But the pieces of me that he watered and grew and cherished—those pieces of me that believed I were worthy of love—they left with him.
I stay silent, and it hangs there, heavy and taking all the air out of this phone call with my best friend.
I think some of the cherry blossoms even furl their petals inward.
Tia sighs—all sad and weary and like someone so much older than she is. “It’ll be good for you. He’s not coming, Sloan. He never answered. You can deal with Talon and Jay for a week. I’ll ban them from uttering his name. I’ll go as far as banning them from even using words that start with the letterB.”
My eyes prickle and I scrunch up my nose. I wish it didn’t hurt me, but it does.
Because the only version of Bohdan I know who wouldn’t answer his best friends is the Bohdan from a year and a half ago—this impossibly sad, impossibly hurt boy who felt like a shell of the man he used to be.
I swallow. “Shouldn’t Jay be—I don’t know? Skating? Scoring goals?”
“Season ended.” I can picture Tia shrugging one shoulder, full lips tugging into a resigned line. “They didn’t make the playoffs. Which you’d know if you turned on the TV. Bohdan actually commented on the—”
“I don’t watch TV.” A lie. I watch so much reality TV. I know everything there is to know about the so-called hottest bartenders in LA in the early aughts, every housewife who has ever graced the screens, and all there is to know about what happens below the deck of a ship. It keeps my brain quiet. “And if I did, I certainly would not watch my former boyfriend watch a bunch of grown men chase a tiny rubber puck around a rink.”
Tia scoffs. “Funny, you used to love watching anything to do with that boy and rubber pucks and rinks.”
“New year, new me,” I say, forcing myself to start down the path again. I’ve started and stopped abruptly so many times someone’s probably about to call campus security.
“Alright. If it’s really a new year, a new you, then you should have no problem coming with me. Don’t make me beg—I’m about to go onto the subway. I’m not above calling you back as soon as I get to my stop.” Her voice turns pleading.
And if there’s one thing I’ve never been able to do, it’s tell Tia Valdez no.
“Fine,” I concede, and her answering shriek does make me smile for real.
Tia talks for longer than she should, excitement rising in her voice, not a care in the world that she’s probably blocking the entrance to the subway, that she’s taking up all this space, butshe can’t seem to help it because she just has so much to look forward to, and her life is so wonderful, so good—that she won’t apologize for it.
And she shouldn’t have to.
It’s always been like that. I can picture an eighteen-year-old Tia smiling at me when I opened the door to our shared dorm room at Michigan State—happy, exuberant, and inviting me into a world that, despite what it would look like to an outsider, felt a lot quieter than the one I occupied.
It’s a stupid thing to think about, us back then. Because the memories of Tia, Talon, and Jay are all tied up in my memories of Bohdan.
Those memories are sort of like those cherry blossoms, stubborn and desperate to poke through and find the sunlight.
But they’re beautiful and wonderful, and all the things I thought were beautiful and wonderful aren’t.
And I wish they’d stay in the dark.
Fortunately for me, I don’t remember the exact moment I fell in love with Bohdan.
I just know that I did—quickly and all at once, in that big, giant way you do when you’re young.
But I do remember the moment I prayed and prayed and prayed to whoever might be listening to please, please,pleasemake it stop.
Sloan
Then - College
“I can’t believe you’re going out with one of my brother’s teammates.” Tia makes a face behind me in the mirror, nose scrunching with disgust. She shakes her head with an exhale before taking a too-long sip of her terribly mixed vodka cranberry.
I pause, pulling the eyeliner away from my face before I accidentally stab myself. “You guys told me to give him my number!”
“I didn’t think he’d actually call!” She holds her hands up in the air, drink splashing over the rim of one of the plastic cups we’ve had since frosh week, our dorm name stamped and peeling across the neon. “He’s friends with Talon. I figured he’d be the same—you know, gross.”
She gives another exaggerated shudder before scooting forward so she can see herself in the mirror that sits between our two beds in our dorm room. I watch as she tips her face back and forth, like she’s admiring the pink flush on her cheeks from the alcohol.
