He looks up, like he already knew but hoped I’d say something different. “College offers are still quiet?”
I give a small shrug. “A couple of interviews. Nothing that stuck.”
The truth is, they didn’t go well. The fit wasn’t right. Or maybe I wasn’t.
“I’ll line up something in Arizona,” I tell him. “Closer to Stella. We’ve done the long-distance thing long enough.”
It’s not a lie. But it’s not the whole truth either. I didn't tell him she left. Don’t tell him the last time we spoke without it turning into a fight was months ago. Don’t tell him that going home isn’t about closing the distance; it’s about clawing my way back into something I’m not sure still wants me.
We talk about schedules and last games, and I shake his hand before heading out. The late afternoon sun hits me hard when I step outside, hot even in the fall.
The drive home is quiet. No music. Just the hum of the road and the weight of two weeks pressing down. My apartment smells faintly of stale beer and takeout. I lock the door behind me and stand there for a second, looking around like it’s a place I’ve already started saying goodbye to.
The duffel bag comes out of the closet first. I toss in clothes I won’t need until Agave Hills—hoodies, jeans, and the navy suit I wore to her parents’ funeral. I fold the rest slower, as if the right order might make the rest of it easier.
On the counter, there’s a half-empty bottle of bourbon. I stare at it for a beat, then twist off the cap and pour it down the sink. The smell hits me sharply; I almost change my mind, but I let it run out until the last drop is gone.
I toss the bottle into the trash and go back to the bag. The apartment feels even emptier now, but maybe that’s the point.
When I’m done, I sit at the kitchen table. The manila envelope is still there where I left it, the edges curling from being handled too many times. I pull out the papers, lay them flat, and smooth the creases with my palm.
Her ring sits on top, catching the low light. I pick it up, rolling the band between my fingers, the cool metal warming against my skin.
Two more weeks. Then I’m home for good.
And maybe, if I can just get there fast enough, I can stop the rest of it from falling apart.
Stella
The sun’s low enough that the water’s gone copper, ripples catching and scattering the light. Elaine’s already there, leaning against the hood of her car like she’s been waiting just long enough to make a point.
She doesn’t wave. She just watches me pull in, one brow lifting like she’s evaluating more than my punctuality.
“This is just another revenge meeting?” I ask as I step out.
Her mouth curves, not in denial, not in confirmation, just that slow smirk that makes my pulse misbehave.
“Guess you’ll find out,” she says, pushing off the car. “Come on. Walk with me.”
The narrow path winds along the shore, pine and warm earth rising in the air. I catch her watching me once or twice, but she doesn’t say a word.
“What’s at the end of this path?” I ask.
“You’ll see.” Her hair catches the last light like it’s been brushed with gold.
The lake laps beside us, and for a moment I forget why we’re here. Forget Donovan. Forget the plan. Just the crunch of graveland her hand swinging loose at her side, close enough to brush against mine.
We round the last bend, opening onto a small clearing. A weathered picnic table waits half in shadow, half in light, the surface crowded with a takeout bag, two bottled teas, and a paper-wrapped loaf from the bakery.
“You brought… lunch?”
“Dinner,” she corrects, claiming the space. “Figured you wouldn’t have eaten.”
“Because you know my eating schedule now?”
“Because even back in high school, when you were sketching, nothing else existed for you.”
It’s casual, but there’s an edge, the kind that says she’s always been paying attention.
