Page 117 of Don't Let Me Break

I can hear the smile in her voice. It makes me breathe a little easier.

“Heck, maybe they’ll even tag along,” she adds dryly.

Relief floods my veins as I sag further into the leather seat. “You think?”

“Uh-huh. I kind of do. You got this, Mack. Do it for yourself. Do it because you can. And have a little faith in the people around you. They’ve got your back.”

No one’s ever had my back the way she does. Summer sure as hell didn’t. Not in the end.

But Kate?

I have a hunch she’d do almost anything to see me happy. And it means more than she’ll ever know.

“Thanks, Kate,” I murmur. “And I’m sorry about your test score.”

“It’s fine. Actually, it isn’t, but there’s nothing I can do about it, so…” Her voice trails off, leaving only the sound of the freeway as I head toward her house. I hate how I can hear what she isn’t saying. How she feels helpless. How she feels like she’s always swimming upstream. How she feels like no matter how much time and effort she puts into school, she still won’t be enough. And it’s the furthest thing from the truth.

I check my blind spot, merging between cars. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Why’d you choose biochemistry in the beginning?”

“Oof. Um…probably because it came easy, made my parents proud, and I thought I could make a lot of money,” she answers with a laugh.

“If you could go back, would you choose it again?”

“I can’t go back.”

“Yeah, but if you could,” I push. “Do you even like it anymore?”

Her silence rings louder than any response she could give.

“Kate?”

“I don’t have any other options, Mack.”

“Why’d you decide to get your master’s?” I ask. “You must have realized you didn’t like it by then.”

“Who says I don’t like it?” She’s defensive. I can hear it in her voice. The slight hitch. The short, sharp response.

Recognizing how fine of a line I’m walking, I hedge, “Just a hunch. I see how much school stresses you out.”

“It’s familiar. I like familiar.”

“And the idea of graduating?” I probe.

“Terrifies me,” she admits with another laugh, but it’s forced. Laced with defeat. With brutal honesty.

“Do your doctors know how much the medication messes with your memory?” I ask.

She hesitates. “No.”

“I think you should tell them.”

“It’s not a big deal, Mack.”

“I think it’s been affecting you for so long you’ve grown accustomed to it.”

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