So? I’d said and drawn my knees up, wrapped my arms around my shins, suddenly cold, shivering. I’d had it all planned out. We’d go to college; I already knew I wanted to be a teacher by then, and Tate, well, Tate could do whatever he wanted. Grow pot and sell it for all I cared, as long as we were together. This is our home. My voice had pitched higher, and the last word came out as a whisper.

He had an arm across his forehead, and it shaded his eyes so when he turned his head to look up at me, I couldn’t see what he was thinking. I’m n . . . n-ot strong like you, Claire.

I’d almost laughed. You broke your dad’s nose last week, remember? He’d grown taller than his father. He didn’t even punch you back. I bet it’s because he’s scared of you now. I bet he knows you’re stronger than him. My mind scrambled for other examples. And that tourist? Remember the one who grabbed my ass two summers ago? He was like an adult, right? And you pushed him so hard he fell into that pile of reindeer poop. Now I was laughing.

But Tate hadn’t raised his arm from his eyes, didn’t laugh with me. That’s not what I’m t . . . t-alking about.

My voice had been small, nearly absorbed by the train going by. Then what are you talking about?

The train passed and the silence that followed was too loud.

When he finally spoke, his words were what I wanted to hear. F . . . f-orget I said anything, okay?

And I did because I knew that Tate would never leave me. Ever. Until he did.

“I saved the note he left me,” I say to Kate. He had left it taped to my apartment door. I’m sorry. I love you.

“Why is that?” she says.

“To remind me that I was better off.” His leaving felt like an earthquake, left the ground shaking under my feet, and at first I wasn’t sure if I could keep from falling. But I did and somehow I was stronger, more motivated than ever. I quit smoking, stopped acting like a spoiled kid, and decided I could have any future I wanted because I was the one in control of it. My hands trace a circle in my notebook, and I look up, my mind holding on to the image of Tate, unsure of how or why it’s there. “Um, oh, sorry . . .” I busy myself with my notes, desperately searching for a conversation thread that I can make sense of.

Kate clears her throat. “Last time, you brought up the fight you had with your dad when you were pregnant. Did you want to talk about that today?”