The drive to campus is a short one, just enough time to finish a couple of chapters of my latest book. 

Although art was our thing, reading was where my mom and I first bonded. When she wasn't painting, her home studio doubled as a reading fortress. A real reader's Pinterest dream. She would perch herself in the corner for hours on end, curled into the cushions of a wing backed chair in an eccentric shade of green.

Daily I would watch as she would finger through the pages of countless novels and too many author's to keep track of, but the genre always remained the same.

Pages and pages filled with the story of two star crossed lovers on the verge of breaking down, or finding one another even when all the fates were so misaligned it would never work in reality. She could devour a book like a cold drink on a hot summer day. Her thirst for the fairy tale, the trope, was always too much. Within a few big gulps it would be gone.

It's embarrassing to admit, the way I would study her. Imitating her actions with my own childish picture books. I would mirror the way the pages crept closer to her face as the plot thickened or the way she would flag her favorite pages with a sticky note.

It wasn't until I was much older and we could share novels that I finally asked her why she spent so much time on something that seemingly produced nothing. It wasn't like her art. As the sand would slip through the glass she would have something to show for it. After reading her hand-me-down books I was always left with more questions than any story line offered to answer.

She had dropped her book into her lap, but only after finishing the page she was on and carefully placing her bookmark to keep her spot. She adjusted her position in my bed, the mattress shifting from her weight.

"Do you know why I started painting?" She leaned forward so her elbows were resting on her thighs, bringing her face closer to mine as I lay with my stomach against the mattress. She could never just answer a question. It was her most infuriating quality and the one I miss the most.

"Because you're really good?" I remember feeling like the answer was obvious. She smiled leaning forward to kiss my cheek, thanking me for the compliment.

"No, my love. I started painting because I realized I wasn't good with words. But by putting brush to canvas, I could say everything I ever needed to. I could show people what was going on in here," she said pointing to her head, "And here." She then moved her finger to her chest, signifying the spot where her heart rested. "Painting lets me tell a story."

"What has you so quiet, Ryn?" Jill, Gabi's mom, asks from behind the wheel.

Gabi giggles softly from the passenger seat, mumbling something about my persona being a tortured poet. I lean forward and flick the back of her head. Gabi quickly tries to retaliate. Her quick movements, however, leave her with a locked seat belt and unable to reach me. She curses under her breath towards me.

"Is everything alright, honey? We can turn around and take you home if you're not ready. I know your dad can be a little much, but no one will blame you for wanting to stay at home."

"Seriously, mom? You know C would do anything short of committing murder to get away from her dad and Katie," Gabi argues.

"I might even consider murder if I could guarantee celebrity treatment in prison," I say. 

"Okay, so maybe Ryan got me before we left." Jill spills. She never can keep anything from us. "I told him I couldn't promise anything, but that I would talk to you. He seems to think you'll listen to me over him. It's as if he forgets who your mother is, and that you are her child. I can't convince you to do anything any more than I could her."

Our eyes meet in the rear view mirror before I can look away. Mine must flash a look of despair, mimicking the way my stomach falls at the mention of my mom.

"We don't have to talk about her today," Jill offers.

"I'm fine. I promise," I say.

But everyone in this car knows just what a good liar I am.

🏈🏈🏈

The Brown's Mercedes pulls in front of two modern looking cement buildings, connected in the middle by what look glass panels. Large windows encompass the entire space where you would imagine a wall should be.

A sign with Perry Hall printed in bold letters is fitted perfectly next to structure. The building is landscaped perfectly, the smell of fresh mulch fills the air as I open my door and step into the heat. Each bed of flowers has been filled to the brim with an expert ratio of florals and greenery. I pull my camera out of my backpack next to me and snap a couple of pictures.

Gabi steps from behind the passenger door and smiles at me. Any ease in my body has vanished. Leaving behind a pit of dread in the shape of knowing Gabi too will have this moment of seeing her dorm for the first time, but with a completely different dorm at a completely different school in a completely different city.

We wrap around the car, heading for the trunk to start unloading my things. The humidity has left the air thick. By the time we make it up to my room with the second load, the baby hairs around my face are already stuck to my forehead with a thin layer of sweat. 

I'm thankful for the rush of air I feel overhead as I swipe my student ID over the hotel style lock and listen for the click before pushing the gray steel door open. After the first round of belongings, I was much too distracted by dropping my things and retreating to gather more. This time I pause at the entrance to the room and give it a good look.

