“I guess I’m still figuring out my path,” I say.
“You were on your own path yesterday, right? When you opted to go to Ellie’s instead of doing Thanksgiving with us?”
My stomach sinks. “I know, and I’m sor—”
“Nope,” Kat interrupts, giving her head one stern shake. “No apologies. Sure, I wish you’d told me sooner that you were going, but I get it. We’re both gonna have other things—otherpeople—who take priority too.” She pauses, smirks, then adds, “Unless this is all part of your long con to turn me gay and live happily ever after.”
I know she’s only joking this much to keep me from crying, but it’s working, so I play along. “Be for real,” I tease, giving her and those worn-out sleep shorts a once-over. “You know you’re not my type.”
“I know who is, though.”
There’s a tingle in my chest, like rain falling on the roof of my shaky heart. “I know,” I say. “It was supposed to be fake.”
“But you seemed genuinely happy,” Kat says.
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, trapping my breath behind it. I heard somewhere that it’s supposed to stop you from crying. In my whirlwind twenty-four hours with Ellie Meyers, there were so few moments where it was just us, no lying or schemes being hatched. Whether we were sneaking into Sip or stumbling through a pitching lesson, those moments—rare as they were—absolutely shimmered. I was happier than I remembered I could be.
“Kat,” I finally sigh, “she’s…wow.”
Kat’s eyes glisten, then cloud over with a dreamy look. I recognize that look. It’s the same one I saw from her on Wednesday night when she was staring across the bar at Daniel. “Murph,” Kat says, “youdeservesomeone who’swow.”
“I know. You do too. And I’m glad you have Daniel. It’s just…” A sigh leaks between the gaps in my teeth as I shift upright and meet her gaze. “I miss you, Kat.”
She wiggles her fingers in a tiny wave. “I’m right here.”
“I mean all the time. I feel like we’ve hardly talked the last three months.”
I watch Kat’s eyes wander from the comforter to the Wall of Fame, stopping on pictures of us in Girl Scouts, at homecoming, at Six Flags just last year. “I know,” she says. “I’m sorry. But we’ll be together again next semester, right?”
My stomach plummets. I guess we have to have this conversation eventually, and now is as good a time as any. I take a deep breath and blow a raspberry into the air. “I, uh. No,” I choke out. “No, we won’t.”
Kat’s attention snaps back toward me, her eyebrows scrunched together in suspicion. “I thought you said Thanksgiving went well. You don’t think Professor Meyers will pass you?”
“She might,” I say, “but it won’t matter. I missed the deadline for the transfer application.”
Kat looks down at the sheets in front of her for a moment, presumably doing some light mental math. “That can’t be right.” She shoves off the bed and digs her phone out of the pocket of her jeans. Whether she’s referencing the U of I website or justher calendar app, her thumb scrolls with purpose. “Those aren’t due until…”
“October.” I wish I could stabilize the wobble in my voice. “I was so bogged down with everything at Sip and I thought I’d need my final accounting grade to send in my application.”
It’s quiet again, but I’m too stoned to know if it’s an awkward silence or not. They rarely are with Kat. “Well, fuck,” she finally says, and I’m sort of relieved to hear her voice wobble too. “That…that really sucks.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “It does.” I hold my breath in anticipation of more follow-up questions about my backup plan or whatever, but Kat’s mind isn’t there yet. She tosses her phone back on the floor with her jeans and perches on the edge of the bed. Another few seconds pass, and she scrapes the last bit of air from her lungs with a final shaky sigh.
“God, I’m so sorry.” There’s heartbreak in her eyes, but I barely see it before her gaze falls back to the floor. “That, like, really, really sucks. Like, I don’t even want to go back now.”
“Shut up. You don’t mean that.”
“I mean, no,” she admits without looking up. “Of course I’m going back. I love U of I, but I would love it a lot more if you were there.”
“You’ll be fine,” I say. “You have Daniel.”
“Daniel’s the best,” she admits, “but he’s my boyfriend. It’s different.”
“Better, even. Because you get to make out with him.”
Kat’s chin doesn’t budge from her chest, but her eyes lift up to mine. She looks unimpressed. “Different.”
“You just said he’s the best,” I point out.
