“I panicked, Nathan. I told my mom because I couldn’t even say the words to you, and she drove me there.” Another ragged inhale. “While we were gone, my dad found the test in the bathroom trash. He knows.”
Silence pressed between us, heavier than the storm outside.
“He lost it,” she whispered. “Said I’m throwing my future away. He called in a transfer; he’s moving us to Portland right after Labor Day. I won’t finish senior year here.”
The words hit like a helmet-to-helmet collision. Portland. Three hours away. The end of summer was seven weeks.
My voice broke. My world tore apart from the inside out. “I’ll come over. We’ll figure this out.”
“You can’t fix this, Nathan. You can’t even come over anymore.”
Maddison’s dad yelled from the background, “GET OFF THE PHONE NOW, MADDISON.”
Maddison choked out another sob through her tears. “I love you, Nathan. I—” Her dad started yelling again. She sobbed. “Bye, Nathan. Bye.”
The line went dead. I stared down at the phone and then up at Bishop, tears blurring my line of vision until the pain from the burn to keep them in broke, sending a wave of them sliding down my cheeks.
“What happened?” Bishop jumped to his feet.
“I lost.”
I always won. I never thought my first real loss would be the love of my life.
But I lost her. I lost what made me… me. I lost.
I looked down at my phone again. “She didn’t fight.”
Bishop just stares. “Look, it’s probably her parents and?—”
“Love transcends all, right? Even parents yelling at you, you fight, you yell back, you don’t take it lying down unless on some small level you agree with them, on some small level, you’re relieved they’re taking you out of the fucking game.”
We were silent the rest of the night.
And I was pissed she didn’t try.
Just like I was pissed she didn’t share with me.
I was just pissed.
Because it was the same thing in the end. I wasn’t enough for her to trust in any scenario.
The sound of a knock pulls me out of it.
I blink, disoriented, the pen still in my hand, my mind somewhere else entirely. My desk, my office, the journal—none of it feels real.
The door cracks open, and my assistant leans in. “Hey, your next meeting’s here. They’re waiting in the lobby. Which conference room do you want me to set up?”
The question barely registers at first. I’m still half in that memory—half in that bathroom, the air thick with something I can’t name.
“Nathan?”
Her voice drags me back. I clear my throat, close the journal halfway, and force a breath. “Yeah, sorry. Just… feeling a little off. A little nauseous, actually.”
Her brow furrows. “That’s funny…I’ve been feeling a little nauseous today too.”
We both pause. Neither of us says anything.
Finally, she breaks the silence. “I’ll get Conference Room B ready.”
