Page 16 of Offside

"I hate the draft. I like being able to see outside."

I moved my chair so my back blocked most of the cold coming through the glass.

Anna watched me do it. "See? That's what I mean."

"Moving the chair?"

She put both hands around the cup. "Knowing I don't like the draft. Ordering the right tea. Texting me when you're going to be late. You do everything a person is supposed to do."

"I'm trying." It sounded like praise until she stopped.

"I know." Her thumbs moved over the paper seam of the cup.

"Last week was bad. The schedule changed, and I should have—"

"This isn't about last week. It's not about one bad night."

I looked down at my coffee.

We'd been together for eight months. We didn't fight. We divided restaurant bills without negotiating and slept well in the same bed. I kept orange juice without pulp in my refrigerator because she hated pulp. She kept coffee at her apartment even though she didn't drink it. If she left a paperback open facedown, I put a bookmark beside it and no longer closed the book for her.

I'd mistaken the absence of friction for proof that nothing was missing.

"What is it about?" I asked.

Anna looked through the window at a bus pulling away from the curb.

"You remember things about me," she said. "But you don't wonder about me. Not anymore. I tell you something happened at school, and you ask the right follow-up question. Then two days later, I realize you never asked how it ended."

"I can do better. I know I can."

"You would." She smiled, and the kindness in it hurt more than anger would have. "You'd put it in your calendar. You'd check in on Wednesday. You'd do it, even if you wouldn't be perfect about it."

I opened my mouth and found another promise waiting there.

"You're right," I said instead.

Her eyes filled. She blinked once and looked back outside.

"I didn't want to be right."

The honest answer took longer than another apology would have. "I didn't notice soon enough."

She nodded. The tea sat between her hands, untouched.

"Is there someone else?"

My first reaction was— No. I hadn't kissed anyone. I hadn't made plans or sent a message I wouldn't want her to see. My days contained work, hockey, Anna, and the apartment. Nothing else.

My attention was another matter, though. It had contained Bishop for much longer than I was prepared to admit.

"Nothing has happened," I said.

Anna kept both hands around the cup. "That's not what I asked."

"There's no relationship. There can't be one."

The professional truth overruled the personal one. Anna heard it.