“I come from nothing. Where I’m from, a life like the one I’m leading now is a fairy tale. I want to leverage my success to change things for people who don’t actually believe another life is possible. Your book helped me see that.”
“So, if my book did all of that,” he says, taking his glasses off to clean them on the hem of his T-shirt, “why haven’t you at least come to my office hours? I can’t even get to my door most days for the line of students in the hall, but if we hadn’t bumped into each other here, I wouldn’t have ever met you.”
I take another sip of my drink, using that time to collate my thoughts.
“I guess I didn’t want special treatment because of . . . you know.”
“You don’t think you’re special?” he asks.
“Um . . .” This feels like a trick question. “Well, everybody is special.”
“Does everyone sell a million records?” He tilts his head, both brows lifted like he really wants to know.
“Well, no, but—”
“Do hundreds of thousands of fans across continents fill arenas to see everyone?”
“Look, I see what you’re getting at, but—”
“Would you say Martin Luther King was special?”
“Yeah, obviously.”
“But he would argue that he wasn’t better than anyone else.” He plows on, not waiting for the response I’m not sure of anyway. “And what about Ghandi? Wasn’t he special? But fighting a caste system, he would have been the last to say he was in any way superior.”
He and I watch each other, the sounds of conversation and lattes being slurped and coffee shop music coalescing around us as his words sink in.
“I guess my point is we are all created equal,” he says. “But it’s what we choose to do with what we have that makes us extraordinary.”
He laughs, flashing white teeth against skin the color of mahogany.
“Or not,” he says. “’Cause best believe most people don’t do enough with what they’re given. The fact that you did so much with the little you had makes you special. Own that.”
And just like that, uprooting my life, even missing my girl to the point of aching feels worth it. Some people are a revolution and, with their words, overturn the things you thought you knew. You don’t always see them coming, but once you’re with them, you know the impact they have will be like a crater, deep and lasting. That’s how much of an impression they will leave. Over the next hour as Dr. Hammond challenges me, pokes at my perspectives, and picks apart my preconceived notions, there is no doubt in my mind he is one of those people, and his impact on my life, unfathomably deep.
Chapter 11
Bristol
THIS IS MY NEW HOME, at least for the next semester.
It’s not the pictures of Grip and me, of Rhys and Kai, Aria, and our friends sprinkling the mantel and other surfaces here in our temporary Tribeca apartment. It’s not the clothes hanging on my side of our closet. It’s not even my favorite cookie dough ice cream that Grip has already stocked in the freezer. These aren’t the things that make this place home.
It’s him.
If I’m in Antarctica, as long as Grip is there shivering beside me, it’s home.
Now where is he?
I wander from room to room, checking both floors, but there’s no sign of him. It’s kind of anti-climactic considering I took an earlier flight to get here. That’s what I get for trying to surprise him. I know his schedule as well as I know my own: he had class today then a session with Qwest’s producers and writing team this afternoon.
Grrrrr.
I refuse to torture myself with thoughts of them working together while I was stuck in LA, although “stuck” isn’t the right word. I was just a little busy making Kai’s debut the freaking number one album in the country. If we thought the offers were pouring in before, now I’m flooded with movie roles, endorsement options, and more opportunities than she’ll be able to handle. If all goes according to plan— mine and Rhyson’s, that is—soon Broadway will be knocking, too.
“Dammit.”
The muffled curse reaches me from the greenhouse, and quiet steps take me toward the outdoor retreat where I’m now sure he is. I wonder if it will always feel like this when I’m about to see him. Anticipation trembles in the air. My mouth dries and then waters with the promise of his kiss. There’s a pillow fight in my belly and feathers float all around. Mrs. O’Malley’s eyes still gloss over when she thinks of her Patrick, of the years they had before his illness. They made this place together. I take in the tinted windowpanes and the space they created for one another.