I shoulder my backpack and try to step around him, but he mirrors the movement. I sidestep the other way, and he does too. It’s like a bad rendition of do-si-do. I fight the urge to maim him and sigh instead. “What do you want?”

He leans against the lockers, getting all up in my personal space, especially since mine is the last one in the row, which means I end up between him and the wall. “It feels like we haven’t talked in forever.”

I blink but don’t respond, because really, what can I even say to that?

“Can we go for coffee or something?”

“No. We can’t.” I wish I had a cool superpower that would allow me to scale walls or jump really high so I could get away from him without having to make physical contact. It’s been weeks, but I still don’t have the desire or energy to deal with him, so generally I don’t. I dislike confrontation, and I fear that I’ll lose it on him when we finally do talk, and work would not be the ideal location for that to happen.

“Why not?”

“Because you were warming your dick in a vagina that wasn’t mine.”

He makes a face like he doesn’t appreciate the image I’ve painted. I don’t particularly like it either, but it is accurate. “Come on, Stevie. You can’t be mad at me forever.”

I put a hand in front of his face, and he takes a step back, possibly because he thinks I’m going to hit him. It’s definitely something I’d consider if I wasn’t so opposed to domestic violence. Self-defense is a whole different beast, though. “First of all, you don’t get to tell me how to feel about any of this, particularly how long I’m allowed to be angry. As far as I’m concerned, I wasted a year of my life being your girlfriend, and I have zero plans to waste more time, emotion, or energy on anything related to you.”

“I made a mistake.” He’s whiny rather than remorseful.

“How many times did you happen to make that mistake?”

“I was alone out here for two months.”

Well, now I know it wasn’t an isolated incident. “A mistake becomes a choice when you make it more than once. Looks like maybe you should’ve thought about the consequences before you made yours.”

“Baby, I get that you’re—”

“Hey! There you are!” Pattie and Jules, bless their hearts, manage to worm their way between us. They flank me like very pretty bodyguards and thread their arms through mine.

Jules flashes a smile I can only describe as extra syrupy with a side of fake at Joey. “So sorry to interrupt, but we need Stevie.”

Joey’s overly groomed eyebrows furrow. “We were talking.”

“Really? Because it looked a lot like you were trying to corner her,” Pattie says.

Jules shoulders him out of the way, and my feet barely touch the floor as they basically carry me through the staff lounge. We have to turn sideways to get through the door because they refuse to unlink their arms. I feel a bit like Dorothy with the Tin Man and the Cowardly Lion, minus the Yellow Brick Road, as we walk down the hall toward the front doors.

We burst out of the building, and still they keep their arms linked with mine as we bust it down the street, past university campus buildings. My bus stop is in the opposite direction, and I’d like to tell them this, but I don’t want to appear ungrateful for the save.

Jules looks over her shoulder. “He’s not following us; we’re good.”

They unhook their arms from mine, and we shuffle off to the side so students can pass us on their way to and from their afternoon and evening classes. Working at a university clinic is interesting. It straddles a line between nostalgic and wistful, especially since the three of us are fresh from graduate school and could still pass for students, even though we’re not.

“Thanks for getting me out of there.” I shake off the uneasiness I feel when thinking about confronting Joey.

“It looked tense.” Pattie gives my arm a gentle squeeze.

“It’s annoying more than anything.” For the most part I can avoid him, but it seems like he’s made it his mission to seek me out every time we’re in the building together.

“He’s more persistent than a case of crabs in a rent-by-the-hour motel,” Jules gripes.

“And just as unpleasant, actually,” I agree.

Jules and Pattie invite me to join them for dinner. If I go home now, I’ll end up perseverating on my altercation with Joey. It’ll be one of those downward spirals where I question all my past boyfriend choices while eating a pint or two of ice cream.

Then I’ll start wondering if Jerkwad is getting his fuck on with his newest bedpost notch. Inevitably, I’ll start fantasizing about duct-taping his pretty mouth shut and using him as my personal dildo, which will result in self-loathing. Nothing good can come from going home and being alone, so I agree to dinner.

We head down the street to one of the local restaurants. Everywhere seems to be buzzing tonight, and I suddenly realize why as my brother’s form fills the multiscreen TV that takes up nearly an entire wall in the bar.

“Seattle’s first exhibition game is tonight.” Pattie motions to the screen. “I bet the guys are watching this at home.”

“The guys?”

“You know, our brothers.” Jules has three, and Pattie has two, I’ve learned. “They’re all sports fanatics, and we are, too, so it can get out of hand sometimes,” Jules explains.

“Especially when two different sports overlap at the end or the beginning of the season.”

“I can imagine.” All the tables near the TVs are taken, so we bypass them and head for the patio. We’ll still sort of be able to watch the game. I can’t believe I forgot that tonight is RJ’s first game. I shoot him a quick message wishing him luck as we browse the menu.

I’m able to half pay attention to the game from our table, so I don’t feel like a totally horrible sister. We order pints and a bunch of appetizers. I’m busy stuffing my face with nachos when a collective gasp from the entire bar has me looking at the TV screens. It’s a flurry of action on the ice, players shoving each other as one from Seattle curls into a ball close to the net.

“Oh shit! That had to hurt!” some guy from two tables over says.

“That was a dodgy play. They better give LA a penalty for that shit,” someone else says.

“Who got hit?” I ask Jules and Pattie, who both have a hand covering their mouths. “Was it number forty-four? Bowman?” I ask, my heart suddenly in my throat.

Jules gives her head a shake. “No, uh, number fifty-two. Winslow. Some trade from Nashville.”

“Thank God.” I breathe a sigh of relief and slump back in my chair, checking the score at the top of the screen before it goes to commercial break. At least Seattle is winning, so that’s something.

“Wait a second. Isn’t your last name Bowman?” Pattie’s eyes dart around, possibly checking for eavesdroppers. She leans in closer and lowers her voice. “Are you related to Rook Bowman?”

I don’t see the point in lying. We’ve been working together for close to a month, and they’ll find out eventually. And it will also tell me what camp they fit into. “He’s my brother.”