A few moments later, a phone dings in the auditorium.
Then it starts to ring, and I realize the sound is coming from my bag.
As mortified as I am, that drains away the second I read the message on the display.
I NEED YOUR HELP
Mom.
I close up my laptop and shove it in my backpack and ease my way around my none-too-happy neighbor.
The professor pauses mid-sentence as I rush to the doors, typing out a message to my mom.
Where r u?
When I’m out in the lobby, I pace the tile floor, waiting for her to respond. I press my fingers to my forehead. She could be in Tahiti, for all I know.
The double doors swing open and out pops Channing.
“Hey. I noticed you rushed out. I hope it wasn’t because of Samantha.”
Scott’s girl.
“No.”
“You okay?” he asks.
I eye him cautiously, searching his face. We’ve never spoken before, but I know he knows I’m the girl who dumped their president. It didn’t matter that he cheated; I was the one in the wrong.
“I’m fine,” I say quietly.
He approaches me, lugging his backpack, and another smaller one, a camera bag. With spikey dark hair and glittering sapphire eyes, he’s handsome, yet there’s always been an unapproachable vibe about him.
Quiet. Serious. He’s the type to sit back at parties and take it all in.
I’ve never seen him in the strip club. A point for that.
“You looked a little rattled when you ran out.” He glances at my phone. “Anything I can help you with?”
“Just a little family issue. I can handle it.”
“Cool.” He turns to leave but stops. “Are you planning on going back in there?”
I shake my head.
A rueful laugh comes from him. “Same. I was going to go to the lake and take some pics. This is my only class today. You want to, um, come with?”
I blink.
He grimaces in a self-deprecating way. “Of course, you don’t. You have classes and you don’t know me and that sort of came out of nowhere. Hi, I’m Channing, and you’re Julia. Sorry to be weird.”
“I remember you. You used to run the bar in the basement last year at Kappa. You’re a junior, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So, you take photos?”
He lifts the camera bag. “Photography is my major.”
My smile is wide. Photography is art. Getting the right composition, playing with the colors, adding filters. “Thanks for the invite, but I . . .” I point at my phone. “I’m waiting for a text from someone.”
He hoists the bag higher on his broad shoulders like he hasn’t a care in the world. “So. Boyfriend?”
I feel a blush creeping up my face. “No.”
“Good. Raincheck? Maybe tomorrow? We can go after classes?”
I sigh. “Is that really a good idea? You know, with Parker . . .”
He looks away, then back at me. “We’re not all assholes. Have you ever seen me being a jerk?”
“No.” But given time, his colors will shine through.
I stop that thought and exhale. Is it right to paint them all with the same brush?
He shrugs. “It was an impulse to ask you. I like company when I take photos. It can get lonely at the lake.”
I know what he means. I feel lonely in my bones.
“Sure. Maybe we can chat sometime.” I’m not going out to a deserted lake with some rando but talking through text is doable.
I rattle off my number as he enters it in his phone.
As he saunters away, I feel something I haven’t felt in a long time.
Fuzzy and warm.
Meeting a nice guy. Texting.
Eric. He’s the one who’s made me feel as if I can breathe again.
But those feelings are mixed with him ignoring me.
My phone dings.
My mother has finally responded: 3rd and Chestnut.
That’s on the other side of town, so I call an Uber and find her old Chevy parked half in a no-parking zone, the front tires scraping the curb. There’s a ticket under the windshield wiper. I pluck it out and realize it’s been there four days.
An accordion sunshade rests on the dashboard for privacy. A wall of her belongings in the back does the same.
Frustration gnaws at me. I hate that she lives in her car, and I’ve tried to get her to move in at the house. There’s a small room on the third floor. It’s old and dusty and doesn’t have a bathroom, but it’s a place to sleep. Taylor and Poppy were fine with it, but she refused.
She rolls down the window and stagnant air hits me, old food and unwashed clothes.
“Hey,” she says lightly as she rubs her eyes.
“What’s wrong? You sent me the text that said you needed help. Are you okay?”
She pats at her oily hair, tucking it behind her ears. You have to understand, my mother used to be a beautiful woman. Long, honey colored hair, pretty skin, a killer body.
She looks ancient now. “I’m okay now,” she says. “I haven’t felt good lately. My head hurts.”