I finish my coffee, rinse the mug, and put it in the drying rack before either of them can see what is already in my face.
"I'm going to the arena," I say. "Film review."
"It's Saturday," Cole says.
"Addison wants the neutral zone footage before Monday."
I pick up my bag and my phone with Marco's text still on it, then leave through the front door.
The walk to the arena takes twelve minutes. At this hour, the campus is empty, the quads quiet, the buildings dark. My stride is faster than it should be. By the time I reach the athletic complex, my jaw is clenched tight enough that my teeth ache.
The arena is unlocked but empty. Addison does not want neutral zone footage. There is no Saturday film review. I climb the stairs to the upper bowl and sit in the empty stands.
The ice is gray below me, unlit, the Zamboni parked in the tunnel and the banners hanging from the rafters. Briarcliff hockey. Six conference titles. The program Addison built. On this ice, Cole and I translate six years of shared language into something that does not require words.
My hands grip the armrests of the seat. When I look down, I force my fingers to unclench. My knuckles stay white.
Cole went down on her.I am certain.
His mouth on Maya's body. Hands on her thighs. Her back against the couch in our house while I was at film. The new proximity. The register shift. Eye contact that held too long. Warmth in Maya's face before she could lock it down.
Thursday. I was at film review with Addison. The real film review, the one that ran until nine. I came home and Maya was in the spare room and Cole was in the kitchen and the counter was clean and the dishes were done and everything was in order.
Cole put everything in order. Until this morning. Until his knuckles stayed too close to her knee and her mouth softened before she could stop it.
He did this while I was gone. Chose the night I was at film, the house, the couch where Maya falls asleep and I cover her with the blanket.
The couch where the three of us have sat with inches measured between us and no one naming why. He touched her in the space where all three of us have been circling this thing, and he did it without me.
The thought I expect to have:he should have asked.The thought I actually have:he knew I would have said no.
Underneath that, the thought I am trying not to have is worse. I did the same thing. Three weeks ago. Her apartment. Her floor. My mouth on her body. Came home with marks on my jaw and told Colenothing happened.Saidthere is no rest for thisand walked away from the question on his face. I did it first. I did it worse. And now I am sitting in an empty arena with my hands shaking because Cole did exactly what I already fucking did.
My hands shake harder. I press them flat against my thighs until the tremor sinks into the muscle. In the empty stands, I breathe through my teeth until the shaking stops.
I stay until noon.
At noon, I come home. Maya is in the den. Her typing carries through the house, the journalist's rhythm, fast and certain. She's working on the Whisperer piece. The server logs Genny pulled are spread across the desk in printouts.
Cole is in the living room, lying back with a book face-down on his chest because he stopped reading twenty minutes ago.
He sits up when I walk in. "Hey. Did Addison have what he needed?"
"Yeah."
"You want lunch? I was going to make—"
"I ate."
I did not eat. Three hours passed in empty stands. I walk past the living room, past the den, and upstairs.
In my room, I close the door and sit on the bed. The room is cold. Thermostat at 62. Window cracked. Gray sheets. Dark furniture.
My phone buzzes. Cole.
D?
I do not answer.
