"WHO WAS THAT?"

The tray of sandwiches had barely touched the table when my mom's highly suggestive question came. Out of instinct, I looked towards the door, expecting to see Jace's retreating frame, but he was already long gone. I knew that.

"A friend," I told my mom as I lowered myself into the chair across from her.

"And I assume you stare at all your friends?"

I was still a little confused about whatever it was that just happened. My body buzzed with warm, foreign static, and I could still smell him on me despite the fact that we didn't touch. It was already strange enough without having to admit the fact that we were, in fact, unashamedly staring at each other by a public counter. Or that I didn't even remember to ask about Sydney's health.

It was ridiculous.

In an effort to deflect, I took a sandwich from the tray and said, "The sandwiches made here are heavenly, Mom. You should try one."

She heeded and reached for one, but made it clear that the conversation was far from over when, after taking a bite and making a small sound of approval at the back of her throat, she informed, "Tomi told me you don't have a boyfriend. I thought she was playing."

I focused on taking a bite out of my own sandwich so I wouldn't release the breath that rose in my chest. I didn't see the point of this, and I didn't think I wanted to. "I find it weird that you're encouraging me to have one," I offered in place of a proper answer. What even qualified as a proper answer?

"Oh, don't get me wrong. I like that you don't have one. I haven't quite healed from walking into the bathroom and seeing Mitchell's fingers inside your sister."

I almost laughed at the memory of the shock in my mom's voice as she gasped, "Ewatomi!" with the Yoruba accent and all. Mitchell had been rudely asked to "get out" of our house, and Tomi was asked if she was mad about ten times before my mom angrily told her to "get out" of her sight, then proceeded to get on a call with our father and complain about how she didn't like her daughter's "lifestyle."

Tomi was barely bothered about it, and it was that night, as we both stayed sequestered in her room to avoid Mommy's Wrath, that she told me just how great sex felt. In unnecessary detail.

I wondered if my mom knew that Tomi and Mitch were still together several months later.

"Admittedly, that was a quite traumatizing experience," I told my mom, still biting down on my laugh.

I found this humorous, but it was clear my mom didn't. Her eyes glazed over in a faraway manner, and a sad smile tugged at one side of her mouth. "I've never felt like I have much of a say in Tomi's life." The admission came softly. "She reminds me a lot of your dad. They both want what they want, and there's not really anything anyone can do about it."

It must've felt somewhat of a curse for her to see pieces of him in us. I looked more like him than Tomi did—the heart-shaped face, the eyes, the lips, the complexion—but she had his confidence, his poise, and apparently, she lay like him when she slept. We didn't even have any tangible memories of this man, yet we carried him in us.

"Sometimes she scares me," Mom continued. "There's this wildness in her eyes."

"She just has so much . . . control over her narrative. I wouldn't call it wildness."

"And that only drives my point of her being too much like your dad."

"When was the last time you talked to him?"

My mom took another bite of her sandwich, and a moment to chew. Perhaps to gather her thoughts. "Maybe two weeks ago," she responded. There was a beat of hesitation as her lips parted again, and I found myself leaning forward. She didn't hesitate much. After a moment too long, she finally said, "He called me with a new number and asked me not to tell Tomi about it."

An exasperated breath left me almost immediately. I wished I was surprised. "Of course. His next act is to slowly cut off contact with the daughter that's actually interested in his miserable life."

"Désiré." Her voice was sharp, and it said everything. You're going too far. Because God forbid anyone badmouthed him. Despite what he'd done, she seemed to think he still deserved our respect. "I know you don't like to hear this part, but your dad is happy where he is."

"That's not fair," I grumbled, suddenly caught in the riptide of my annoyance.

"A lot of things aren't, baby. But like that saying goes—it is what it is."

What goes around apparently doesn't come around. Either that or the beings overseeing the law of karma also felt my dad still deserved some respect. Far softer blows. A part of me had always wanted to see his life fall apart the way ours did, but it seemed the harder I hoped, the better he became.

"Is he still with Alice?"

"I would've told you if he wasn't."

Another breath left me, and I picked up my sandwich again. This conversation was killing my appetite, but I had to eat, so I forced myself to take a bite.

After a few heartbeats, my mom continued. "I don't think he feels as obligated to be involved in you girls' lives now that you're both . . ." She trailed off, and I struggled to complete the sentence. Now that we were both grown? Both in university? Both eighteen and older? "But I want us to just . . . try. To stop making our lives revolve around him. It's been years, and I think we're doing great."

