Her optimism bleeds into me. It always has. My childhood is dotted with Meave’s positivity and belief in me. The day ourparents met me—the day she convinced them we were a package deal and she wouldn’t be their daughter if it meant leaving me. Skating for the first time. Running for class president. Selecting a college to play for after I didn’t get recruited to the one I wanted.
“I’ve gotta run, Sutt, but I’ll have my phone on me,” she says on a deep exhale, a clattering sounds in the background. “Call when you find out?”
“I will. I love you, Meave.”
“I love you the most.”
Our call disconnects, and my phone automatically picks back up on the podcast I was listening to. I tap an earbud, turning down the volume so I can pay attention to my surroundings. There’s only half a mile left to my apartment.
I turn the corner and notice a black SUV slowing down, gradually getting closer to the curb. My pace picks up, but the car matches.
When a tinted window starts to roll down, I move my hand to my running belt. Trying to be stealthy, I unzip it, tapping in my passcode and pulling up my contacts. Campus safety is one touch away.
I almost fall over from relief when I spot sandy blonde hair.
“Jesus Christ, Elliot.”
Elliot Jones, my now soon-to-be ex-best friend and roommate, whistles, then starts singing “Track Star”.
We’ve lived together since our freshman year. There were an odd number of freshman hockey and soccer players, and we volunteered to live together. Ironically, neither of us play anymore.
“I was about to call security on you,” I sing back, terribly matching the tune of the song.
“Oh, come on, Sutton. Chill out. There are zero serial killers at Lakeland.”
“But there are men.”
She snorts. “That’s true.” Her ride keeps pace with me as I check both directions and cross the street to the next block. “Where are you running?”
“Home.”
“Want a ride?”
“We live right there.” I point to the entrance of our campus-owned apartment complex. The brick sign is covered with snow.
“But what about all of the serial killers?”
Elliot doesn’t let up. Doesn’t drive faster either. The car rides the curb, and she talks the entire time, recounting her winter break back home.
That’s how the rest of the afternoon goes once I take a hot shower to defrost my limbs. We lie on the couch, sit on the counter sharing a bag of grapes, then reorganize her closet when that idea shoots across her mind. Any silence between us is like an intermission, before one of us dives right back into our winter breaks and the latest gossip.
It’s not like we didn’t already know everything, but there’s something special about a friend you can recount the same story to again and again and they never get bored. Break was boring enough without Elliot. Our apartment has been quiet this past week without her and her bubbly, no filter, convincing personality.
A quick bribe of promising to clean my bathroom for a month was all it took to get me to go out with her tonight. I think she knew if I didn’t occupy myself, I would have sat on our couch, going between refreshing the emails on my phone to staring at my computer until I heard from my advisor.
However, Elliot failed to tell me that our girls’ night also included our motley crew of hockey boys. We beat them to the bar, finding a table close to the live music. I’ve always loved that The Tipsy Bear hires performers from school. Lakeland is justbig enough that it’s easy to get lost in the student population, but it’s places like this that make it small.
One by one, they all walk in.
Chase Jones.
Jaxon Greene.
Dawson Karlsson.
Surprising us both, Beckett St. James. He’s a rarity to see out.
Luckily, Cooper is nowhere to be found. Which might be the second surprise of the night, because these are his roommates and best friends. Wherever they go, he’s usually somewhere close by.
