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Dr. Forrester nods. “Yes, soon.”
The door opens and I briskly stride out, grabbing the receipt and the next note reminding me of my appointment on Friday. I’m hardly away of the door beneath my fingers as I push it open, hardly aware of the wind stinging my cheeks and chilling my bones. My feet take me through town and back home, but all I can think of is Rachel.
I can’t see how we can make this work. I’ll be thousands of miles away from her, often flying all over the country. I’ve tried to think of a way—thinking we can video chat on the bus or send little love texts whenever we can, but is that dating? Can anyone call that a relationship?
How long will it take for me to return to Colorado? Will she even want to move to Chicago after she graduates? And what about the bros? Will they be living with us, too? My feet halt in the snow as I see the bottom step of our staircase. My gaze slowly goes up the length of it and I stare up at the apartment, my brows tenting as I try to imagine a future with all of us living together. I think of Lucas with his hair long, wearing ripped jeans stubble on his chin, a manuscript in his hands. I think of Seth and Alex, still fighting as they stretch in the living room, preparing for another run. And then there’s Rachel at the center of it all, in her studio, painting something magnificent, colors splashed against her skin, staining her clothes. Her belly swollen with child.
Is that what I want?
Do I want to continue sharing her with the others forever?
I trudge up the stairs, my hands fisting. I have never wanted a drink more than I do now. Don’t, I tell myself, trying to push those dark thoughts away. You don’t need a drink. You’re sober now. Drinking won’t help you with Rachel. It never helps.
Before I can open the door, it’s thrown open, nearly whacking me in the face. I lurch back, my eyes widening on Seth rushing forward. His eyes look bloodshot, nearly crazed. The guy has been looking a bit thinner than normal. His shoulders are shaking.
“Hey,” I say awkwardly. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” says Seth with a forced smile, his voice sounding a little out of breath. “Just going for a run. Why?”
“Haven’t you been running all day?”
Seth chuckles, but I can tell it’s forced. “No. I obviously had class.”
“But you went this morning. And you had training.”
Seth sighs. I hate how he’s avoiding my gaze. It’s like Paris all over again. He’s taking it too far. “It’s fine,” Seth grounds out.
“You’re going to get hurt again.”
Seth groans and shoves her shoulder against mine, making me stumble back. “Stop mothering me, asshole!” he shouts while running down the steps.
My frown deepens as I see Rachel hovering at the bottom of the staircase, carrying what appears to be a very large portrait, covered in a black tarp and tied to some rope slung over her shoulder. Seth nearly smashes into her on his way down and doesn’t even mumble an apology. Rachel frowns as she watches Seth run down the sidewalk before giving me a frustrated look.
“What the hell is his problem?” Rachel asks while slowly coming up the steps.
“Do you need any help?” I ask while take a few steps down and reaching for her portrait.
Rachel heaves a sigh of relief as she hands me the large item. “Thank you. I had to lug that thing across campus. I’m surprised I was able to get it here without dropping it in the snow.” She pauses on the step, taking a moment to rub her shoulder.
“You’re coming home late,” I say while stomping my feet on the doormat and stepping inside.
“Yeah, I was at the library with Charlie. I wanted to get some studying in, but we ended up talking the whole time.” Rachel chuckles and kicks the door closed. Her backpack slips from her shoulders and she throws it onto the couch. “Today was way too long.” She falls onto the couch cushions and groans while stretching her arms above her. Even exhausted, she’s so beautiful, with the snow glistening in her hair, her nose bright pink from the chill.
It’s things like this that I’m going to miss. The little things, the things that make me love Rachel so much.
I rest the portrait against the counter, treating it delicately. I know how much art means to Rachel. I know how hard she works. She’s like me in that way, having a dream for years, a dream she wishes to come true. I know she would never stand in the way of my dream, but it seems as if our paths are going in opposite directions.
My feet take me to her and I fall onto the couch, my head dropping into her lap. I bury my face into her thighs. She smells like coffee. She always smells like coffee. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to enter a café and have a cup in the morning without thinking of her.
“Why are you back so late?” she asks while stroking my hair. “Were you at the gym?”
I shake my head, turning my gaze toward the TV. I can barely make out her reflection on the screen, but I can tell that she’s looking at me. Her touch is tender, loving as she strokes my locks, my cheeks, my forehead, making all the tension within me ebb.
“No, I was with Dr. Forrester.”
“Oh,” she says curiously. “I forgot.”
“I have another session this Friday.”
