“But we should have called sooner,” her mom interrupted. “We know how upsetting this is for you, but, honey, we’re good. We’re great. We accepted! Your father proposed an absurd counteroffer, and they said yes!”

“Still got my acting chops,” her dad said. “Total poker face, though inside I was having a panic attack.”

Delia’s heart was exploding out of her chest and she needed them to call 911 because she thought she was having a heart attack but was this . . . that’s what this was? A panic attack?

It was like she was in a free fall with nothing left to catch her. “I . . . you . . .” She pressed her hand against her chest, then gripped her necklace, hoping to steady herself. “You actually did it?”

“Done and done!” her dad said. “And we did something else—we booked our flights. We can’t wait to see your production.”

“Demonstration,” her mom corrected.

Delia closed her eyes to combat the black spots. “You’re coming? Here?”

“You have to ask?” her mom said. “We love you, Delia. We’re so very proud of you.”

“So proud.” Her dad sounded choked up.

And Delia’s heart quit racing and simply . . . broke.

She stayed on the phone for a minute or two longer before she told them she had to go. Her heart used each beat to normalize, and she stood still, waiting. She wanted to call Cassie, but what would she even say? She clung to the railing, holding it tight between her hands, the cool metal lowering her temperature, inviting her to lean her body against it, so hard and deep that she hung over the side, looking down at the fountain in the quad. She pressed her forehead to the metal, rubbing back and forth, listening to the gently bubbling water before she turned to let the coolness soothe her sweaty back—and there was Eric. Standing in the doorway, her backpack in his hand, the panic that was easing inside her written all over his face, living in his eyes, ones full of pity.

“Lia.” He stepped forward.

“No,” she said. “Not . . . don’t, just don’t.”

Don’t call me Lia here, now, after you saw me making out with the railing . . . after I freaked out like the geek I am and always will be. . . . I’m a fool. A complete and utter fool and this place isn’t my place and isn’t my home and never will be and why did I ever want it to be and how did I think I could actually be here . . . how did I think I actually belonged?

How could I give up everything I had to even try?

Humiliated, she grabbed her bag from Eric’s hand and pushed past him, feeling every bit like the girl from Littlewood who should have never left.

What am I even doing here?

TWENTY–FIVE