In the following weeks, two more letters arrive.

The first is a rejection from the program in Colorado, which isn't a surprise. The university there has some amazing paleontologists, but I realized after I'd applied that their interests and mine didn't align as nicely as I'd like. Apparently, they thought the same. The second is from Crestwood U. This comes in a much larger, more robust envelope, and includes an enthusiastic acceptance—which is also not a surprise. Crestwood has a reputation for encouraging scholars to remain with the alma mater throughout their studies, provided a program in their field exists.

With my options thus narrowed, it should be easy to make a choice, but I find myself caught firmly in the vice of indecision. 

Rather than speak to someone who could help me parse things out and see clearly, like Professor MacDowell, my guidance counselor, or my faculty adviser, I retreat into my tightly coiled shell of anxiety and shut everyone out. 

Nobody notices—or so it seems.

It makes sense that I'd be preoccupied this close to graduation, though I've polished the final draft of my dissertation until it shone and I'd only taken two courses this term.

One thread among the increasingly thick silver lining of being disowned is that I no longer had to worry about my dad's demand that I study something 'useful' as well as my passion. I'd almost dropped my second major in accounting entirely, but my counselor convinced me to keep it as a minor, for which I'd already completed the requirements. That left me with a single elective and a one unit 'life skills' course to take.

The latter was basically 'Adulting 101' and was offered to prospective graduates. It might seem silly, but there's a lot that gets taken for granted as stuff 'everyone knows,' that people forget they actually learned somewhere, whether from a parent, teacher, friend, or first-hand experience. And sure, most of what is covered could be found with a simple Google search, but 'you don't know what you don't know,' as they say, and people don't seek information they don't know they need. From time management, to nutrition and fitness, to budgeting, to what to look for in a new apartment, the class is a wealth of small, useful tips.

As April bleeds into May, I realize I've been living with Hazel and his dad for almost five months. Whenever I mention moving out or paying rent, MacDowell dissuades me, convincing me that helping with housework and contributing to meals is more than adequate. Hazel, meanwhile, has been unusually busy, researching the career path he's chosen, working as a lifeguard at a local pool, and part-timing at a surf-shop in town. I'm so preoccupied with my own problems, it takes a while to realize he's been avoiding me.

One evening, when his dad is out having dinner with Professor Valentino and Hazel gets back late from his job at the surf shop, I confront him in the kitchen as he reheats a plate of leftover Mexican food in the microwave.

"We're not dating."

He stops watching the plate spin and turns to look at me, a slight crease between his brows and cautious curiosity lighting his blue eyes.

"Sadly, I'm aware."

"You can date other people, if you want to."

"Oh. Yeah." He shrugs and turns back as the microwave beeps, extracting his plate of steaming leftovers. "So can you, I guess."

He mumbles the last bit as he grabs a Coke Zero from the fridge.

"I don't want to date anyone else," I say.

He turns again, plate and Coke in hand, his expression full of renewed hope. "You don't?"

My throat feels tight, but I keep my tone gentle despite the scratch in my voice. "No. I don't want to complicate things when I might not even be here in a few months."

His expression falls. It would almost be comical if it didn't hurt to see. "Oh... yeah."

He sets his plate down and sighs heavily. "Actually, I got something for you. I was gonna wait until graduation, but you might as well have it now. Hang on." He leaves, retreating to his room, and comes back with something in his hand. When he holds it out to me, I see it's a little velvet-covered box—the sort people use for things like engagement rings.

"Hazel, I don't—"

He waves the box at me. "Just open it."

"Alright."

I take it reluctantly and pop the lid. Inside, nestled in the slot intended for a ring, is a lapel pin in the shape of the Canadian flag. I stare at it for a moment, then look up and meet Hazel's eyes.

He rubs the back of his neck. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry. I was out of clean socks, so I went to borrow some, and... I saw the letter in your drawer. Congratulations, Charlie."

I shake my head. "I haven't decided yet."

He shrugs and leans against the counter. "Well, when you do, I wanted you to know... Like, I know I've said some things, like how much I..." He stops, scratches the back of his head, and sighs. When he meets my eyes again, his expression is soft and a little sad. "I know you don't believe in the romantic crap—I didn't, either—but I think you're my 'one,' Charlie, and I'll always be in love with you. I still wish I hadn't fucked up, but... I guess this would be a lot harder if you were in love with me, too. I just want you to be happy."

He swallows, blinks, and looks away, a telltale shine in his eyes.

"Hazel..."

I imagine myself walking forward, closing the space between us, wrapping my arms around him and holding him against me. I imagine kissing him like my life depends on it, knowing the heat between us is as strong as ever. I imagine letting him take me to bed, losing myself in him, letting him have all of me.

"Just give me a little more time," I mumble.