I thought we were doing great, too. But he was happy, and we weren't. I wasn't. He left this gaping hole in our family, and it was so monumental that we were still trying to fill it eighteen years later. I wished he was unremarkable. He would've been easier to forget that way, and maybe I would've found it easier to form an identity outside the daddy issues.

I had a lot more to say, but I didn't think it was worth it, so I nodded. "At least he still pays for our tuition."

I didn't expect my mom to laugh, but she did. "Small miracles. He's a good man. Despite everything, he's a good man."

I certainly did not agree, but I kept that to myself.

My mom exhaled. "Anyway, how's Carlton University treating you? Other than harvesting your body fat, of course."

"Mom," I said with a chuckle. "It's been . . . fine, I guess? Some days are more stressful than others, but overall, it's a good experience." I chewed on my next words for a minute before finally summoning the courage to say them. "I'm also very, very broke." As soon as the words were out of my mouth, discomfort rolled the contents of my stomach. I folded my arms and placed them on the tabletop, my fingers digging into my skin before I even got any form of reaction from her. "I wanted to get my hair done so I at least look nice for you, but Tomi refused to Venmo me money—"

"Tomi isn't supposed to be sending you money, Désiré."

I let out a sigh, feeling stupid. "I know."

"What about your job?"

"I work three hours twice a week and earn ten bucks an hour."

"Yet you didn't talk to me about it, and insisted on paying for both my Uber and my meal." Her tone wasn't necessarily scolding, but I felt scolded. "I'm your mother. You don't have to pay for anything I need until you're solid on your feet."

For her birthday in February, Tomi had gotten her a brand new set of kitchenware—because my mom loved kitchenware—and the only thing I'd done was FaceTime her at exactly midnight because I wanted to be the first one to wish her happy birthday. It felt like a slap when she sent me pictures later in the day with the accompanying text: Look what your sister sent! I didn't know why, but I'd felt the need to compensate ever since, like I was letting Tomi perform the roles of a first daughter for me while I sat here and complained about how life kept knocking me down.

I didn't want to talk much about it, so again, I nodded.

"How about your roommate?" she asked. "Kenzie."

"Kelsey."

"Your roommate, Kelsey."

"She's great. Looking at off-campus accomodation and trying to rope me into paying rent. The building's five minutes away from where I work, and she has a car . . ."

My mom smiled. "I could speak to your dad about that, if you want. Make up a lie about a wasp infestation in the dorms."

I was laughing before I even realized it. "That wouldn't be too far from the truth. There's a wasp nest on my floor."

"Consider it done, baby. Just find out the details and let me know."

I stared at her, and my chest pulsed with so much emotion, I thought I was going to cry. "Really, Mom?"

"Of course." Then she lifted a finger and reached into her leather purse. When she placed a crisp envelope in front of me, I leaned back in my seat. "In the meantime . . ."

"What's this?"

"A gift."

I didn't need to guess what was in the envelope. It was flat and easy to overlook, so either a letter, or cash.

"I hope it helps you sort out some things, and I promise, this time we'll have much more regular check-ins to discuss funds. Stop harassing your sister on Venmo, please."

My laugh that time was quiet, and I felt my tears draw closer to the surface. "Thank you, Mom. For everything."

She reached across the table to place a hand over mine, and when she smiled at me, I felt some of the tension leave my body. "Anytime, baby." Then she leaned back and took out some tissue from her bag. "I need to wee. Don't miss me too much."

"If you say so," I responded with a smile and watched her walk away, vaguely conscious of the fact that in just a few hours, she'd be in her hotel room, getting ready for her flight back to California tomorrow.

When my gaze returned to the table, it landed on her phone. And it took just a few seconds and little thought for the plan to take shape in my head.

Her passcode was the same as always. Two, four, six, eight. So she'd remember it easier, she claimed. It was a little concerning because it meant anyone could have access to her phone, but I couldn't complain right now. I navigated to her contacts, scrolled through the list until I got to the Ms, then I tapped on Micah and copied the number to my phone.

I wanted to see how many times he was willing to change his number.

I hadn't texted Chantay Pearson in a hot second, but barely five minutes after I asked if she could book me for a hair appointment on Sunday afternoon, my phone pinged with her reply.

