Page 146 of The Clinch
Mom asks what I’m wearing, whether I ate, whether I have my charger, whether I remembered my paperwork. I answer all of it until she reaches the question she has clearly been circling.
“So,” she says too casually, “you’re in a car. I assume coming from Brooklyn?”
I turn toward the window, forcing my voice into obedience. “I’ve been staying with Leo.”
“Are we going to meet him soon?”
I hate that she can still embarrass me from another continent. “I’m not discussing this on the way to orientation.”
“Mm.” I can hear the smile in her voice. “So it’s like that.”
“It’s not?—”
“Liz. You’re living with him. That’s not fake anything.”
“Mom.”
“I’m just saying. We’d like to meet the man with good posture you’re not fake-engaged to.”
Dad makes an amused sound and despite myself, I almost laugh.
Mom comes back, gentler now. “I only mean we’re happy for you. Truly. And curious, because you sound different when you talk about him.”
That catches me off guard. “Different how?”
“Settled,” she says simply.
The word lands quietly. I look out the window until the emotion underneath it does too.
My father comes on more clearly then. “You don’t have to explain anything before you’re ready. Just go have your day. One thing at a time.”
One thing at a time.
Very Leo, I think before I can stop myself.
“I will. I’m almost there.”
Mom comes back on. “Call us later. We want details. Real details, not your edited version.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“And Liz?”
“Yeah?”
“We’re proud of you.”
I look out the window until it settles.
“Thanks, Mom.”
When the call ends, I keep holding the phone for a moment, staring at my reflection ghosted faintly in the tinted glass. Beyond it, Manhattan sharpens block by block, all stone and glass and humidity already building in the seams.
The sedan glides over the bridge, smooth as breath. No subway platform baking under fluorescent lights. No damp strangers pressed shoulder to shoulder. No juggling my bag, my folder, my coffee, my nerves. Just cool air, clean upholstery, and the surreal comfort of arriving composed instead of wrung out before the day has even begun.
The driver turns on First Avenue, and NYU medical buildings begin to gather around me in banners, glass, and students moving in bright purposeful streams. By then, the nerves are back in full force.
The sedan slows at the curb.
