Page 56 of Parallel

“I emailed Georgetown today,” I blurt out. I meant to introduce the topic slowly. Alas. “Admissions. To see about coming back.”

He’s silent for so long I begin to wonder if he even heard me. “Honey,” he finally says weakly, “you’re not really considering this?”

He makes getting a degree in architecture sound like some outlandish pipe dream. As if I just told him I want to be an Olympic gymnast or star in Hamilton. It’s one of many ways he and my mother are similar—the things they want in life have never required a degree, so to them it’s mostly a useless accessory. A second degree, therefore, is completely frivolous. “Obviously I am, or I wouldn’t have emailed them.”

“Jesus, Quinn,” he groans. “I tell you I might lose my job and you think it’s a good time to quit?”

Will there ever be a good time to quit, Jeff? Will there ever be a time when you aren’t about to lose a job? Irritation blossoms into anger as I hold in all the things I want to say. “Why was it okay for me to blow my inheritance on that house I didn’t even want in Manassas, but it’s not okay for me to use it on a degree I’ve wanted my entire life?”

He sighs. “Because a house moves our lives forward. Our neighborhood isn’t a good place for kids. You know that. But think about how long your degree will take. Four years? Five years? And all that time you’re accruing debt and not working. Which means we’re not having a kid until well after you’re done. I’m 32. I don’t want to wait until I’m in my 40s to start a family, and that’s basically what you’re asking of me.”

“I may only have a few years to live,” I reply. “I don’t think kids are even in the picture for me anymore.”

“Stop saying things like that!” he demands. “You have no idea how long you’re going to live! We haven’t even met with the oncologist yet.”

“Whether I have a year or a century, I’m going to want the degree more than a house.”

He’s quiet again, recalibrating. “Look, hon,” he finally says. “I know I’m not reacting the way you want me to, but you’re kind of springing this on me. If the degree is that important to you, we can discuss it, okay? Just wait until I’m home.”

I agree, but as I hang up there’s only one thought in my head: that money is mine. And it suddenly feels very important that I spend it the way I want before it becomes ours.

27

NICK

It’s been forty-eight hours since I’ve spoken to Quinn.

Too long.

I need to hear her raspy laugh and see that surprised smile of hers, the pleasure in her face over the smallest things.

God knows I shouldn’t, but I find myself dialing her number on Thursday morning. I could pretend this is a professional call, but I’m not fooling anyone at this point.

“I was just checking to see how many vanishing teenagers you’ve run into since I saw you last,” I say.

She laughs. “My yogurt appears to have vanished from our break room, if that counts. Hey, guess what I did?”

I settle into my chair, leaning my head against the wall behind me. “Learned how to time travel?”

“Think slightly smaller. I talked to Georgetown about coming back.”

There’s something new in her voice. A certain charge, an excitement, that I’ve never heard before. “What did they say?”

She sighs. “I, of course, had some ridiculous hope that they might fit me in for the coming school year. I’m too late for that, but they said next fall for certain, and possibly January.”

I might be able to help, but I don’t want to get her hopes up. “The important thing is it’s happening.”

“Yeah,” she agrees. The excitement has left her voice. “Probably.”

“What do you mean by probably?” I demand. “This is what you want. There’s no probably about it. It’s happening.”

She hesitates. I can picture her there, pressing fingers to her temple or twisting her ring. “I don’t know. If I put it toward a house, Jeff would be able to enjoy it…or he could sell it and move back to Pennsylvania and start over. It’s what he wants to do anyway. Is it selfish to spend that money on a degree I might never use?”

Anger, sharp and all-consuming, pierces me. She has a fucking brain tumor. He should be turning over the world to make every one of her dreams come true. “No,” I hiss. “It’s not. What’s selfish is him asking you to do anything else with it.”

“Well, once we’re married it’s our money, isn’t it? It won’t even be my decision anymore.”

Jesus Christ. The idea of her really going through with this wedding kills me. The idea of Jeff keeping her from that degree bothers me almost as much. “Can you meet me at the harbor tonight? Around six?” I ask. “There may be something I can do. I need to make a few calls first.”