Girl, I've missed toying with your hair! 2pm sharp!

I let out a sigh of relief. "At least I have one thing working for me."

Kelsey spun around in the swivel chair by the desk, sharpened pencil in hand. "And that is?"

"I'm going to get my hair done Sunday."

Completely unexpected, she let out an ugh and briefly tilted her head to the ceiling. The sun was about to set, so a streak of warm orange was cast against one side of her face through the open window. "When are you going to let me live through you, De?"

From my spot on her bed, I sent her a blank stare. "Not this again."

"I'm just saying. The both of us can't be stuck in a dorm room on a Friday night."

I playfully rolled my eyes at her. "Excuse me, I'm not stuck here. I just thrive in solitude."

"Bullshit."

"That was unnecessarily aggresive."

She took a moment to put her pencil down and close her notebook over it, then her attention was back on me. "The only social event I know of happening tonight is some orgy at Birch."

"Ew."

She pointed at me. "Exactly. That's the only reason I didn't pull you out by your hair. I considered just going there for the food, but the cafeteria closes at ten."

Birch was the most notorious residential hall in Carlton, and had been duly nicknamed Ninth Circle. All of the most atrocious, unthinkable, orgiastic things that had ever happened here did in or around the building. A controversial, fraternity-bent ritual slash hall initiation that eventually led to a kid falling off the roof in 2011. An actual murder in 2015. A string of racist crimes in 2019 that triggered a month-long student protest. A short period of cybercrime. A string of badly-filmed porn not too long ago. You name it, and it had probably happened in Birch.

But their cafeteria ironically served the best food on campus.

"I do not want to be involved in anything Birch-related, Kelce. My brain actually works tonight, and I plan to use it to work on a paper." I pushed myself off her bed to go get my laptop, even though I wasn't exactly filled with inspiration, and she got up from the swivel chair.

"You're always working on a paper."

"Well, my psychology professors do not play."

My phone pinged again, then again, but I focused on getting my laptop from where it had been buried since that morning.

"Sydney Miller as in Sydney Miller, or you know another Sydney Miller?"

At the sound of that, I forgot about my task and dove for my phone. Almost on autopilot, I tapped on the text and waited the millisecond it took to open with my heart in my mouth.

Hey De. I still feel quite shitty, but thanks for checking up, it said.

I couldn't believe he responded to my text. It took over twenty-four hours, but Sydney Miller responded to my text. The same Sydney Miller who didn't accept my follow request on Instagram.

I was about to summon my keyboard when I realized that it hadn't even been a minute since the text came in. Responding so quickly would make it look like I was waiting, the same way I waited to see the follow confirmation months ago, and I didn't want to come off as that available. Regardless of the fact that he'd see that I'd read the text if he came back to the thread. If he cared enough to, that is.

As I stared into my screen, another text popped in, nearly startling.

How are you?

"Hello?" Kelsey waved her hand in front of my face to get my attention, and I pushed the power button of my phone.

"I don't know another Sydney Miller," I responded, going back for my laptop.

For a moment, Kelsey was quiet, and I could tell she was debating on whether or not to say the words on her mind. Eventually, she settled on, "Okay, I'll just assume it's not what I think."

"In case you forgot," I lifted my sheets and took the device beneath it, "Sydney and I have a couple of classes together. We're allowed to text each other."

She made a vague gesture in front of her face. "All right. That makes sense, I guess."

"I talked to my mom about the apartment thing, by the way."

That was enough to distract her, proven by how dramatically her jaw dropped. "And?"

"And," I transported myself back to her bed, "she wants us to make inquiries."

Kelsey grabbed my hands without warning and squealed like a schoolgirl. "Yes, De!"

"But no promises. She just wants to be sure it's . . . doable."

"Of course, of course. But it's exciting, isn't it?" She sat next to me, her doe eyes wide with emotion. "We could have more space, and a fridge, and a kitchen to cook in. And we could host cute little get-togethers."

"Kelsey," I interjected with a chuckle. "No promises, remember?"

She nodded. "Of course."

We discussed getting the necessary information from the property manager at least by next Friday, but throughout the conversation, I stared at a blank spot on my laptop screen, my mind on Sydney's text and how he could see that I'd read it but didn't respond.

Strangely, I liked how it made me feel.

syd could've totally done without that how are you. just saying.