Page 122 of Across the Boards

Or maybe that’s just me.

“How’s Seattle treating you?” Sarah asks during our weekly video call, her expression skeptical as she takes in my forced smile and the untouched wine glass beside me.

“It’s fine,” I say automatically. “The job is interesting. Lots of responsibility, just like Catherine promised.”

“And your apartment? Found a permanent place yet?”

“Still looking,” I admit, glancing around the sterile corporate suite. “Nothing feels quite right.”

Sarah’s knowing look says everything she’s too kind to verbalize. “And how’s your social life? Met any interesting people?”

“I work a lot,” I deflect. “The documentation overhaul is massive. Keeps me busy.”

“Hmm.” She takes a sip of her own wine, watching me over the rim of her glass. “And have you heard from Brody?”

My heart gives a painful twist at his name. “No. Why would I? We agreed to a clean break.”

“You agreed,” she corrects. “He made it pretty clear he wasn’t accepting that.”

“Well, he seems to have accepted it now.” The words come out more bitter than intended. “It’s been three weeks without a single text.”

Sarah’s expression turns thoughtful. “Maybe he’s respecting your decision. Giving you space to realize on your own what a colossal mistake you’re making.”

“It wasn’t a mistake,” I insist, the protest automatic by now. “It was the right decision for both of us.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” Sarah’s tone lacks its usual teasing quality. “Meanwhile, playoffs are in full swing. Phoenix is up against Miami in the second round. First game was last night.”

The mention of Phoenix playing Miami sends a jolt through me. “Brody and Jason on the ice together again?”

“Yep.” Sarah’s casual tone doesn’t quite mask her intent. “Tommy says the tension was insane. Jason was all over Brody the entire game – late hits, slashes behind the play, constant chirping.”

Guilt and concern flood through me. “Was there?—”

“Another fight? No. Brody kept his cool. Completely professional.” Sarah watches my reaction carefully. “Tommy says it’s like he’s channeling all that emotion into his playing. Coach called it his best performance of the season.”

Relief mingles with an unexpected disappointment. “Good. That’s... good.”

“Is it?” Sarah challenges. “Because you look miserable. And according to Tommy, Brody’s running himself into the ground—practice, games, extra conditioning. Like he’s trying to exhaust himself so he doesn’t have to feel anything.”

“What do you want me to say, Sarah?” Frustration breaks through my careful composure. “That I made a mistake? That I’m miserable? That I miss him every day? Would that change anything?”

“It might,” she says quietly. “If you admitted it to him instead of just me.”

The conversation shifts to safer topics after that, but Sarah’s words linger long after we disconnect. Would it change anything to tell Brody how I feel? Or would it just make everything harder for both of us?

I pour myself a glass of wine, carrying it to the window where Seattle’s skyline glitters against the darkening sky. Beautiful. Foreign. Empty.

My phone buzzes with a message. Not Brody, I note with a familiar pang of disappointment, but Catherine checking on a documentation question. I answer professionally, then find myself opening my photos, scrolling back to images from before Seattle.

Brody at my kitchen counter, flour on his nose as he made pancakes. Brody reading, glasses perched on the end of his nose. Brody napping on my couch, one arm flung above his head, face relaxed in rare unguarded vulnerability.

I took the pictures surreptitiously, never showing him, somehow knowing even then that I’d need these memories to sustain me through whatever came next.

What came next was this—self-imposed exile in a beautiful city, in a perfect job, with an aching emptiness where happiness briefly flourished.

Sarah’s right. I am miserable. But admitting that means acknowledging I made the wrong choice. That I ran from happiness because I was too afraid to be vulnerable again. That I let Jason win, three years after I thought I’d finally escaped his influence.

My laptop sits on the coffee table, playoff recaps open in a browser tab I pretend I haven’t been checking obsessively. Phoenix versus Miami, game one. The article mentions Brody specifically—his stellar defensive performance despite Jason’s relentless targeting.

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