Page 130 of The Breakup Artists

She’s quiet for a beat, probably trying to sort out what I might have overheard. “Listen,” she says, gently pulling back and looking me in the eye. “That was our mistake. Those were our fears, and not even things that had come to pass, just the projection of future obstacles that might be. The things we said to each other were not for you to take on. First and foremost, we’re your parents. Best job of our lives and one that we take very seriously. I’m not going anywhere.”

And while I get that it’s all a moot point now anyway, I needed to hear her say it.

I wipe at my wet cheeks and then bury my face back in her shoulder. She holds me tight and I listen to her heartbeat, something I used to do as a little girl.

“Now,” Dad says after a few minutes. “Since I’ve taken the day off, how about I make us all some celebratory blueberry-and-chocolate-chip pancakes?” he asks, and my mom and I both give enthusiastic approval.

“I’m just going to jump in the shower,” I tell them, energized by relief. “Be down in ten minutes.” I pull my phone off my nightstand as my parents exit and type a slew of excited texts to August about Baby Sharma.

But as I pass my vanity on the way to the bathroom, I catch sight of the spot where my Berkeley sticker used to be, and my pep fizzles. Now more than ever, it feels like there’s no way I can go to California. And as much as I don’t want to have that conversation, I know I can’t avoid it.

When our celebratory breakfast is over, I put my dishes neatly in the dishwasher and know that if I don’t do this now, I’ll lose my nerve. “August,” I say, like somehow the act of declaring his name will inspire bravery. Even so, I delay and make him a coffee peace offering.

When I finally do walk out onto my porch, I pause. August didn’t bring Berkeley up last night, and the only reason I can figure he didn’t is because he must have thought it was an empty threat, that I’d never in a million years abandon our plan.

While I deliberate, Bentley’s screen door opens. And as it turns out, that’s all the motivation I need. I bolt off my porch and into August’s yard.

I climb into August’s room and find him propped up on his elbows in bed, squinting at the early-afternoon light. “You’re awake. Saves me the trouble of dragging you out of bed by your feet.” I try to make my tone light, but I’m buzzing with nervous energy, and I miss the humor mark.

He rubs his hands over his face and thanks me for the coffee I shove at him.

August studies me for a second with that annoying best-friend expression that suggests he can hear my thoughts. “You cool?”

“Yes. I mean, no. Honestly, I’m confused.” I pace on his rug, but the information doesn’t flow out of me in a thoughtful explanation as I imagined. It doesn’t even trickle; I say nothing at all.

“Tiny?”

I push my hair over my shoulder, taking a deep breath. “Man, I just... I do not know how to say this. I’m trying. You see that, right?” I open and close my mouth, attempting to figure out how not to ruin the bonding we did last night.

“So this is about Berkeley,” he says in a knowing tone. There’s something in his voice, a tightness that makes my mouth go dry and my stomach clench.

I can’t bear to look at him. “Yeah.”

August doesn’t respond, and when I’m brave enough to sneak a peek, he’s staring down at his coffee.

“Berkeley’s great, but... it’s a goal we created in fifth grade when we thought it’d be cool to be in summer weather forever. And now...” I trail off, picking at my nails, which I just painted.

Silence.

My stomach flips in a bad way. “I’m just not convinced California is for me. And my mom’s having this baby, so.”

“Tiny,” he says, and even though his voice is quiet, it stops me. “You decided this before the baby. You took the Berkeley sticker off your mirror weeks ago.”

“Yeah, but I guess the baby solidified it?”

He shakes his head, not accepting my answer. “Say you don’t want to go, but don’t blame it on an outdated goal. You researched every top-ten business school last year and came to the same conclusion over and over—that Berkeley was the best. Not the best in the country—that always changes—but the best for you.”

I press my lips together to stave off a whimper at how right he is and how well he knows me.

“Last winter you literally spent three days making a schedule of all the non–New England things we could do in California. Not to mention the fact that the day we found out we were accepted, you canceled movie night so you could pick out classes.”

I frown. “Fine. You’re right. I just don’t want to go.”

“If I thought that were true, I wouldn’t argue. But you’re acting like one of the people from our cases, letting your fear stop you from doing something you care about.”

My eyes whip to his. “That’s a shit thing to say.”

“Okay, then tell me one reason you don’t want to, and not because you suddenly changed your mind, something substantial.”