Avery’s jaw tightened. He merged lanes, eyes deliberately focused on the traffic ahead. “She just wants to hear your voice. Five minutes.”
I chewed on my thumbnail, watching the glow of brake lights up ahead. “I’ll call her tomorrow.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“Avery.”
He let out a breath through his nose. Dropped it. Picked up the next thing. “Sabrina’s been texting me too.”
The traitor.“She shouldn’t have done that.”
“She did it because she cares about you. You edit too much. Have you called that coach she found?”
I said nothing. Outside the window, the city slowly thinned into suburbs.
“He’s good, Théo. She sent me those Reddit—”
“I know who he is.”
“Then why haven’t you called him?”
“I will when I’m ready.”
Avery glanced at me sideways. He had the same eyes as me—dark and almond shaped—but where mine defaulted to guarded, his just looked tired. Tired and trying.
“Okay,” he said finally. “Fine.”
We didn’t talk for the rest of the drive. Our first stop was at the IKEA restaurant so Avery could load up on Swedish meatballs dipped in lingonberry jam. I sipped on the lemon water I always carried with me and watched him hoover down his plate like someone was about to take it from him.
“You’re not eating?” He gestured with his fork, a meatball speared on the end.
“I had something earlier.”
He gave me a look but didn’t push.
The IKEA boxes barely fit in the Jeep. I had to shove my seat all the way forward to accommodate the flat pack dresser and my legs were cramping from the morning treadmill workout by the time we pulled back into Avery’s building. Luckily, the conversation on our way home stayed in neutral territory—mostly his plans with Hana and whether I wanted to join them for drinks with his teammates.
It was going to be my first time meeting Avery’s friend Hana, who was his teammate’s younger sister. Avery and I had grown up splitting time between Montréal, where our dad’s French Canadian family lived, and Toronto, where our mom’s Chinese Canadian family lived. From what Avery had told me, Hana had a similarly split upbringing—half Russian, half Japaneseand Black—and they’d bonded over the particular experience of growing up multicultural and being relatively new to Chicago.
Hana was already at the apartment when we got back, leaning against the doorframe with a cordless drill in one hand and a canvas bag filled with groceries in the other.
She straightened when we came down the hall.
She was pretty in a way that was immediately obvious and then kept revealing new details—good bone structure, warm brown skin, dark hair pulled back with a pencil still tucked into it. She had the kind of energy that took up exactly the right amount of space. Present without being overwhelming.
“You must be Théo,” she said, like she’d been looking forward to it. “I’m Hana. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“But not like… too much,” Avery said, dropping a box to unlock the door. He gave me a meaningful look.
“But not in a stalker way. Way to be awkward, Avery,” Hana said easily. She turned back to me. “He said you’re a figure skater. I skated for a bit. I was terrible at it.”
It wasn’t the usual reaction—no overcompensating enthusiasm, no careful neutrality, no Olympic interrogation. She’d offered me something instead. An exchange.
“How long did you skate?”
“Six months?” She shrugged. “I was mostly in it for the cute dresses but I didn’t make it that far.”
She started organizing boxes while Avery and I finished unloading the car. She picked up the instruction sheets and studied them with cheerful seriousness. “Bed frame first or dresser?”
