"Don't worry about it. I'll figure something out." I start the car, needing to move, to do something. "Maybe I'll finally use some of the settlement money. Get my own place."
"You should," Mel says firmly. "That money is yours, Sloane. Legally, ethically, completely yours. Using it doesn't mean anything except that you're taking care of yourself."
I know she's right. Dr. Rivera said the same thing in therapy. But every time I think about spending Josh's money, I feel sick. Like I'm accepting payment for five wasted years.
We get situated in the car and drive in silence for a while. My stomach still feels unsettled, and I crack the window, hoping fresh air will help.
"So," Mel says eventually, "are we going to talk about Tucker?"
"No."
"He looked genuinely sorry about the parking."
"He should be sorry. He blocked a wheelchair accessible entrance."
"And then apologized immediately and moved his car."
"After being called out by his uncle."
"True." Mel fiddles with her phone. "But Sloane…the way helooksat you.”
“Come on, Mel. We can’t make life decisions based on people’s facial expressions.” I focus on the road, careful in the traffic as we head back to our shitty apartment. She’s going to leave.
“From what you’ve shared, he has some pretty good actions, too…”
"It doesn't matter," I insist, but the words feel hollow now. "He's still Josh's teammate. Still part of that world."
"Is it the world you're avoiding? Or the person you became in that world?"
The question stings, because Mel knows me. Knows what my marriage did to me.
"I don't want to talk about this," I say as we pull into our apartment complex.
"Okay." Mel lets it drop, but as we head inside, she adds quietly, "Just think about whether you're avoiding Tucker because of who he actually is, or because of what he represents. There's a difference."
That evening, I try to study. I really do. But the statistics formulas blur together, and my mind keeps circling back to the same thoughts:
Tucker's face when he realized what he'd done.
Flashes of fights with Josh.
Visions of Tucker fighting with Josh.
My phone buzzes. I grab it reflexively, half-expecting a text from one of the men I’m obsessing over, but it’s just a notification about office hours for my upcoming stat exam.
The thing I should be focused on instead of obsessing over Tucker Stag and his thoughtless parking and his apparent inability to stop thinking about me.
I force myself to return to my notes, but the nausea is back, worse now. I set down my highlighter and press my hands against my stomach, breathing carefully.
This isn't everyday stress. This is something else.
I pull out my phone and open my calendar app, scrolling back through the weeks. When was my last period?
My hand stills as I count backward. Six weeks. Maybe seven.
No. That's not possible. Tucker used condoms. Multiple condoms. Those Thin Ice prototypes he was so proud of.
But condoms aren't foolproof. Nothing is foolproof.
