Wes cleared his throat. “That…”
Lisa squeezed my hand encouragingly.
“That—” My throat constricted. “Holy shit, I can’t even say it out loud! No wonder she hates me.”
“You…” Lisa said slowly.
“Love.” Wes added.
“Her!” Kiersten smirked at me through the rearview mirror.
“I’m not two.” I pressed my fingers against my temples. “Does anyone have any ideas? Wes? You know how I usually tell you to stop being such a wise ass?”
“Yup.”
“I need you to forget I said that.”
“Nope.”
I groaned again.
Wes pulled into his usual spot in front of the dorm complex. “Look, Gabe, I can’t fix this for you. None of us can. And trying to figure it all out tonight is going to do nothing but stress you out more. The only thing I will say is… your time’s up.”
“No shit,” I spat, wanting to hit something with my fist.
“Gabe.” Wes unbuckled his seatbelt and turned around. “It’s time. You’re done being Gabe. You were never him to begin with. You’ve always been Ashton — a name doesn’t change someone no matter how hard you want it to. Your identity is found in your heart. Not your job, not your status, your name, what your major is, how much money you have. Your heart has been the same the entire time. So, be who you’ve always been.”
“So pick one?” I shook my head confused.
“No.” Wes offered a sad smile. “Fuse them.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Sometimes you have to simplify in order to process. Eating an omelet while listening to my brother talk about football? Free therapy. —Saylor
Saylor
Eric fixed me the best omelet of my life then patted my hand and started jabbering on and on about football and all the different plays. From there, conversation quickly fell to the Seahawks.
“Russell Wilson.” Eric sighed dreamily then pointed a fork in my direction. “He’s better than Tom Brady.”
My mom chose that moment to open the door. She was in her pink nurse scrubs and looked like she’d had a bit of a rough day.
“Eric, how dare you say something against my Patriots!” She grinned and put her hands on her hips. “And what are you doing up so late, young man?”
Eric pointed at me.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Saylor!” She wrapped me in a giant hug and kissed my forehead. And just like that I was a little kid again, wanting my mom to fix things. Wanting a hug and a chocolate chip cookie with milk. “Is everything okay?”
Eric shouted. “She was crying, Mom, but I made her eat.”
“Thank you, Eric.” Mom beamed with approval. “Now, why don’t you go get ready for bed, alright? Can you do that for me?”
Eric started to pout, his lower lip stuck out as his forehead creased.
“Brush your teeth first. Remember to put in your retainer, then crawl into bed.” We’d learned early on that by just giving him an order of direction, he was able to accomplish basically anything, but if I was to tell him to go clean his room he’d throw a fit — the task was too big, too overwhelming. So I had to say things like, pick up your books first, then put them in your backpack, and then find your colored pencils.