“But you could bike there in less than—” I could hear her sigh, and then grunt—she must have finally gotten out of bed. “Okay, okay, I can be there in twenty, don’t worry.”

“Thanks, Bree, you’re a lifesaver,” I said, and hanging up, tossed my phone onto my bed. I finally selected a shirt, a J. Crew light v-neck in teal. Boring, but simple. I had packed my bag the night before, so I grabbed my phone, threw on my black Converse sneakers, and I was ready for another wonderful, fabulous day. Sigh.

I headed down the rustic staircase. My mom—Professor Sonia Slate to her students and colleagues (except she was on a sabbatical for the year)—had one of those natural flairs for interior decorating.

When we’d moved in, she decided on a nautical theme for the old colonial place and she ran with it. The house was all wood and clean, cool colors, brass highlights, antique furniture, ocean-related artifacts and bookcases that spilled from room to room. Everyone was always saying how amazing it was that the house didn’t feel too masculine or too feminine (which Dad always appreciated), and yet was still homey and inviting. Even though the end result looked effortless, I didn’t really see the point of all the work Mom had done. A room is just a room after all, which was why I kept my own bedroom relatively plain. Just the furniture I needed, not really many decorations or curtains or anything. Stuff like that all just got in the way.

“Good morning, Andromeda,” Mom sang as I entered the kitchen. She stood at the stove, waiting for her coffee water to boil, and caught the grimace that crossed my face at the mention of my name. After the dream, hearing it out loud pushed hard on the old sore spot.

“I don’t know why you hate your name so much,” she sighed. “It’s a beautiful name. Classic.”

I rolled my eyes as I leaned against the counter. She could never understand.

Mom just laughed. “Oh right, of course, I forgot—classic names are lame,” she teased. Just then the teapot started whistling, and she turned to pour the water into the French press.

“I’m just not an Andromeda, Mom,” I groused as I grabbed a coffee mug and a tea bag from the kitchen counter. It was my favorite tea, peppermint, and I used the last of the hot water to make myself a cup. I only added a little bit of honey and milk to it, and the way the aroma played with my nose was perfect.

“Not a soon-to-be sacrificed maiden rescued by a daring prince with a monstrous weapon?” Mom suggested. “I suppose that’s fine then, but it’s still a beautiful name and your father and I have no regrets giving it to you,” she smiled.