“Nothing. We just . . .” I shrugged.
“You don’t shrug off a two-year gig. What happened? Between us.”
I chewed the words. After a long second, Carrie picked up the mug and went back to the ingredient counter. “Forget I said anything. Of course you don’t have to say,” she said gruffly. “Didn’t mean to push you.”
I said it in my head a few times, preparing for the acrid taste the words would leave on my tongue.
“He cheated on me.”
Her movements slowed. “Oh, honey.”
“For three months, with this girl Alaina. They’re both from Seattle. She’s this dancer girl who looks like a model, and she got into Yale, and she’s on the Kensington website now, and her face is just staring out at me every time I need to use Moodle.” The confession poured out of me like hot lead. Staring at the weathered counter, I felt it go cool and dark in the air.
Behind me, the door creaked open, letting in the howl of the wind. It slammed again, but I didn’t flinch. I kept staring at the counter, remembering the sheer number of times we’d stood here side by side. Michael, big as a bear, his hand at the small of my back. Small talk over the register.
With the next customer’s footsteps padding up behind me, I pulled myself together. Carrie had seen me through the insecure hell of freshman year. I would’ve shared anything with her. But I didn’t want to bare my soul in front of some stranger.
Carrie slid a wooden drawer out beneath the counter, unwrapped a cube of chocolate from rose-colored foil, and set it on a saucer. She nestled the mug in the saucer and slid it toward me. When I reached for it, she put her hand on mine. “Sweetheart,” she said, “you are well shot of that. You are too good for that. Hear me?”
I felt a pang, examining the ceiling. “Yeah, well. I’ve got a life to deal with. So forget him.”
“Julian?” said a small, musical voice behind me. “Is everything okay?”
I froze, my lipstick suddenly burning on my mouth. That voice—it couldn’t be her. She was supposed to be back in Boston.
I steeled myself, turned around, and Victoria Taylor’s eyes went wide. Her freckled face was nestled in a thick scarf, and a black-and-carnelian Kensington hat fit low over her straight eyebrows. They drew together as she stared.
“Oh my God,” she breathed.
“Hey, Victoria,” I said, with the charisma of a dead anchovy. “Why are you. Um. Not home?”
“This storm was in Boston on Saturday, so a bunch of flights got cancelled,” she said, eyes fixed unblinkingly on my face. “My new flight’s tomorrow morning. Are you—what is—how—”
I picked up my drink. “Let’s talk. I’ll be over here.”
I headed for the nearest table, steeling myself.
“You know, this is almost a relief, from a 100-percent selfish standpoint.” Victoria stirred her hot chocolate, examining me with bright, curious eyes. “After the dance, I was like, wow, nobody’s ever been that viscerally not into me.”
“I mean.” I cleared my throat. “Not that I wasn’t. Into it. But um. Complications.”
“Right.” She flashed me her cheeky grin. “Alter egos.”
“Yeah. I figured it’d be weird if we, and . . . assuming you’re not into girls . . .” I trailed off, not wanting to seem too curious.
Victoria took a sip of her drink. “Mm, this is good.” She placed the cup on the scratched wood of the table. “Yeah, no,” she said, with a bit of hesitation, “as far as I know, I’m the Measures’ token straight girl.”
Something quieted in me. A lock flicked shut in my chest. I remembered the way my mind had opened wide when she kissed me—all fantasy and imagination and jumping twenty steps ahead. My heart alive, all of a sudden, remembering how to want someone. Not that any of that mattered, when I had less than three weeks left.
I gave her a tired smile. “Well,” I said. “Good to know.”
“So, why are you still on campus?” she asked, a little too brightly. “Are—hang on, are you an international student? Am I making that up?”
“Nah, I’m from San Francisco. My parents are . . .” I trailed off. It would be so easy to make something up. A casual fib, thoughtless. My parents aren’t in the city right now, or I have this project I needed the library to work on. On and on.
“I can’t afford flights back,” I finished. “Or much of anything else, at this point.”
Her composure slipped for a second, showing a glimpse of surprise.
“Sorry,” I said at once. “I just—sorry.”
“Hey. No, it’s okay. Why are you apologizing?”
“I don’t know.” Old habits die hard. I looked down at the table, my throat tight. My heart was beating too hard. I curled my nails into my palms, trying to force out the tension. Get it together.
Victoria examined me as if I were a science fair experiment.
My mouth skewed in a grimace. A strangled sound worked its way out of my throat. I couldn’t get it together. Not this time. Something had cracked deep inside my body, and if I held it in anymore, its edges would shred my insides open.
“It must be hard not to see your family on Thanksgiving,” Victoria said. She sounded uncertain, and it made her younger somehow, hopeful and anxious, a girl I could recognize from her television show. The Family Channel had scripted twelve-year-old Vicky T into a heroine anyone could get behind, all sharp humor when a middle-school bully needed a dose of snark, but warm in her softer moments. I found myself stupidly glad that this version of her hadn’t been fiction.
“It’s not that,” I managed. “They’re making me go.”
I circled my hands over my cheeks, kneaded my temples with my index fingers. God, I could see it. Meeting after meeting. I’d sit in a thousand stiff leather chairs in a thousand tastefully decorated offices of a thousand well-meaning grown-ups, and they would all try to convince me to stay, and I’d have to smile in a chagrined sort of way, saying, “I’ve got to do what’s best for my family.” None of them would know I was fighting back a voice in my head that screamed, I don’t want to go. Don’t make me go. I need this.
Then I’d get on a plane. December 14th, the day after the competition, that useless competition I’d gambled everything on. And I’d never come back.
A hand lit on my shoulder. “Hey,” said Victoria. “Hey. Are you okay? What do you mean, they’re making—”
“I’m not coming back next semester.” I lowered my hands and looked at her. I probably looked like a train wreck. “I have to stay in San Francisco.”
Her hand dropped away. “But what about your spring concert and stuff?”
I gave a hollow laugh. “If my parents say it’s not happening, it’s not happening.”
“And they don’t know about . . .”
“Any of this. No. Course not.”
I cupped my cider mug, letting my hands grow uncomfortably hot. “Victoria?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re not going to tell anyone, are you?”