Not after the gym.
Not after her.
I keep seeing it.
Not Stella’s face at first.
A flash of long tan legs.
That dark ponytail snapping high as she turned.
The sound of a volleyball detonating off hardwood hard enough to crack through my rib cage.
Then the whistle.
“Cortez! Get your head in the practice!”
Cortez.
The name still lands like a fist.
I shift in the seat and stare out at nothing but black sky beyond the window.
I should be thinking about the paperwork I signed.
The roster.
My dorm key card in the pocket of my carry-on.
The fact that by this time next semester, Stanford will be home.
Instead, I’m replaying Leo’s kitchen in Cambridge like it’s a film loop I can’t shut off.
Warm light.
Jazz low in the background.
Jade curled under a blanket on the couch.
Leo leaning against the counter with a glass of bourbon like he already knows I’m about to say something I can’t unsay.
“You look like you lost a duel,” Jade had said.
“Party was lame,” I told her.
Leo snorted.
“Brookline lame?”
“Expensive lame.”
Jade laughed, but she kept watching me.
I can still see the way Leo’s face shifted when I stopped joking.
“You okay?” Jade asked.
I remember looking at the soup in my hands and saying, “Define okay.”
