He frowned. "Is it really that bad? I know you wanted more hours a few months ago, but I had no idea… "
"It's really that bad. The thing is, I found something, a job that's helping me squeak by, if barely, but… there's a cost to this job I'm not sure I can pay."
"Nothing illegal, I hope."
"No, nothing illegal. You know I wouldn't do that. But, well… I'm a phone sex operator."
His eyebrows jumped, and then fell with sympathy, and he nodded for me to continue.
With a lot of starts and stops, I told him everything. It felt so good to unload all the crap building inside of me that when I was done I understood why people go to confession. There's something inherently healing in exposing your sins and fears to the light of a trusted witness. To be seen and absolved.
The clock hanging behind him clicked by the seconds as we sat in silence. My relief turned to fear as I worried through his possible reactions. Perhaps this had been a horrible idea.
"Catelyn, I'm so sorry you've been forced into this situation, and I wish I could help you more than I have. I don't judge you for doing what you've had to do to stay in school and follow your dreams. I'll tell you something I've never told anyone. When I was in Los Angeles pursuing my undergrad degree, I once worked sweeping up sex clubs after they'd closed. Not, perhaps, as bad as what you have to do, but I do understand getting your hands dirty to survive. We all have to survive. There's no shame in it."
I nearly sobbed in relief and had to laugh at the image of him sweeping up used condoms.
"There may be a chance I can get you a good internship this summer—a paying internship. It would go a long way to helping with next year. I'm also looking into some scholarships I might be able to recommend you for, things only professors are privy to. Unfortunately, none of this will help for spring semester. So I guess the question is, with everything else going on in your life—which is not insubstantial—can you suffer through this work until July?"
***
His words stayed with me as I purchased replacement books in the school bookstore and stuffed my backpack with study material for the break. It was only a few more months, and if any more calls like the one I'd just had came in, I could hang up. I could tell Donna not to send anything unusual my way. I could make this work, knowing there would be a way out soon. Knowing we all had to survive.
And if Ash kept calling…
I jerked my mind from that dangerous road. If he kept calling, I would have a whole other host of problems to contend with.
On a whim, I went to check the bulletin boards to see if any new jobs had been posted, anything that might be easier than phone sex, when Jon waved at me from a bench under one of my favorite trees. "Catelyn, hi." He walked up carrying his own armload of law books.
"Hi, Jon. What are you doing here during break?"
He flicked his blond hair away from his eyes. "I was at the library catching up on some studying. I find it easier to focus. What about you?"
"I had a meeting with my advisor," I told him as we walked together.
"Did it go well?" When he smiled, I could see bits of Ash in his face, and it made me miss my mystery man.
"You know, I think it did. He gave me some things to consider for my future."
"I'm glad to hear it. Hey, I was just going for coffee. Care to join me? We can compare spring classes and see if we've got anything together."
"I'd actually love that," I said, surprised I meant it, "but I'm meeting Bridgette soon and have one more errand to run first. Rain check?"
"Sure, anytime." He wrote down his number and slipped it in my backpack, since my hands were full. "Give me a call."
Jon had a kindness to him that put me at ease. Like the sun peeking through clouds, he seemed to bring warmth with him and I liked that. I didn't get the same head rush his brother inspired, but I wouldn't mind sharing a cup of coffee with the guy while we talked law school and life. It could be fun.
I found myself smiling and humming to the radio as I drove to my apartment to salvage my past.
Chapter Fifteen
Stalkers
THERE WASN'T MUCH that could be salvaged. The blood-stained message still soaked the walls, but Crackhead had been taken as evidence. A fine coating of fingerprint dust somehow did more to make my living room look like a crime scene than anything else. I felt like I was in an episode of CSI, one where a guest character comes on for an episode, has their life torn apart by murder and mayhem, and then is never seen again.