I finally accepted Berkeley's offer – and found a way to ensure no one finds out.
It took lots of charming and pleading and begging on two continents, but it's done. The deposit is there. Now I just have to think of a way to get myself there and get myself away from my father's grasp, once and for all.
"You're in good mood for such a miserably cold day," Ellie says, pouring me a glass of wine from the bottle on her dresser. I'm sitting on her bed and we're both fully clothed. It's our new normal.
"I can't help it," I say. "Things are looking all right at the moment."
She gives me a look of disbelief. I don't blame her. I honestly don't think I've been this happy since the first day of senior year.
"I'm happy to hear that, St. Clair," she says, taking a sip from her own glass. "I wish things were going as well here."
"I thought they were," I say.
And it's true. Ellie has become incredibly diligent recently, working hard to overcome the barely-passing grades she received last semester. She still goes out with friends sometimes and with me, of course – but it's all much tamer than before.
"It's this portfolio project," she says, pointing to the artwork strewn near her nightstand. "It's a huge part of my studio grade. I can't mess it up."
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
"Not really," she says. "I've got to do this all on my own."
"Well, then," I say, raising my glass to hers. "To the successful completion of your project."
"And to whatever it is you're up to these days," she says, and our glasses clink against each other.
"Just all the nonsense you had to do last year," I say.
She laughs and we continue to talk and drink more wine, keeping a close – but not too close – distance between us. With everything going on, it just doesn't seem right to go any further. We really haven't, anyway. Not since before Christmas.
"I can't believe we finished this bottle," Ellie says, laying herself down on her bed. "I was hoping the wine would inspire me. But all I want to do now is sleep."
"When has wine ever inspired either of us?" I ask, tucking her hair behind her ears.
"There was that one time," she says. "When I had to write that history paper. And you and I drank so much that we started acting out important moments in French history in the hallway at Lambert."
"I do remember my Napoleon was absolutely brilliant," I say, laughing. "You were supposed to write them down, I thought. Save them for future exams."
"History was never my subject," she says. "I knew I wouldn't need it. But it's always been yours."
She smiles at me, almost wistfully. It makes me think back to when we first started dating, when Ellie was more like this. When we seemed more similar than different. When she wasn't so hyper and I wasn't so keen. When it was easier to defend my choices, before all the parties and the parents and the disasters changed us forever.
"Let's get some rest," she says, patting the empty space next to her on the bed.
I lay down next to her, my mind full of memories. She wraps her arms around me reassuringly, but it just makes me feel uneasy. I know I don't love her anymore.
But I also know I can't hurt her anymore. I know I can't break away, not until San Francisco.
And I can only hope that my best mate will be there, waiting for me.