Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
The new message is from Liam. I see the notification bubble, and for a moment all the air is vacuumed out of the room. I swipe to open.
So proud of you. Can we talk seriously this week now that grades are out? Are you feeling better?
I read it twice, then a third time, as if repetition might reveal the hidden layer I know he’s tucked inside. My pulse spikes; it’s almost audible, a tap-tap-tap like a bad snare drum in my throat.
What does he mean by “talk seriously”? Is this the beginning of the end—one last, surgical incision to cut us apart, now that I’m technically not his student anymore? Or is it the other thing, the thing I don’t dare name, the possibility that this is not the end but a beginning?
I look up, find myself staring into the middle distance. The window is an oil painting now: streaks of condensation, outside world smudged into abstract. The snow’s gotten heavier. The kids have vanished, replaced by a slow, almost solemn parade of bundled shapes trudging to nowhere.
Andie watches me, her gaze surgical. “Is it him?” she asks.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“Bad news?”
I shake my head. “Not bad. Not good. Just uncertain.”
She grins. “You can handle uncertain. That’s your whole brand.”
I make a face, but she’s not wrong.
I hover my finger over the keyboard, unsure how to answer. I type, “Yes, I’d like that,” then delete it, then re-type it and add a smiley, then delete the smiley and put a period at the end, because I want to sound mature and not desperate. I finally send:
Yes, I’d like that. Just tell me when and where.
The message whooshes off into the ether, and I feel like I’ve jumped off a ledge, the ground rising fast.
Andie leans in, lowers her voice. “So, what’s next?”
“I don’t know,” I say, which is both the truth and the entire summary of my last year.
She bumps her mug against mine. “Whatever happens, you’ve got this.”
I smile, letting her confidence buoy me for just a second.
Outside, the snow keeps falling. The latte is gone, the cup still radiating a little warmth into my palms. I flex my hand, feeling the strength return.
My phone dings with a new message from Liam: How about Thursday at my place, six or so?
I start to reply, but then I stop. I look at Andie, at the soft light, at the cozy, wood-paneled haven we’ve built around ourselves. I want to memorize the moment—me, not broken; Andie, loyal and fierce; the world, cold but still spinning outside.
I gather my stuff. As I zip my bag, I steal one last look at the student portal, at the line of “A’s” that shouldn’t exist, at the GPA that’s mine, nobody else’s.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel ready for whatever conversation comes next.
We head for the door together, into the blue-white light and the unknown.
22
HASHING THINGS OUT
LIAM
Irearrange the wine glasses for the third time, the stems cold and slick beneath my fingers. I’ve already polished them, but now I angle them on the coffee table so the curve of each one faces the sofa, not the fireplace. It’s a futile, anxious symmetry—like straightening deck chairs on the Titanic, but the deck is my living room, and the iceberg is a twenty-year-old woman with a better mind than mine. I fumble the last glass, nearly knocking it over, and catch my own reflection in the black sheen of the TV screen. The face looking back is older than I remember, lips pressed flat and colorless, eyes electric with some animal worry I’d never allow in public.
There’s nothing left to do. The charcuterie board is a study in minimalism: sliced apples, a wedge of Manchego, prosciutto folded in origami triangles. I debated adding olives, but the green always stains the teeth. I move the bowl anyway, just to feel the weight in my hand. I hover by the window, scan the street below. The city glows, slick and gray, every car a question mark crawling into the night.
The clock ticks above the gas fireplace, each minute falling like a judge’s gavel. The place is too clean. The absence of clutter is almost hostile. I smooth a wrinkle in my shirt—white, tailored, stiffer than I like—and consider unbuttoning the collar. I don’t. I sit, but the couch swallows me, so I stand again, wiping phantom dust from my palms.
At exactly 6:09 p.m., there’s a knock. How did I miss her coming up the drive?
I open the door, revealing the blonde beauty who always takes my breath away Her hair is back in a loose ponytail, hands jammed in the pockets of a thrifted trench coat. She steps into the hallway and pauses, scanning the entrance for escape routes, then meets my eyes. I see no makeup, no mask, just the same clear blue as before.