“Thin blood,” Ethan says into his hands and shakes his head from side to side. “I have thin southern blood. I’m going to freeze to death.” He hugs his arms around his chest and chatters his teeth. “I’m cold just thinking about it.”

There’s a reason he works in theatre. I wonder why he’s a behind the scenes person instead of an on the stage one.

“Why aren’t you staying here?” I ask, trying to keep my disappointment hidden. It’s not like I thought I could live in Asheville forever, with a regular gig, and a comfy bed, and Ethan refusing to let me pay rent, but I’m not ready for it to end either.

“Oh, you know,” he says. “Bad breakup. Time for a change. Tomorrow was supposed to be our anniversary. You waste three years of your life on someone, it seems like a good idea to get out of town when you wake up.”

I drink my coffee and push pamphlets around the table. So many weird names I don’t recognize. Carnegie Mellon. Brandeis. Sarah Lawrence. And then there’s one I do: Ithaca College.

“Here.” I tap the Ithaca brochure with my finger. “Go here.”

“Ithaca?” Ethan says. “That’s a great program. Cold, but good.”

“It’s warmer than where I grew up,” I say. “And snow feels nicer in Ithaca. I don’t know why. Everything is nicer there.”

“Do you play in Ithaca a lot?” Ethan asks.

“I lived there for a bit.” The air catches in my throat. “It’s a hard place to leave.” I stare into my coffee cup and will my eyes to stay dry. “And,” I say, taking a deep breath, pulling myself back together, “it’s a super gay place. You’d love it.”

“Super gay?” Ethan says. “Would I have to get a cape?”

“No,” I tell him. “But tights aren’t frowned on.”

— Chapter 46 —

I decide to make Ethan an anti-anniversary dinner to celebrate that we got all of his applications in the mail. I check my wallet so many times before I get up to the checkout. My heart thuds in my throat until I make it out of the store, like groceries are the beginning of the end, even though I know they aren’t. Some things get written into your body and your mind can’t reason them away.

I walk home with my bag full of food. Pasta and sauce from a jar. Some onions and peppers to dress it up. It’s the most I really know how to cook, but it’s something. I’m hoping the thought counts more than the end result.