“Winnie.” Tori’s voice is firm enough to stop my spiral. “Have you actually talked to him about this?”
“I’ve tried. He won’t talk to me.” I set down my glass and press my palms against my eyes. “Every time I ask what’s going on, he shuts down. Says it’s not about me. But if it’s not about me, why won’t he tell me what it is about?”
Tori is quiet for a moment. When I look up, she’s got that expression—the one that says she knows something she’s not sure she should share.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“Tori. What?”
She sighs. Tops off both our glasses, then takes a long sip before speaking. “Zayden mentioned something the other day. About Banks.”
My stomach tightens. “What about him?”
“I don’t know all the details—Zay was pretty vague about it—but apparently there’s some contract stuff going on.” She meets my eyes. “There might be trade talks.”
The words don’t register at first. Trade talks.Like he might be—
“As in, he might be leaving?”
“I don’t know. Like I said, Zayden was vague. He wasn’t even sure if he should tell me.” Tori reaches over and squeezes my hand. “But if there’s a chance Banks could be traded, that might explain why he’s pulling away. It might not be about you at all.”
I’m cold suddenly. Freezing. Like someone dumped ice water down my spine.
He might be leaving.
And he didn’t tell me.
“How long has he known?” My voice sounds strange. Distant.
“I don’t know, Win.”
“How long has Zay known?”
“A few days, maybe? He only mentioned it because I asked if he knew why Banks was acting weird.”
A few days. Banks has known for at least a few days that he might be traded—that he might be moving, starting over somewhere new—and he didn’t say a word.
Not one word.
All those texts. All those “I’m fine” and “just work stuff” and “nothing to talk about.” All lies.
“He didn’t tell me.” The hurt in my voice surprises me. “I asked him directly what was wrong, and he lied to my face.”
“He probably didn’t want to worry you until he knew something for sure.”
“That’s bull.” I pull my hand back, anger rising in my chest. “We’re supposed to be—I don’t even know whatwe are, but we’re something. And he doesn’t trust me enough to tell me his life might be imploding? That he might be leaving New York?”
“He’s not good at this stuff, Win. You know that.”
“Being bad at communication is one thing. Actively hiding something this big is another.” I stand up, suddenly unable to sit still. “What am I supposed to do with this? Pretend I don’t know? Wait for him to tell me himself?”
“Maybe give him a chance to explain—”
“A chance?” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “I gave him chances. Multiple chances. He looked me in the eye and said ‘it’s not about you.’ Meanwhile, he’s been carrying this around for days, shutting me out, making me think I did something wrong.”
“You’re hurt. I get it.”
