Her car is a 2014 Civic with a cracked dash and a Stanford parking permit hanging off the mirror by a prayer.

Aaron knows this car. He knows the tape deck that doesn't work, the thermos that lives in the cupholder, the hair tie around the gearshift. He knows the passenger seat, because for three months it was his, and he needed it slid all the way back to fit his legs.

It's still all the way back.

He notices when he gets in. Doesn't say anything. Folds himself into it like his body remembers the exact angle, and it does, and that's the problem with his body: it keeps receipts.

She hands him a bottle of water from the door pocket. He holds it in both hands like something he's been asked to guard.

Do not look at the seat. Do not think about the seat.

He thinks about the seat.

Okay. Plan.

Six minutes to the dorm, give or take a stop sign. He can be normal for six minutes. He's been normal for entire quarters on a bad hamstring. He once did a postgame interview with a bruised rib and said "blessed" four times.

"Thanks for the ride."

Casual. Quality casual.

"Mm."

She drives the way she does everything, both hands, ten and two, like the road might file a complaint. Dash light turns her face soft blue. His hoodie sleeves are shoved to her elbows.

Not the sleeves.

The sleeves.

"I don't usually do that," he says. "The whole situation. I'm more of a Gatorade guy."

"I know."

"I pretend to like Hennessy."

"I know, Aaron."

Of course she does.

Minute two. He looks out the window. Palm trees, orange streetlights, some kid on a scooter with somewhere to be and looking great doing it. Behind them the party is still going and Travis is still out there feeling like a hero.

I'm going to end him. Slowly. Legally.

Minute three. Red light. The car goes quiet in a way that's almost rude. Blinker ticking. His pulse in his ears. Her breathing, which he knows. That's the whole issue, honestly, he knows things. The tiny catch before she disagrees with him. The way she exhales when she's decided not to say something. Three weeks of silence and it turns out the rest of him kept a full archive.

"You okay?" Eyes on the road.

"Peak condition."

She doesn't answer. Doesn't have to. The light goes green and so does the silence, and it's so unfair, the way she does that. No pressure, no push, and he's standing in a room with no exits.

Minute four.

His stomach has settled. Something else hasn't. Somewhere lower and less physical, a place he's kept shut for three weeks under film and jokes and I'm good, Ma, and now it's leaning on the door like it found a key.

Hold it. You're a professional.

Minute five. He watches streetlight slide over her hands on the wheel. The silver ring she never takes off. The thumbnail she bites when she's stressed, bitten down to nothing this week.

He did that. Or the breakup did. Or he and the breakup did it together, like teammates.

Minute six. Campus through the trees. Dorm lights. Almost home. Almost done. Almost—

"I didn't know how to stay."

It goes to the window. Low. Barely a sentence.

Her hands don't move. The blinker ticks.

Abort. Abort, this is not the play. But his mouth has gone rogue again, same as that night, except now it's running the other direction.

"When you said it." His voice comes out rough and he hates it. "My whole head was screaming say something, fix it, beg. And I just walked. Like somebody who didn't care."

Nothing.

"I cared." Forehead to the cold glass. "That's the part I can't put down. I cared so much I didn't know where to put it, so I put it nowhere."

The car slows. Stops. The dorm glows in front of them, stupid and ordinary.

Aaron closes his eyes.

Okay. That happened.

She turns off the engine.

Neither of them moves. He can feel her looking, not at the side of his head but at the whole slumped shape of him, and he keeps his eyes shut like a kid faking sleep on the ride home so nobody makes him talk.

He waits for it. It's okay. I know. Aaron, don't. Any of the things he's braced for.