Page 3 of Back to You
I tear my eyes away from him, but I can feel his gaze on me. He’s never paid attention to me before, not once in high school. It emboldens me.
“I don’t want to take this class anymore,” I say, louder.
It’s true. It’s always been true. I never wanted to study economics—it was my parents who picked it out for me. Literally, they sat down next to me and selected the major on my laptop while I watched, my hands frozen. I was too scared to tell them I wanted to study English because I knew they’d disapprove, and their approval meant everything. They assured me it was the best option, that I wouldn’t have to worry about unemployment, and they looked at me with so much expectation in their eyes that I felt it like a physical weight, a pressure that hasn’t lifted since. They had it all mapped out for me, the fastest track to investment banking at one of the prestigious Big Four investment banking firms. “I don’t think I’d enjoy it, though,” I protested feebly, but my mom waved a dismissive hand. “Of course you won’t. You don’t get paid to do enjoyable things. That’s the whole concept of a job.”
I listened to them. Worse, Ibelievedthem. I brainwashed myself into thinking that was the only option, that jobs weren’t meant to be enjoyed, that there wasn’t more to life. But Idohave other options. Like right now. I could walk out this door right now and never come back.
I could really do it, nothing’s stopping me. And this time, it would be my choice.
Without another word, I pack my things into my bag and rise from my seat. “Excuse me,” I say. “I’m going to go.”
I glance back just once on my way out and find Luke right away. His eyes are still on me, his head cocked to the side, as if he’s truly just seen me for the first time.
The registrar’s office is tucked away behind the printers in the Economics Department, so far down the corridor that Ialmost miss it. When I enter, the receptionist looks up at me for only a second, then turns back to her computer, as if hoping I might disappear on my own. It makes me suspect the office is hard to find by design.
She scrolls and clicks twice on her mouse. I wait for her to notice me, but she finishes typing an email, one key at a time, using only her index fingers.Tap ... Tap ... Tap.Then she takes a small sip of her coffee. Blows cold air on it. Sets it down. Picks it up again, without any hurry, and takes a longer sip. I try not to fidget. Finally, she is forced to acknowledge my existence. “Can I help you?” she asks.
“Yes, hi.” I clear my throat. “I would like to change majors.”
She raises her brows. “Sorry, your name is—”
“Allison,” I tell her. “Allison Yang.”
She clicks the mouse again and peers over at her screen. “Allison ... You’re taking third-year economics, is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“And you would want to change it to ...”
The answer rises easily to my lips, the answer I’ve only allowed myself to daydream about, to wonder about. I want to do so much more than just wonder this time around. “English.”
Her fingers pause over the keyboard. “English?” she repeats. “That’s quite the change. Are you sure? It’s only the beginning of the semester—you could take more time to decide ...”
“No, I’ve already decided,” I tell her. “I’ve had plenty of time to think.” Three whole years. Three years of being miserable, exhausted, burned out. Three years of pushing myself right up to the edge of death. No, longer than that, from high school through to college to my investment bankingjob. All that time, and I wasted it, trying to convince myself to want things I didn’t.
“You’ll need to transfer your credits,” she warns. “And you’ll need to take courses in the summer to make up for it, or your graduation will be delayed.”
Years ago, this would have terrified me into backing out. The thought of beingbehind, beinglate, not graduating in time. I would’ve thought it the worst thing that could ever happen to me.
“That’s fine,” I say calmly. “I understand.”
She hesitates, then resumes typing, her nails clacking loudly against the keys. “All right, I’ll email you the details now. There’s a form you need to fill out if you’re switching majors ...”
“Amazing, thank you,” I say, stunned by the simplicity of it. Howpossibleit is. Which means it’s always been possible, I was just too scared.
As I turn to go, a familiar voice sounds behind me, low and pleasant and polite: “Hi, excuse me ...”
I whirl around. It’s exactly who I hoped it would be.
Luke Blythe makes his way past me to the front desk. He moves like the athlete he is, confident, graceful, unafraid to take up space. He’s wearing a plain white shirt and there’s a bandage wrapped tight around his forearm, but I can’t tell if it’s from an injury or if it’s one of those preventative things.
His eyes flicker to me.
My heart seizes. I keep walking to the door, into the crisp air, but then I wait there. I wait for ten, fifteen minutes, and then he comes back out, and I make a split decision to step in front of him. That was my mistake, before. Waiting too long and doing absolutely nothing about it.
If this really is a second chance, I have to make it count for something.
“Hey,” I say.
