What's not fine is how normal it feels. She's standing in my kitchen talking to my best friend about what sounds like an upcoming forensics exam. The house is loud with morning noise. Everything about it is exactly the way it used to be.
Which is its own special kind of torment.
I pour my coffee and rummage in the freezer for a frozen breakfast sandwich I can nuke.
This requires more concentration than it should. I'm hyperaware of her the way I'm hyperaware of a puck entering my zone. It’s awkward as hell, and I don’t think it’s just me who feels it. The guys are overcompensating with the conversation.
We're all treading carefully. They’re filling the silence so there are no gaps for anything uncomfortable to fall into.
Sutton plays her part. So do I.
“I’ll see you guys at practice,” I say and dump the last of my coffee in the sink.
I escape before anyone can drag me into another round of forced small talk.
Class is a blur. I sit through two hours of sports psychology and retain approximately nothing. My mind keeps drifting back to the house. To Sutton, standing in my kitchen like she never left. To the way she wouldn't look at me.
Or maybe she did look at me, and I didn’t notice because I was doing all I could to not look at her.
And we’re suddenly awkward seventh graders.
Between classes, I'm walking across the quad toward the athletics building when I see her.
She's coming from the opposite direction, backpack slung over one shoulder, phone in her hand. She looks up and sees me at the same moment I see her.
There's nowhere to run. The path is too narrow, too direct. We're on a collision course, and stopping or turning around would be more obvious than just dealing with it.
She walks straight for me.
I brace myself for whatever this is going to be. An argument. An accusation. More weird non-conversation. Something.
"Hey," she says when we're close enough.
"Hey."
She shifts her weight, adjusting the backpack. "I just wanted to let you know—I found a friend to stay with. I'll be out of your hair by tomorrow."
"Okay." I keep my voice neutral. Detached.
"I know it's awkward. I’m there, so I figured the sooner I'm gone, the better."
"You don't have to rush. Take your time." The words come out more aloof than I intend, but I can't help it. I'm not going to beg her to stay. I'm not going to make this harder on myself than it already is.
She looks surprised. Her eyebrows lift slightly, and she opens her mouth like she's going to say something, then closes it again.
"Seriously," I add. "It's fine. Stay as long as you need. You’re the one who chose to move out. No one asked you to leave. And we’re not going to bother trying to find a new roommate for the last semester. The room is yours."
"Oh. Okay. Well. Thanks." She fidgets with her phone. "I appreciate it. Really."
"No problem."
The silence stretches between us, awkward and heavy.
"I should—" She gestures vaguely toward wherever she's headed.
"Yeah. Me too."
She nods and walks past me. I don't look back. I force myself to keep walking like nothing happened. Like my chest doesn't feel like someone is in there trying to carve it out with a spoon. Like, I didn't just tell my ex-girlfriend to take her time moving out of my house when every second she's there is torture.
