Page 33 of What We Knew Then
What a piece of shit. I’m kind of glad I didn’t know about how terrible of a guy Freddy was at the bonfire; it would’ve made not hitting him much harder. I thought he was just a dumb college guy. But taking someone to look at a ring? And dumping them? That’s diabolical.
Part of me softens—one of the edges I’ve kept sharp in the hopes of not letting Cora infiltrate me anymore. I can feel it, cell by cell. And things start making a little more sense. Anger settles low in my stomach, thinking of how he’s still texting her, trying to meet up—sounds like he’s trying to keep his hooks just deep enough.
I’ve known guys like this my whole life. The ones who can only position themselves as the main priority, can’t think of others, and don’t care what they take from people to get ahead.
Fuck that guy.
“Also, the thought of getting engaged while you’re in college kind of makes my stomach hurt,” Troy adds, breaking through the silence.
Leo’s hands slap the table. “I’ll throw up if I think about it for too long.”
“No one has girlfriends here?” I ask.
“Not ones we see more than once,” Leo winks and Troy punches his shoulder. “Hey! There’s nothing wrong with casual, safe, consensual sex.” Leo lifts a beer and we all clink our cans together.
We fall into easy conversation. I chime in when I can, though I’m still at the transfer disadvantage. Still, I feel like I’m part of the group. When I came out tonight, I was beating myself up about missing out on extra training, but this is the perfect reason to miss.
Part of me feels like I might belong. It brings a blanket of panic with it. Because if you’re part of something, have a seat at the table, it’s just another thing that you can lose.
Chapter 20
CORA
Thekitchensmellslikebacon, coffee, and cinnamon toast. The holy trinity of weekend breakfasts in the Banks household. Usually it’s comforting. This morning, with my head pounding and my stomach still trying to settle, it feels more like a personal attack.
Our house isn’t fancy. Not the kind of place you’d see in a glossy magazine spread. It’s big enough. Four bedrooms. Plenty of space when I was younger to tear through the halls with whatever group of hockey kids had taken over for the day, or now to host team dinners when Dad insists. But it’s nothing over the top. Practical. Comfortable. A coach’s salary doesn’t exactly stretch to granite countertops and wine cellars, but that’s never been my dad anyway. He wanted us close enough to campus that he could walk to the rink in ten minutes if he needed to.
I take a sip of the coffee Mom slides in front of me, trying to ignore the way it sloshes too close to the rim. The bitterness makes my stomach lurch, but I cling to the warmth. Anything to quiet the echo in my head. I’m never drinking again.
The irony isn’t lost on me. I didn’t drink alcohol until my twenty-first birthday, and that was a choice. Not because anyone was hovering or watching me too closely, but because I was terrified of breaking the rules. Terrified of disappointing someone. Good girl syndrome, my freshman year roommate called it. She wasn’t wrong. I spent most of that night at the bar with a Coke in my hand, quietly proud of myself for doing it “right.”
And now? Now I’m nursing the kind of headache that makes me want to crawl back into bed and hibernate until finals.
“So…” Mom’s voice is gentle, but there’s a certain lift to it which makes me tense. She sets down the spatula and gestures at the plate of scrambled eggs between us. “Any updates on Freddy?”
The fork in my hand stills. My stomach twists harder than the coffee did. I keep my eyes on the plate. “Mom. We’re not together. Remember?”
Her smile flickers, something almost guilty passing through her eyes. “I just thought… all that time you spent together.
There it is—the comment that hits like a pebble in my shoe. Small, but sharp enough to hurt. I stab a piece of toast, my jaw tight. “We broke up for a reason. I’m not going backward.”
Dad lowers his newspaper, his voice cutting clean through the quiet. “She’s right. He didn’t know what he had. Good riddance.”
My head snaps at that, surprised by the steel in his tone. He folds the paper, sets it on the table, and looks right at me. “You can have whoever you want, Cora. As long as it’s not a hockey player.”
“Wow. Subtle,” I mutter, rolling my eyes, but the corner of my mouth twitches. He’s half-joking, but the other half is all too real.
He shrugs unapologetically. “I know what I’m talking about.”
The silence stretches, thick enough that Mom clears her throat, trying to steer us back to safer waters. “What about classes? Everything going okay this semester?
“Fine,” I answer, but the word tastes like ash. Fine. The most useless word in the English language.
Her voice isn’t judgmental—it’s worrying. The kind of worry that comes from a mom who still texts me when it snows to ask if I have boots. “Are you getting enough sleep? And work? You’re not overdoing it, are you?”
My chest tightens, like I’m thirteen again and have been caught sneaking extra chapters of a book past midnight. “I’m managing.” I nod, forcing my lips into a smile. I don’t mention the late nights at the tutoring center, the hours swallowed by spreadsheets, the hollow exhaustion that seems like it's part of my personality.
The truth to her question is uglier: I don’t know if I am.
