Page 47 of Only Fate

“Sorry,” I sputter. “River never told me.”

She nods, an acceptance of my apology, and sweeps a chunk of hair away from her face. “Although, sometimes, I think about changing my major.”

“I can relate to that.” My eyes meet hers. “What route would you go instead?”

She picks off a loose thread from River’s comforter. “Drop out. Learn to knit. Become a chef.” She taps her finger on the corner of her mouth. “I’d have to take some serious classes to accomplish cooking, though.”

“My mother would kill me if I switched majors.”

“I don’t know what my parents would do.” She chews on her lower lip. “They’re usually supportive of our decisions. They never told me to go into law or follow in their footsteps. Luckily, they allowed River and me to choose our futures.”

My mother chose my future before I left the womb.

A step-by-step plan for the perfect son.

Born. Potty-trained early. Law school. Work at a prestigious firm. Marry after thirty. Babies no earlier than thirty-five so she isn’t a young grandmother.

My face turns sullen, but I snap myself out of it, not wanting her to pick up on my jealousy of her having supportive parents.

I spring off the bed. “You thirsty?”

“Uh … sure.”

I open the mini fridge under River’s desk. “Your options are water, cold coffee, Sprite, or these weird drinks called …” I slowly read off the name of an apple cider vinegar drink.

“I’ll take that, please.” She scoots to the edge of the bed.

I grab a grape-flavored one, hold it up for her approval, and pass it to her after she nods. “So, you’re the reason River buys those?”

They’ve been sitting in the fridge all year.

When I asked why he hadn’t tossed them, he said, “They’re gross, but you can try one,” and then returned his attention to Netflix.

I tried an orange flavor.

And it tasted like cat piss.

At least what I imagined cat piss would taste like.

She nods. “He hates them, but I pretty much live on these and vanilla lattes.”

I grab a cold coffee for myself. Coffee is what I live on.

Essie sits cross-legged on the bed, pops open the can, and straightens her posture, as if ready to get to business. “What can I do to help you study?”

“You’re upset,” I say. “I’m sure studying is the last thing you want to do.”

“Actually, it’d help.” She settles her can on River’s nightstand, pulls a hair tie from her wrist, and scoops her hair up into a ponytail before securing it.

Studying relaxes her.

A remedy to her sorrow.

I understand it because I use studying to forget my problems.

As our eyes meet, I wonder how long that suffering has been there.

“Why are you upset?” I unscrew the cap to my coffee and collapse onto my bed. “Is it a guy?” My head spins as the next thought comes to mind. “No one hurt you, did they?”

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