I spun around, and there was Greg Hendricks, hands thrust into his jacket. I was suddenly twenty-five again, heart slamming, palms sweating, unsure of myself. When was the last time I’d seen my former professor? Over a decade. He’d aged, of course. The skin around his eyes had a few more wrinkles, his hair had a few more silver streaks. But he was still as handsome as he’d ever been, that same glimmer in his blue eyes that everyone fell for.

He surveyed me with a smile. “Look at you, stepping up already. They saw you coming a mile away, didn’t they?”

“That’s me. The good little soldier.” I saluted, then felt stupid about it.

“I feel incredibly neglected,” he said, shifting closer. I could smell his aftershave. “You’ve been here, what? A month now? And not a peep from you.”

“I know. I got your email. It’s just been so busy...” I felt light-headed, like I was in a dream, warp-speeding back to the past, when everything had simultaneously come together and fallen completely apart.

“I’m joking, Theresa.” He took a strand of my hair and rubbed it. “I like this look. Red hair flatters you. I almost didn’t recognize you.”

I stepped back, smoothed my hair back in place. Georgeann didn’t have any customers now, and I could feel her hovering behind me, drinking in every word. When I glanced back at her, she tapped her watch. “Only a few minutes left in the game. I can close up here if you want.”

“Thanks, Georgeann. I owe you one.” I gathered my things and waved goodbye, and Greg and I walked away from the concessions.

We’d kept in touch over the years via email, and he’d sent flowers after my mother died, but I knew so little about him these days. All our recent correspondence had been businesslike. I felt selfish—asking and taking and not bothering to check in with him personally. How long had he been divorced now? I knew I should ask about his daughter, Nora—god, she’d be a few years older than Lily by now, maybe even in college—but I didn’t want to bring up family. Not now.

“I heard you were coaching a team here at Woodard,” I said instead.

“Yep. Debate. Going on six years now.” He stopped near a pillar just off the trafficked path. Above, the stands vibrated with cheers and foot-stomping. “And still teaching at Gunston. And still working with the study abroad program.”

Greg’s ticking off of accomplishments—that do-it-all mentality that everyone around here had—was something I’d forgotten about this area. In grad school, it had seemed natural, and I’d been prepared for it since my mother was always pushing for perfection. Even now I could feel the tug of it—that desire to always be the best, to prove you belonged. Prove your worth.