My phone vibrates on my bedside table a few minutes later. I yank the charging cord out and roll onto my back to read the latest message. It’s from Emma. All clear down here.

“Wir sehen uns dann,” Beck says, which I’m surprised to realize I recognize as a farewell. I didn’t think I’d retained any of my meager German. I hear him stand and walk over to my bed. The mattress dips as he sits.

“Long phone call,” I comment.

“Ja,” Beck responds. “My coach was… checking in.”

“Did you tell him you were coming here?”

He pauses. “We talked before I left.”

I drop it. “Emma had a study group over earlier, but they’re gone now. Do you want to shower? Or food?”

“Yeah, both would be good.”

“Okay. I’ll make something.” I close my laptop and roll off the bed. “Towels are in the closet.” I head out into the hall before he can say anything. I don’t know what Beck’s coach told him, but he seems more withdrawn now. Reticent. I’ve been so focused on my own emotions, I haven’t considered how it might feel if Beck is the one who walks away.

If he decides this isn’t worth it.

That I’m not worth it.

Anne is the only one in the kitchen when I enter it. “Hey.” She looks behind me at the stairs. “Whe—uh, where’s Beck?” I can tell she’s trying to sound nonchalant, but she falls spectacularly short.

“In the shower.”

Anne nods jerkily. “Speaking of, sorry about the bathroom ambush.”

I snort. “It’s fine. Where are Cressida and Emma?”

“Trying to fix the television before Twenty-Five to One is on.”

I roll my eyes. “Of course.”

“Don’t think I didn’t see you watching last week,” Anne replies.

“It was impossible to ignore. I didn’t think it was physically possible for someone to cry that much.” I open the fridge door to survey the contents.

“Are you making dinner?”

“Yeah,” I reply, pulling a package of chicken out of the fridge.

“What about Spaghetti Sunday?”

“Beck’s allergic to tomatoes.” Anne makes an annoying humming sound. “Don’t start, please.” I sigh.

“Just saying, you gave Natalie a peanut butter granola bar during play-offs.”

“She just doesn’t like peanut butter for some absurd reason. That wasn’t life-threatening.”

Anne hums again. “Still. You forgot.” She pauses. “You guys would make a cute—well, actually more like insanely gorgeous couple.”

I don’t say anything as I dump chicken in a baking dish and turn on the oven. Anne takes the hint and starts talking about our game on Tuesday instead. Cressida and Emma return to the kitchen, still bickering about whatever is wrong with the television.

It feels like an ordinary Sunday night.