I woke up this morning and looked out of the hotel room window and saw the sun rising, letting me know it was a new day, and I gathered all the courage, all the confidence I had, and decided I wanted a do-over. And then her dad answered the door and asked me what the hell I wanted, and the only thing I could think to say was, “Becca.”

I wanted Becca.

And now I had her. Even if the few minutes we’d been walking were spent in silence, her feet following mine, her long jet-black hair whipping across my arm, I still had her.

I just need to come up with something to say to start my do-over. “So you’re on the school paper?” God, I’m pathetic. I look over at her and wait for her response, but there isn’t much of one, just a slight nod of her head followed by an unsure shifting of her eyes. I kick myself for suggesting we walk because it makes it difficult to read her, to see her. And so I walk a few more steps until we reach a bus stop, and I sit down and hope she does the same. She hesitates, just for a moment, but then she joins me. I face her. She looks straight ahead. “Are you enjoying it?” I ask. “I mean college. Classes. All that stuff?”

She nods again, palming her unruly hair away from her face.

“And do you like St. Louis?”

Another nod.

“And your dad?”

She inhales deeply, her hands gripping the edge of the bench, and turns to me, her head tilted to the side. “You?” she mouths.

“Me?” I shrug. “I think I’m still adjusting to everything, to be honest. Things kind of took off insanely fast and I still don’t think I’m ready for it. It’s a lot of travel and a lot of meetings and phone calls and, like, putting up a front on social media and stuff.”

Becca turns to me now, one leg bent on the bench, the other outstretched, her foot on the ground an inch from mine. She waves a hand in the air, asking me to continue, so I do. “I guess I’m kind of blessed,” I tell her, and I don’t know why I’m saying all this stuff, especially to her, but she’s here and she’s listening and it’s more than I ever thought I’d get. “I’m lucky I get to do it all before Tommy has to start school, so he can travel with me, and Nat and Justin are beyond helpful when it comes to doing the whole co-parenting thing around my schedule. They’re gone three months at a time, so when they do come back, they make sure to be wherever we are, even if it means staying at hotels with Tommy when I’m at tournaments.”

Her features soften as she listens to my words.

“Chris and my mom handle everything and I get told where to be and when to be there, and I get to skate.” I choke on a breath and look away from her eyes, because watching her watch me feels like a knife piercing my heart over and over, or maybe it’s the guilt of giving her lie after lie after goddamn lie. Each one rehearsed in the car on the way to her house. I thought it would be easier to give her the same version of me as everyone else gets. I told myself if I gave her that, then I could walk away—not happy—but not as miserable as I felt when she left me last night. I was wrong. But what was I supposed to say? That the only part of my life I loved anymore was Tommy and skating? The truth is, I’m not even sure if I love skating anymore or if I do it for Tommy and for his future and to make two certain people proud of me. One of those people is dead. The other is staring at me, her eyes, her lips, her entire body void of any emotion. She lifts her hand and forms the sign for “phone,” so I reach into my pocket and hand it to her. I scoot closer so I can see her thumbs working over the screen. She taps on the Notes app, types away on the keys, and I read the words she’s written: What are you doing here, Josh?

I clear my throat. “I have a comp,” I mumble.

Her thumbs move again. Not here in St. Louis. HERE. With me. Why did you come to my house?

I drop my gaze and cut the bullshit. “I don’t know, Becs. Maybe for the same reason you came to interview me yesterday.” I feel her shift next to me, both her feet on the ground now. “I looked you up online and on your college newspaper. You got a lot of photographs there. Really good ones, too. But all art based. None for sports. And you’ve definitely never done any interviews—”

She stands up before I get a chance to finish, and I know I’ve blown it. Whatever the hell it is. She’s looking down at the ground, her head moving from side to side. Then she hands me my phone and starts to walk back to her house. I follow after her, because I can’t not, and I rush my steps until I’m in front of her, walking backward, giving her no option but to deal with me. “I’m sorry, Becca.”