wasn't ready to name.

Callie’s phone buzzed inside her bag on the floorboard.

A notification from Mrs. Alvarez, her guidance counselor, lit up the screen:

Please stop by before first period. We need to talk about Friday's enrollment deadline.

Callie read it without opening the car door.

Slowly, she pulled her hand back from the latch and reached into the side pocket of her portfolio.

She pulled out a white envelope. It was unsealed, its corners gone soft from being handled too many times.

The university’s admissions office address was printed neatly across the front.

I reached across the console for it, but her hand stayed over the paper.

"Dad helped me write it last week," she said softly.

"Write what?"

Callie looked toward the school doors.

"The letter telling them I wasn’t coming."