The twelve foot by twelve foot dorm is practically a blank canvas. The walls and floors share a stark shade of white that the fluorescent lighting on exacerbates. Even the beds are void of anything besides a mattress with no sheets. Twin desks line either wall and a pair of open wardrobes run perpendicular to the door. 

Gabi drops the laundry basket she was carrying and slings an arm over my shoulder, with a loud "Oooooh!" falling from her lips. I shift my eyes to hers, trying not to let my disappointment register on my face.

"Are you going to pout all year or is it just today?" Gabi questions.

"This," I say pointing to myself, "Is just my face."

"You've had bitch face the entire ride over, in the elevator, and each time we've stepped foot in this room. And not your normal bitch face, this one is way uglier."

I shrug. When I look at the empty page in front of me, all I can see are the marks Gabi was supposed to make with me. That had always been our plan until Gabi decided to be amazing at Volleyball and land a full ride to Vanderbilt. Well that, and the fact that my dad refused to pay for me to attend any school other than State.

I am happy for her, and find immense pleasure in reminding her that if it weren't for her unfairly long legs she wouldn't have gotten into such a prestigious school with her mere twenty-seven on her ACT.

I sling her arm off of me and move further into the room. The dim lighting and faint smell of cleaning supplies makes the space feel more like a hospital room than what is supposed to be my new home.

"Make yourself useful and make the bed," I say, digging out the sheets I packed before throwing them at her.

We make one final trip to the car and back before we really begin to assemble the room. I carefully color coordinated my clothes as I place them on a hanger and then onto the singular pole hanging in my new closet. I line all of my shoes up against a wall by the same code.

Gabi and her mother create a system to make the bed, put the shag rug down in the middle of the room, and put together the futon that now sits under my lofted bed. I didn't want it, but Gabi insisted that she needed it to have a place to sleep when she could come visit.

I move on to my desk, adding a few items. I carefully unwrap a spotted glass elephant and place it on the surface. The flutters are low in my belly as I study the hand painted design that covers its body. The entire rainbow is represented and accented with black swirls and polka dots.

When I was eight my obsession for elephants was out of control. For about a year everything I owned contained an elephant pattern of some sort. I attribute it to a Save The Elephants fundraiser we did with my second grade class. We got to adopt an elephant from Africa we named Horton, the most clever thing twenty seven year old's could come up with apparently. We held a bake sale and an auction, with all the proceeds going to the World Wildlife Organization. So when my mom saw it on a trip she took to Thailand, she said she just had to get it for me.

It's such a mom thing to bring back gifts from any trip she takes without her kids. But this was more than a gift, it solidified that my mom was my best friend. It was just tangible proof that she knew me better than anyone.

Jill catches me lingering on the set up for a beat too long. She wraps an arm around my shoulder and gives me a gentle squeeze, probably sensing I've drifted into the past.

What should be a dream scenario, finally escaping my dad, just as quickly turns into a nightmare.

I reach a hand up and squeeze her back. If it wasn't for her, and Gabi, my life would have ceased to exist four years ago. My mom's death had a ricocheting effect. The hollowness that took over her soul cascaded like a curtain until our entire family disappeared behind it. Aside from the nanny, Gabi was always there and now she won't be.

"Look around, Camryn. She's in everything you do," Jill whispers into the room. I can feel Gabi come up behind me and join in on the side hug. I don't respond to either of them, I can't. Nothing that I say will make any of this better. And probably won't come out coherent.

We decided to extend the visit a little longer and go for lunch at our favorite place. Harry's Diner is housed a few blocks from the heart of campus in an inconspicuous building. The thick vine that covers most of the storefront gives the impression that it could very well have been the first building on this block. Stepping inside, however, the well loved and homey atmosphere is accentuated with cracked red and white vinyl booths along walls littered with artwork and signatures of past patrons. The soft sound of jazz fills the air as several of the staff greet us.

I don't even need to look at the menu to know I will have a burger and fries, and of course, a chocolate milkshake to split with Gabi. She and her mom seem to have the same thought because they too don't bother to open the plastic menus that the hostess placed in front of us.

There isn't a lull in conversation as Jill moves from one of her college story into another. It's one I've heard before, but I don't even roll my eyes. She laughs as if it's happening in real time. As if the cook just gave us the same permission to come into the kitchen and cook our own food, like he did when Jill and my mom were in their senior year at State.

This story has been told so many times I could tell it as if I were there. I could repeat every single detail about the burger they created with ridiculous toppings like french fries and chocolate sauce to cure a hangover. But I hang onto every word like it's the first time I've heard it because it breathes air into my lungs. I can finally feel her here, too.