Tempting(71)

But he didn’t. And he wouldn’t.

It wasn’t until I was on the train out of the city that I received Nathan’s first communication with me since our argument. I had been expecting it, after missing class, but didn’t think he’d actually message me until he noticed my absence the following Monday, as I wasn’t planning to return until after Thanksgiving.



To: Alice Carroll

Date: Friday, November 20, 2015 02:27 PM

From: Nathaniel Easton

Subject: I’m sorry



I thought I’d get the chance to see you today, but I don’t blame you for skipping class. I’m so sorry, Adele. I hate what I said to you. Please, let me know that you got this. You didn’t answer my call or my text.



N



• • •



I debated for several minutes whether or not I should reply. On the one hand, getting an apology from him was like a temporary reprieve from the non-stop churning heartache I was feeling. But on the other hand, once I closed my phone and allowed myself to fall into thought, I was still so deeply hurt that I feared talking to him would only open my heart up for more destruction.

And considering I was on my way home, willingly placing me in the clutches of my family, I needed to avoid whatever stress I could, to steel myself for whatever I faced at home.





Chapter Thirty-Two





“Here.”

My father handing me a beer was the most gracious he’d been in all twenty-one years of my life.

I accepted it almost unwillingly, looking at the brown bottle as if it held poison.

“I’m pleased you’ve changed your major.”

They were six words, but they were the most my father had spoken to me in years. And the first time, in recent memory at least, that the words weren’t coated with revulsion.

I’d need to drink to process this. I tipped the beer back, absorbed the bite of the fancy shit and then held the bottle out in front of me as I swallowed. I knew, because this was a craftsman brew, that this bottle alone cost two to three bucks. And to think of the cases my father had in garage, to imagine the hundreds of dollars he owned in beer, made me a little ill. I had scraped change together for my Charlie card for the subway more times than not, often bumming a ride off of Leo’s card when funds were low. And one of these beers could have paid my daily fare to class.

“What did you change it to?”

Finally, he said something that required an answer. Often when my father spoke, it wasn’t to receive an answer but to simply express his thoughts, because his thoughts were of value.

I was going to milk him for all he was worth.

“Journalism.”

I saw the twitch of his lips and continued before he could tell me it, like creative writing, was another unworthy degree. “It relies heavily on English still, yes, but it can transition me to a number of careers.”

He stared forward, at the fireplace before us. “What? Like newspapers? You do realize that traditional circulation for mediums like magazines and newspapers is declining, right?”

I’d braced myself for this conversation the moment I’d arrived home the Friday before. The fact that it had taken my dad six days until Thanksgiving Day to bring this up, a day before I was to return to campus, was telling. He’d kept silent for six whole days, letting me sweat his reaction while my mom busied me with her new curtains and latest dessert recipes she’d tried. All the hobbies she’d filled her life with since becoming an empty nester, married to a man who spoke little.

No. My father waited until Thanksgiving Day, hours before we were all to gather around the table for our first meal together, to discuss my future and how his wallet factored heavily in my plans. It was so like him, to let me walk around on eggshells, waiting for him to ask. He loved the control it gave him, the fact that I needed him was a power trip.

And because I knew him and because I was still trying to heal from the heartache that was thanks to another man who had taken my news not so well, I nearly slumped in my seat, letting him tell me in so few words how stupid I was to choose a degree like journalism.

Instead, I straightened the spine he’d forced upon me—that line of steel—and said, “You’re right. With the evolvement of print publications moving to a digital format, there’s been a decline in newspaper and magazine subscriptions, but that’s because that content is now easily accessible online. The internet is the new frontier for journalism, and demand is high. And that’s still only one route I can take with a journalism degree.” I paused, waited for his rebuttal, but when he remained silent I continued. “Because journalism focuses on critical and analytical thinking, I can transition into other fields. Many public relations firms hire people with a journalism background. I can work in advertising, as a copywriter, or I work as a market researcher. These are all occupations that have need and won’t become obsolete.”