Chapter 5
I didn't wait for dessert. The plates were being cleared and the wine was getting low and the conversation had moved on to David's renovation and how much the contractor had charged for the quartz. I stood and said I was going to head out.
It came out too soft at first and nobody heard me over the clink of forks. I said it again, louder. "I'm going to head home before the roads get worse."
My mother looked up from stacking plates. Her mouth did that tight, polite thing it always did when I broke the script. "So early, honey? You haven't had pie."
"I should beat the snow," I said. I folded the letter in half and slipped it into my purse. The crease felt wrong on that thick paper, but I didn't want to hold it anymore with everyone watching.
She came around the table and hugged me. She smelled like ham and the pine cleaner she used on the dining room floor. Her hands squeezed my shoulders and then let go fast, like she was afraid to hold on too long while David was watching.
David didn't get up. He was half-turned in his chair, his phone lit in his left hand, the carving knife still resting against the edge of the platter. He gave me a curt nod without looking up all the way. "Drive safe," he said. His thumb kept scrolling.
That was it. I zipped my coat in the entryway and left while they were still clearing.
The snow had started for real. County Road 43 out of town was already covered, the lines barely visible, and the plows hadn't come through yet. I kept both hands on the wheel and the heat blasting against my knees and watched the taillights ahead blur and sharpen with each gust.
For the first forty minutes I didn't turn on music. I just drove and replayed his hand. The way he'd lifted his left palm like he was stopping traffic, like I was being unreasonable for holding that piece of paper at his dinner. I kept seeing it in the dark in front of me, his fingers splayed, the knife tipped toward the ham. I could hear my own breathing in the car, loud against the hum of the tires.
A semi threw slush across my windshield and I flinched and hit the wipers. My purse was on the passenger seat, the top unzipped, the corner of the white envelope sticking out. Every time the headlights of an oncoming car swept the interior, it glowed.
I told myself I was fine to drive the whole way. Then just past the Sunoco at the Delaware exit, I pulled in. I needed to use the bathroom and I needed to not be moving for a minute.
The gas station lot was half-plowed, the fluorescent lights buzzing over the pumps. I parked away from the entrance, near the air pump, and left the engine running. Snow settled on the windshield faster than the wipers could clear it when they were off.
I pulled out my phone. My hands were cold even with the heat on. I opened the email again, the one I'd been afraid to open anywhere near my family, and tapped the portal link at the bottom.
The fellowship portal loaded slow on the station wifi. A photo came up first — a white farmhouse with a covered porch, the Vermont residency campus in late summer, green hills behind it. Then another: a small single room with a dormer window, a wooden desk under it, a twin bed made tight. Shared kitchen. Library with the long tables.
I scrolled. Stipend amount. Health coverage. Move-in January 18th. Housing application due January 3rd. I stared at that date. Ten days.
It looked real in a way the letter hadn't when it was clutched against my dress. It looked like a place I could go where the work would be the point, not the interruption between serving potatoes and checking on mom's appointments.
I opened my texts before I could talk myself out of it.
Me: Hey. Are you up? I got in. Full tuition. Vermont.
Jenna answered in under a minute. She always did.
Jenna: LAUREN. YOU GOT IN??? The low-residency one???
Me: Yeah. I told them at dinner tonight. Showed the letter. They looked at their phones.
Jenna: Are you serious.
Me: David did that hand thing and kept carving. Mom hugged me and told me not to upset him earlier.
Three dots, then:
Jenna: I'm so sorry. That is exactly what they do. Are you okay driving? Where are you?
Me: Gas station outside Delaware. Looking at the housing pics. I don't know what I'm doing.
Jenna: You're doing it. You got a fellowship. That's not small, Lo. That's huge.
I sat there with the phone glowing in my lap, snow melting on the windshield, and felt my throat get tight in a different way than at the table. Not hurt, exactly. Closer to relief.
Me: Can I call you when I'm home?
Jenna: Anytime. Drive safe. Keep the letter flat.
I smiled for the first time since I'd stood up. I locked the phone and put it back in my purse next to the envelope.
The drive into Columbus was quieter. The highway was clearer the closer I got to the city. By the time I turned onto my street, the snow had turned to that wet, heavy kind that sticks to sidewalks.
My apartment was cold when I unlocked it. I kicked off my boots on the mat and hung my coat and stood in the kitchen in my green dress. I took the letter out, smoothed the crease as best I could with my palm, and laid it flat on the kitchen counter next to the sink. Not pinned up. Not hidden in my purse. Just there, white against the laminate, where I would see it in the morning.
May you like
My phone buzzed. Jenna had sent a photo of her cat asleep on her couch with the caption "your roommate if you need a break from grading."
I texted back a heart and didn't turn off the light over the counter when I went to change.
