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“Right. Because ofhockey.”
He shakes his head with a small scoff, then turns back and heads for my door. It opens and shuts, and then I’m alone.
I flop face down on my bed and start crying.
I thought falling in love with Elliot and not having him love me back was the worst way our friendship could end.
But it’s not. It’sthis—him saying he’ll try when I know it’ll only end in heartbreak.
For him, not to mention me.
Auden
The seconds continue to tick by. I check the clock, and only two more minutes have passed.
Dammit.
I’ve been trying to finish a reading assignment for my American government course for the past hour, but I can’t focus.
My interaction with Elliot since he left my room three nights ago has consisted of me texting him to make sure he made it back to Boston. He liked it, but he didn’t reply and he hasn’t sent anything back. He’s angry. Or hurt. Or both.
Or busy playing hockey and not even thinking about me.
This isn’t the longest stretch we’ve gone without talking, not lately. But if I don’t text him in the next few minutes, it will be the first time I haven’t wished him good luck before a game in years. As scattered as our communication has been of late, that’s remained. Because I meant it when I told him he’d always have me as a friend. After our last conversation, I think it’s a more important reminder than ever.
Thirty more seconds pass. I sigh and reach for my phone. I don’t know why I bother having these arguments with myself. I always end up doing what I want to anyway, not what I maybe should.
Auden:Good luck
It takes him fifteen minutes to respond. Another stupid like, no response. But I’m more focused on when he sent it than what he said—or didn’t. His game is supposed to start at seven. It’s quarter to four here, meaning he should be on the ice for warm-ups right now.
I close out of the playlist I had up on my computer and pull up University of Boston’s website. The athletics page has a section for every sport. I click onHockeythen the link to stream today’s game. Sports commentary replaces the music I was listening to. Boston’s light blue home jerseys are out on the ice, but there’s no number twelve.
“Auden?”
I startle, yanking out my headphones and glancing to the left to see Pat standing next to the table I’m seated at in the student center. “Hi. Hey!”
He eyes me, probably wondering why I’m acting so strange. “I’ve got a few minutes to kill before my last class. Do you mind?” He nods toward the empty chair next to me.
“Of course. Yeah.” I grab my bag off the chair and my papers off that side of the table.
“What are you watching—oh.” Pat chuckles lightly.
I close my laptop and give him a weak smile. When it came up, I told him Elliot is an old friend to explain his presence on my porch after the game. He was too nice to push for details, but I don’t think he bought it.
“He, uh, he’s notjusta friend.”
He smiles. “Yeah, I figured. The look he gave me and Jason wasn’t all thatfriendly.”
“It’s…complicated.”
“He’s a lucky guy, Auden.”
I give him a wry sort of half-smile that I think conveys the fact that I don’t really want to talk about it, and Pat gets the memo. “Want to go through the PowerPoint from last week’s class?”
“Yeah. That sounds great.”
* * *
