Page 108 of Campus Crush
I’d been moving nonstop, and I felt myself breaking.
Something had to give.
The constant juggling left me exhausted, both physically and emotionally. Last night, I’d fallen asleep at the dining room table with my head on top of probate documents. I woke up at 3 a.m. with a crick in my neck and tears streaming down my face from a dream where Gram was still alive, making her famous huckleberry pie in the kitchen.
Foster had been gone at away games for a few days and I missed him immensely. He was coming home tonight and I couldn’t wait to see him.
I had been living at Gram’s house since she passed in order to keep things stable for Mason while we sorted everything out, but I wasn’t sure how sustainable this was going to be long-term. The commute was killing me with all the other activities I had going on.
Foster showed up early, and I practically collapsed into his arms when I opened the door.
The familiar scent of his cologne—woodsy and masculine—wrapped around me as his strong arms pulled me close. I buried my face in his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my cheek. For the first time in days, I felt like I could breathe.
“Miss me?” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice.
My arms tightened around his waist. “More than you could possibly imagine.”
I hadn’t realized how much tension I’d been carrying until this moment, when it melted away at his touch. Foster had become my safe harbor in the storm of grief and responsibility that had engulfed my life.
“I’m not so sure about that,” he said, “because I’ve missed you like crazy. The last three days without you were rough.”
He kissed the top of my head, his lips lingering there as his hands rubbed soothing circles on my back. When we finally pulled apart, I could see the concern in his eyes as he studied my face.
Before he could say anything, I said, “Come on in. Mason is over at a friend’s.”
Foster followed me into the kitchen where the table was set. “I just made spaghetti. I hope you don’t mind that it’s simple.”
The kitchen still felt like Gram’s domain. Her collection of ceramic roosters watched from the windowsill, and the recipe box she’d filled over decades sat on the counter. I’d been afraid to move anything, as if keeping her things in place might somehow preserve a piece of her.
“Not at all. You know I offered to bring dinner, so you wouldn’t have to cook.”
Foster pulled off his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair, rolling up the sleeves of his flannel shirt. Even in my exhausted state, I couldn’t help but notice how the fabric stretched across his broad shoulders.
“I know,” I said. “I just…I feel like I need to keep moving, or I’ll…” My words faded.
The truth was too raw, too vulnerable to voice aloud. If I stopped moving, stopped doing, stopped being busy every second of the day, the grief might swallow me whole. It lurked at the edges, waiting for a quiet moment to strike.
He came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist, resting his chin on my shoulder. “Or you’ll what?” he asked softly.
I spun in his arms, so I could face him. “I feel like if I don’t keep moving, I’ll fall apart.”
My voice cracked on the last word, betraying the fragility beneath my carefully constructed facade of competence. Foster tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch gentle.
“You know I’m here for you, right? You can call me anytime, day or night when I’m away for games.”
“I know you are.” He’d already proved his words. Hell, he was practically living here at Gram’s house with me. Whenever he wasn’t in classes or playing hockey, he was here for me and Mason.
“I just…I don’t know what I’m doing. I finally got ahold of the lawyer, and I need to go to court to get official guardianship of my brother. They want me to show that I can offer him stable housing. Why am I even being questioned about this? I’m his family. Who else can take care of him and love him more than I can?”
The words tumbled out in a rush, my frustration building with each word. The legal system seemed determined to make an already painful situation even more difficult.
“I’m sure it’s just procedure,” he said.
Foster’s thumb stroked my cheek, and his eyes never left mine. The steadiness of his gaze anchored me when everything else felt like it was spinning out of control.
I knew he was right, but that didn’t make me feel better. I felt like I had to prove that I was worthy enough to take care of my own brother.
The weight of responsibility pressed down on me, threatening to crush me beneath its burden. I was only twenty-one—too young to have buried both parents and a grandmother, too young to be solely responsible for a grieving teenager, too young to navigate the complexities of estate planning and guardianship hearings.
