Drake and I exchange a brief glance that’s full of what the fuck?

“You understand,” Campeau continues. “I need the stats. If I am to give Sylvie a good life, I need a big, multiyear contract. I need to reach the next level.”

That is a story I know all too well. We all need the stats. We all crave the next level. Maybe I’m just a punter, and Campeau is the real deal. But what if the “next level” is an illusion? What if every single day of my career will feel just as perilous as the last?

“Sylvie wanted me to invite her here. She wanted to come to Brooklyn. And I did not offer.” The Canadian sighs. “She stopped talking to me. She makes new friends. She even posted a picture on Instagram with a guy on a date.”

“Cold, man,” Drake says, reaching for another slice.

“No, it isn’t,” Campeau defends her. “We were never a couple. She wanted it. I always knew that. But I was living in her parents’ home. A man does not go there.”

“True,” Drake says. “No sticking it to the coach’s daughter. Big no-no.”

“Big no-no,” Campeau repeats. “She was just a teenager when we met, too. I love her. But…” He heaves a sigh. “The time was not right. The time still is not right.”

“But here she is in Brooklyn,” I say, twisting the knife a little. Because I’m still stuck on the whole I love her but I should never admit it thing. “What are you going to do now?”

“I have no idea,” he says. “First, I will make sure this place where she lives is safe. If it is not, she can come and stay with me. I have a pull-out sofa.”

“Women love that.” I chuckle. “When they’re in love with you, and you offer them the pull-out sofa.”

Drake snorts out a laugh.

“I am so fucked,” Campeau says.

“Yup! Entirely fucked.” I take another slice of pizza and eat it with gusto.

NINETEEN

An Ocean of Mercy

SYLVIE

I strike a match, and the flame leaps forth with a familiar hiss. I tip the glass candle holder and carefully light the wick. Then I shake out the match and lay it on a saucer, since I’m not keen to set my new apartment on fire.

Apart from the unfamiliar location, this ritual is as familiar to me as breathing. It’s three o’clock, the magic hour. My mother always lit candles in the afternoon. Tradition holds that Christ died at this hour.

“Google says that three o’clock in Jerusalem is really eight in the morning here,” I’d once pointed out during my contrary teen years.

“That is not the point, Sylvie,” she’d replied. “A ritual is for remembrance. The meaning is here,” she’d said, tapping her chest.

I watch the candle flicker in its cup, and now I understand. These days, I light a three o’clock candle whenever I’m able, and nothing could be a more potent reminder of Maman.