Page 6 of From Now On

I’ve accomplished everything I set out to in college. I’m graduating summa cum laude, I was accepted into every graduate school I applied to, and Holt’s hockey team won a national championship. I also met my two best friends—Conor Hart and Aidan Phillips.

By any metric—academically, athletically, socially—my four years at Holt University have been a smashing success.

But sometimes I feel like I overlooked something important. And I hear that niggling voice, the one that often accompanies the drop of dread when a necessity gets forgotten. The sensation hits randomly, and it hits hardest when I look at Eve Driscoll.

As soon as I think Eve’s name, my gaze veers in her direction. Looking that way is an urge I’ve been battling since I ran into her outside the restrooms. Eve’s fiddling with the white napkin on her lap, seemingly lost in thought, while the guy sitting across from her scans the bill.

Her hair is curly tonight, bouncy and cheerful and untamed. But her expression is blank, her shoulders stiff and the line of her jaw jutted straight.

My eyes wander to the guy across the table from her. Ben Fletcher. I know his name. Know he’s a film major. He’s from the Northeast—Maine or New Hampshire, I think.

Holt’s a small school, and I have a good memory.

Also, it’s hard to forget details about the guy who got your dream girl.

Ben looks even more miserable than Eve does. I wonder who ended it—him or her. None of my business, but the first question I wanted to ask Eve.

The odds are high they’ll get back together. They’ve been a couple for years. But right now, Eve Driscoll is single.

She’s also leaving. Standing and walking out the door without a single glance back at her ex. He stands, dejectedly shoving his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans. His posture isn’t proud, like Eve’s. It’s slumped. Defeated, like he’s given up on something.

Some foreign feeling—hope, maybe—sparks a little brighter in my chest.

“The sweet corn and basil ravioli sounds really good. What about sharing that?” Holly suggests.

I tear my attention away from the other side of the restaurant just in time to meet her gaze as she glances up. Smothering a sigh, I acquiesce. “Yeah, sure. Ravioli sounds good.”

Maybe if I agree to share, we can finally move on to a topic besides the menu.

Holly grabs the napkin from her lap and tosses it on the table. “I’ll be right back. Order if the waitress comes by, okay? I’m starving.”

“Okay.” I relax a little at the temporary reprieve.

Maybe my memory will improve while she’s gone.

I blow out a long breath and slump back against the booth when she disappears down the hallway, yanking at the collar of my shirt again in a feeble attempt to cool off. Is dating supposed to be this hard? Thissweaty?

My gut says no. My parents haven’t run out of words to say to each other in the twenty-five years they’ve been together.

I asked Holly out because I wanted to get to know her better. But she’s treating this like a prelude to a hookup. And it’s not that I’m uninterested in having sex with Holly—she’s gorgeous and I haven’t slept with anyone since the start of the season—it’s that I had higher hopes for tonightbeyondtonight.

Conor talked to his girlfriend, Harlow, for two hours last night.Two hours. I doubt the mindless chatter Holly and I have exchanged even totals thirty minutes, and I’m already out of ideas.

MaybeIjust suck at dating. My high school girlfriend, Jemma, would agree with that assessment. And I don’t have the same excuses now that I did then.

I glance at the empty table where Eve was seated earlier. A waitress is arranging clean plates and silverware on the white tablecloth.

My boyfriend and I just broke up.

Her voice reverberates through my hollow chest, and that flicker of hope appears again.

Just as quickly, I extinguish it.

Hope has burned me too many times before.

When I get home, there’s just enough of a dusting of snow on the front path for my boots to leave an impression. I walk slowly, listening to the low crunch as flakes collapse under each step.

I love snow. I love winter, which I associate with hockey. I love hockey, and ending the season hoisting a trophy didn’t entirely erase the ache of realizing I’ll never play competitively again.

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