Lydia jumped down the stairs, four at a time. She ran outside barefoot, her feet freezing on the ice-cold pavement. She yanked open the mailbox door. Letters. She jammed her hand in so hard to get them that she got a paper cut. She couldn’t breathe.
Junk mail. Junk mail. Something for her mom. Something for her mom. Something for her dad. Junk mail. Junk mail. NYU.
Literally the last item in the stack. She closed her eyes, held her breath, and tore. She almost couldn’t bring herself to read it. But she did.
Dear Lydia,
Hello and greetings from NYU Undergraduate Admissions.
First and foremost—congratulations on your acceptance to NYU. We are thrilled to congratulate you on this achievement!
She stopped reading and screamed. And jumped. And jumped and screamed. Her mom rushed out to see what was wrong. Lydia showed her the letter. They jumped and screamed together. Her dad rushed around from the backyard, where he was stacking his new firewood. They all jumped and screamed together.
“Everything look okay, Mr. McGowan? I unloaded that pallet of pasta and got it on the shelves and I mopped produce.”
Mr. McGowan ran down his clipboard with his pen, mumbling to himself. “Looks good to me, Dill. You got done early, but I’ll clock you out normal. Great work.”
“Thanks. See you tomorrow night.”
“Hey, real quick, Dill. You still available full time come the end of school?”
“Yessir. As many hours as I can get.”
“Great. I’ll tell the big boss. He’ll be glad to hear it.”
Dill took off his green work apron, put on his coat, and walked outside. Not a bad night to walk home. It was one of those February nights with the smallest breath of warmth beneath the cold.
“Want a ride home, mister?” Lydia sat on the bumper of her Prius. Her voice startled him. Not only because he wasn’t expecting to hear it, but because (and he could have been completely wrong about this) it had a flirtatious quality that had appeared with greater frequency after the talent competition. Dill attributed this to her being impressed with his bravery. Anything more would have been too much to hope for.
“What are you doing here? I thought you had blog stuff.”
“Not tonight. That’s actually why I’m here. Can we talk?” She must have noted the look of anxiety that passed over Dill’s face. “It’s good news. Kinda.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Cool. Hop in. We’re heading to Good News Coffee. I thought the name was appropriate. I’m buying.”
They were mostly quiet on the drive.
“Can you give me a hint?” Dill asked.
“Let me have my big announcement.”
“You got into college somewhere. NYU?”
“Please let me have my announcement.”
They got to Good News, ordered their Christian-themed beverages, and sat.
“Okay,” Dill said. “Let’s have it.”
“I got my acceptance letter from NYU today.”
A sharp pain in his chest. A quick electric shock to his heart. The jolt spread lower and lower, into his stomach, like droplets of blood diffusing into water.
It’s like when his name was called at the talent competition, the way his mind freezes and goes somewhere else. He’s at some college campus. Maybe NYU. He can’t say because he doesn’t know what NYU looks like. And Lydia is sitting on a bench with some guy. He’s handsome and well dressed (probably by her), with an insouciant, shaggy casualness that bespeaks money. They’re talking and laughing. Autumn leaves fall around them.
And Lydia is sitting at a coffee shop with the guy. There are books stacked high around them—the way opportunity and possibility are stacked around them.
And then the guy is sitting in a car with Dr. Blankenship, and they’re talking and laughing. And he’s sitting at the Blankenships’ table beside Lydia, across from Dr. and Mrs. Blankenship.
And Dill is wearing his green Floyd’s apron. He’s outside in the cold, watching them through the window. He can see his reflection in the glass, and he looks exhausted and used up. And it makes perfect but agonizing sense why the guy is sitting with Lydia and he’s not.
Dill did his best to smile. “Congratulations,” he said softly. “I—I knew you would get in. I never doubted it.” If only I could have doubted it. If only I could have pretended even for a second.
“Thanks. For believing in me and being my friend.”
“So. Are you going?”
“Yeah. I am.” She said it gently. She must have heard the hopeful lilt in his voice.
She got up, walked around the table, and gave him a lingering hug, running her fingers through the back of his hair. She’d been finding more excuses to hug him lately.
“What was that for?” Dill asked.
“Because you looked like your heart stepped on a Lego.”
Dill stared at his Hosanna Hot Chocolate. “I’m happy for you. You wouldn’t be happy here and I wouldn’t want you to be unhappy.”
“I know.”
“Please don’t forget about me.”
“I never will. You’re my best friend.”
“Have you told Travis?”
“Not yet. He’s out selling firewood tonight. Did you know he was doing that?”
“Yeah, I did.” And that’s not the only thing we’ve kept from you.
They sat and nursed their drinks. They heard the wail of sirens. They turned and looked outside to see an ambulance speed past, followed by two police cars.
“So, I have some good news too, I guess. A little more of a plan for when I graduate,” Dill said.
Lydia raised her eyebrows. “Oh yeah? Tell me.”
“Trav and I are going to rent a place together and be roommates. We’re both superexcited. He’ll write stories and I’ll write songs. And our lame dads won’t be allowed.”
Lydia tilted her head and smiled. “That sounds awesome. A tiny bohemian artists’ colony right here in Forrestville.”
Dill grew more animated. As if trying to persuade Lydia that it really was awesome, which was what he was doing. As if trying to persuade himself, which was what he was doing. “We’re planning on having Friday-night movie nights still. We thought maybe you could join us sometimes on video chat. Not every time, because obviously you’ll be busy.”
“I would sincerely be honored.” After a while she said, “Is this what you want, Dill?”
“It’s as close as I’m going to get,” he said, after a moment’s reflection.
“That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you—that you be happy and live the life you want to live. I thought you’d need to leave here to do that, but maybe not.”
“Maybe not.”
And Dill realized that maybe he wasn’t so easy to read. If he were, Lydia would have asked him why he looked as though he felt like his heart was being pulled from his chest, fiber by fiber, cell by cell, molecule by molecule. And instead of killing him, it only hollowed him out.
Raynar Northbrook perched atop the isolated redoubt, keeping his lone vigil by the river. If any scouts of Rand Allastair’s came this way, they would meet a fiercer foe than they had anticipated. There were others who could and gladly would sit at this lonesome post in his place, but he did not ask of his men that which he was unwilling to do himself. And they loved him for it.
Travis sat on top of the remnants of his firewood. It didn’t seem like it would be a great spot—it was right by the river and not especially close to any houses or businesses. But Lamar recommended it, and he was right.
How’s the firewood selling? Amelia texted.
Pretty good night, especially after Doc B bought so much. Few more nights like this and I can afford a new laptop, Travis replied.
When do I get to read the story you wrote?
LOL once Lydia tells me what I need to fix. I want you to see the best version.
I bet it’s great already. You’re so smart.
Aw thank you. Hey I just got an idea.
TELL ME.
When Deathstorm comes out, we should meet in between where we live and read it together!!
I LOVE THAT IDEA!!!!!
Ok we’ll do it!! We can get blankets and lie in the back of my truck and read with flashlights.