Chapter 6
My phone started buzzing before I'd finished my first cup of coffee. I was standing in my socks in the kitchen of my Columbus apartment, the letter pinned to the fridge with a chipped magnet shaped like an apple. I hadn't meant to display it. I'd set it on the counter the night before when I got back, and this morning I'd moved it so I wouldn't spill on it, and then I'd stepped back and left it there because I didn't know where else it should go.
The group text was already fifteen messages deep. Family — Mom, Dad, David, Megan, me. I saw the preview bubbles stack up on my lock screen and felt my stomach tighten before I even opened it.
Megan had sent three photos. The first was the ham on its platter, perfectly glazed, with Dad's hands holding the knife David had used. The second was the tree in the living room, all lit up, with the chandelier blurred in the foreground. The third was the whole table from the far end, wine glasses catching the light. I zoomed in without thinking. The crop was tight. My chair at the head of the table was cut clean off. You could see the edge of the white plate where I'd been sitting, and the corner of my water glass, but not me. Not the green dress, not the letter. It looked like a table set for four.
I set my mug down and opened the thread fully. The messages slid up.
David had written at 8:47 a.m.: Thanks everyone for coming last night. Great dinner at Mom and Dad's. I was happy to host and carve. Hope everyone got home safe. Merry Christmas!
He'd hosted. In my parents' house. With my mom's ham and my dad paying for the wine. I stared at the words until they blurred.
Mom had replied instantly: We loved it honey!!! Thank you for being such a wonderful host ❤️❤️❤️ So blessed!!!
Megan: So fun!! Love you all!!
Dad: Thank you David.
No one had mentioned me. No one had said anything about leaving early, or about the letter I'd held against my chest for ten minutes while David talked over me.
My thumb hovered over the text box. I typed before I could talk myself out of it.
Hey! Thanks for dinner! I wanted to share my news last night but didn't get a chance. I got into the MFA program in Vermont with a full fellowship!!
I stared at the sentence. The two exclamation points looked desperate. I deleted one, then added it back. I added, Starts in June! and then deleted that too.
I watched the three dots appear under Mom's name, then disappear. Nothing came through. David had read my draft — the little Read receipt showed under his name — but no new bubble appeared. The silence in that chat was the same silence that had been at the table when David lifted his palm toward me and I pulled the paper to my chest.
I held my finger over the backspace and erased the whole thing, letter by letter, until the box was empty again. My coffee had gone cold.
The phone rang in my hand and I jumped. Jenna.
"You saw it, didn't you?" she said when I answered. She didn't say hello. She knew what that family text looked like at 9 a.m. on December 26th.
"Yeah," I said. I leaned against the fridge. The letter fluttered a little where the heat hit it. "Megan cropped me out."
"Of course she did," Jenna said. "Are you going to tell them in there?"
I had walked to the window over the parking lot. Snow was turning to gray slush. "I typed it. I deleted it."
"Lauren," she said, and her voice went softer, the way it did when she wasn't joking. "Stop waiting for permission. You don't need David to co-sign your life."
It would have been easier if she was wrong. I felt the tears before I could swallow them, and I hated that.
"It's not about permission," I said. My voice was small and I paused to breathe. "If I take this fellowship, I have to give up the apartment. Or — Mom and Dad help with four hundred of the rent every month. You know that. David reminds me every time. If I move to Vermont for two years, they won't keep paying. And I can't carry it on my teaching pay plus loans."
There it was. I hadn't said it out loud since the acceptance came. Not to my parents, not to David. Only the letter knew the numbers: full tuition, plus a stipend that wouldn't cover Columbus rent and Vermont housing at the same time.
Jenna was quiet for a second. "So that's the leash," she said.
I didn't answer. I pressed my palm flat against the cold glass.
"You've been covering your own rent for months when they were late, Lauren. You told me that," she said. "You can figure out money. You can't figure out another three years of waiting for them to clap for you. That photo where they cut you out — that's your answer about whether that chat is where you tell them."
I looked back at the fridge. The white page glowed against the stainless steel. The deadline at the bottom said December 30th. Three days from now, not counting today.
"I didn't send it," I whispered.
May you like
"I know," Jenna said. "That's okay for today. But you need to decide if you're going to tell them at all, or just tell the school yes and let them catch up."
After we hung up, I left the group chat open on my counter. Another heart came in from Mom, then a photo of the leftover ham wrapped in foil. Still nothing for me. I turned my phone face down and left it there, the unsent words still buzzing behind my teeth.
