It’s not like Avalon is known for crime, but clearly someone had a bad experience and put the locks on the doors. I wasn’t taking any chances.
She walks in, looks around the apartment and sighs. She sets a bag from the good bakery three blocks from campus on the counter. Two coffees. A brown paper bag that smells like butter and yeast. It’s just enough to drown out the garlic.
"Croissants," she says. "The chocolate ones."
"You didn't have to do that."
"I know." She sits down on one of my two kitchen stools and wraps both hands around her coffee. "How are you doing?"
It isn't really a question.
"Fine," I say. "Good. Settling in." I look around at the apartment. The drugstore candle on the counter is working its hardest. "It's a good apartment. It's quiet."
"Sutton."
"It needs some stuff. A rug, maybe. The floors are kind of—worn."
"Sutton." Her voice is gentle, like she knows she’s going to hurt my feelings and is preemptively softening the blow. "I'm not going to tell you that you made the wrong call. But I'm also not going to sit here and tell you this is fine, because I don't think it is, and you know I'm terrible at lying."
I take a sip of the coffee she brought me. It’s warm. My new apartment is a bit drafty, and we are in the midst of a cold snap. I need all the heat I can get. "I had to do it."
"I know you think that."
"I do think that. I thought about it for weeks, Keira. This isn't impulsive."
"I know it's not impulsive. That's almost what worries me more." She pulls a croissant from the bag and sets it in front of me. "Tell me the logic. Out loud. I want to hear it."
I stare at the croissant.
"He's good," I say finally. "You know that. I've watched him every game this season. He's good enough for the NHL." I tear off a piece of the croissant because I need something to do with my hands. "Seattle wants him. His dad wants him to go. And he'll go, or he should go, and if we're still doing whatever we've been doing, he'll factor me in. He'll make the decision with me in mind, and he'll resent it eventually, or he won't go at all, and he'll resent that, and either way, I'm the variable that broke the equation. I know he thinks he doesn’t want to go pro, but I know otherwise. He needs to do this. Even if it’s only for a few years, he deserves to have this experience without anyone holding him back.
"He loves you."
"I know."
"He'd choose you."
"I know." I take another drink of coffee. "That's the part I can't let happen."
Keira is quiet for a moment. The radiator turns on, and we both wince. It’s a sound I am apparently going to be living with and will hopefully get used to very soon.
“I love Declan, but when I think about what my goals are, I know I wouldn’t give them up for him. So how is it fair to ask him to do the same thing for me?"
"It's different."
"It's not different. It's the exact same thing. I won't sacrifice mine, so I don't get to ask him to sacrifice his. I have to do this for me. I don’t want to resent him either." I look around the apartment. "This is what standing on my own two feet looks like. It's not pretty, but it's mine."
"Okay," she says quietly.
"Okay?"
"I'm not saying you're right. I'm saying I understand the logic. And I'm saying I'm worried about you." Her head tilts likeone might do when looking at a sad creature on the side of the road. "And I'm saying his calls are going to keep coming, and at some point you have to pick up."
"I will. I just—" I breathe. "I need a few days to feel solid in this before I hear his voice."
"That's fair."
She stays for two hours. We eat both croissants, and she tells me about her semester plans and pretends not to notice when my phone lights up again on the counter. I pretend not to notice that she notices. It's just how it goes.