He wipes his eyes with the palms of his hands and nods. "Yeah. Sorry. I didn't mean to, uh..."

"Don't worry about it. And... thank you for the pin."

He nods again, but says nothing more.

As I retreat to my room to finish the last essay of my undergraduate career, I realize that until I make up my mind, there's nothing left for either of us to say.

🐚

I wasn't planning to walk at graduation—it's not like I've got a big family or a ton of friends to cheer me on—but Professor MacDowell insists. He orders and picks up my cap and gown, and presents them to me the night before the ceremony.

"This is for you, Charlie," he tells me sternly, "not for anyone else, but I think you'll be surprised how many people will celebrate your success."

He's right, though not quite in the way he meant.

When my name is called, I stand and walk across the stage to surprisingly robust cheers: from Hazel and his dad, from Lana and Trey, from many of the professors I've had over the years, and—most surprising of all—from my mom.

I see her right before I accept my diploma and shake the college president's hand. She sits in the front row, but I almost don't recognize her. Her hair, which has been ironed straight and dyed platinum since before I can remember, hangs in natural, light brown curls. Her makeup is minimal, softening but not hiding her age, and her clothing is casual—jeans and a cardigan. For the first time in my life, she looks more like a mom than a trophy wife.

She waves and smiles tearfully. Too shocked to respond, I continue across the stage and descend the other side, where George and several other geology students greet me with cheers and high fives. George, to my surprise, has been accepted to a program in Australia. I hadn't thought he was that adventurous, but apparently he wants to study the oldest traces of life on earth, and Australia is the place to do that.

As I'm carried away with the rest, I almost convince myself I hallucinated my mom—the manifestation of some sad, lingering longing for maternal love and acceptance—but when the ceremony ends and everyone makes their way out of the amphitheater and towards the parking lots, I see her again. This time, she stands with her arms crossed over her chest, apparently deep in conversation with Professor MacDowell. I approach cautiously.

"Mom?"

She turns, greeting me with a timid, almost fearful smile. "Charlie... I'm so proud of you, sweetheart."

I frown, unable to help the distrust that arises at her words. "What are you doing here?"

Her smile falters. To my further surprise, MacDowell steps in. "I invited her. An overstep, I know, but I hope you can forgive it. I... had a feeling, if you will."

My mother casts him a grateful glance before refocusing on me. "I'm so sorry, sweetie. I was in a bad place, and then I was afraid it was too late. I was afraid you'd never want to speak to me again. Maybe you don't, but I hope you'll give me a chance to explain myself."

My face feels frozen, frown fixed in place, as if my flesh has turned to stone, except for the tremble at the corner of my mouth. Emotions rush through me, heating my chest and making my skin prickle with sweat and my nerves tingle. Unexpectedly confronted by the manifestation of my pain, I'm tempted to turn and walk away, tempted to lash out with hurtful words, but all I manage is a strained, almost soundless, "Why?"

Her expression falters, falls, transforms. For the first time in my life, I recognize myself in her, and realize that when it comes to my dad, we might have similar stories to tell.

"He's not here, is he?" I ask, knowing she'll know who I mean.

She shakes her head. "No. He's probably meeting with his lawyers as we speak."

"His lawyers?"

"I left him, Charlie. I left everything. I finally did what I'd been so afraid to do for so long, and..." She takes a deep breath and smiles. "...and it feels wonderful."

I stare at her, letting this information, these words I never expected to hear, sink in. "Where will you go?"

"Home. To my parents."

"I thought you and grandma didn't get along?" I'd only met her and my maternal grandfather once, that I remember, when I was four.

"We didn't. She hates your father; hated that I married him. But when I told her I was leaving, she asked me to come home."

"Must be nice to have a mom who gives a shit."

The words escape me before my brain catches up to my mouth, and she gasps softly, as if I'd slapped her. Tears shine in her red-rimmed eyes, and I realize they wouldn't be the first tears she's shed today should they fall. In that instant, I see her not as my mom, but as a person who's made mistakes, and who regrets them bitterly.

Forgiveness is hard. It feels like there's an iron hand around my heart, forged in the fires of anger and tempered with resentment. But compassion is strong medicine—not a cure, by any means, but a beginning—and the metaphorical hand relaxes enough to admit the possibility of healing.

"Mom... I'm sorry," I say, and open my arms to her.

She takes the invitation, clutching me in a tight, desperate hug that says more than words could. "I'm sorry, too," she whispers, sniffling against my shoulder.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" I ask, forcing the words past the tightness in my throat.

Releasing me, she steps back a pace and wipes her eyes, giving me a tremulous smile. "Yes. But not now. I don't want to put a damper on your big day. I'm sure you've got parties to get to, and friends..."

I shake my head and say the words I would have liked to hear from her more times than I can count.

"It's okay. I have time to listen."