He pauses, his jaw tightening.
“Dean Ashby called,” he says. “About the housing.”
My stomach flips. Against my will, hope sparks.
“And?” I ask carefully.
“And there’s nothing available. Yet,” he grimaces like he knows exactly how that’ll land. “He said maybe mid-semester.”
The hope fizzles out, leaving behind something bitter and sharp.
“So, we’re stuck,” I say flatly. Jamie winces a bit, like my reaction was expected but disappointing.
“For now.” He nods once. “Yeah.”
I stare at him for a long moment, then look back down at my notes. “Okay.”
“That’s it?” he asks, clearly thrown.
“That’s it,” I repeat. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have to get back to work.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh. “You always do that.”
I look up sharply. “Do what?”
“Avoid having a conversation,” he shrugs and my blood boils.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that even back then you avoided talking to me whenever we had to talk about something serious. Like when I told you I wasn’t going to Ellington because I wanted to focus on hockey. You completely skirted around that entire conversation for weeks.”
My eyes water, and I hate myself for being so emotional. He’s right. I did avoid that conversation for as long as I could because I knew it was only going to end one way. And it did.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie, packing up my papers in hurry. I want to get the hell out of here before I start crying. He doesn’t get to see me cry.
Something flashes across his face. Regret, maybe. Or guilt. Or both. He pulls out the chair across from me and sits before I can stop him.
“I’m not here to fight,” he says. “Or… whatever this is.”
“Then why are you here?” I demand, keeping my voice low.
“I just… I wanted to let you know that Ashby called. We’re living together, Ellie. Pretending the other doesn’t exist isn’t exactly working.”
“It works great for me.”
“Bull,” he quips.
My grip tightens around my coffee cup. “You don’t get to tell me how I feel.”
“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
The word hangs between us, fragile and thin. I don’t know if I even believe him.
I scoff. “You already said that.”
“I know,” he says quietly, leaning forward slightly. “I just… I meant it. Then and now.”
I study his face, searching for the boy I loved, the man I lost, seeing a stranger in front of me. He looks tired. Older. The cocky edge is still there, but dulled, like it’s been worn down by pain and disappointment and a knee that quit on him.
