Chapter Twenty-Three — Tessa
Chapter Twenty-Three
Tessa
The first time I called Rhett my boyfriend in public, he dropped a hockey stick.
Not his own.
That would have been easier to explain.
It belonged to a twelve-year-old named Mason who had been waiting beside the arena tunnel for an autograph.
Rhett had just signed the blade when Mason looked at me and asked, “Are you really his girlfriend?”
The honest answer arrived before the careful one.
“Yes.”
The stick hit the floor.
Mason stared at it.
Then at Rhett.
Rhett stared at me.
I folded my arms.
“You dropped something.”
He looked down.
“Apparently.”
Mason picked up the stick himself.
“Are you okay?”
Rhett blinked.
“Yes.”
He looked at me again.
“No.”
The boy nodded like this made complete sense.
“You should probably sit down.”
“I agree,” I said.
Rhett pressed one hand to his chest.
“This is a significant emotional event.”
“You knew we were dating.”
“Privately.”
“You requested public honesty.”
“I did not prepare for the wording.”
“What wording?”
“Boyfriend.”
Mason looked between us.
“That’s what you are.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Rhett pointed at him.
“You’re very perceptive.”
The boy’s mother called from the concourse.
Mason waved and hurried away, dragging the signed stick behind him.
Rhett waited until they were gone.
Then stepped closer.
“You said it.”
“I noticed.”
“You called me your boyfriend.”
“That is the correct term.”
“In public.”
“We discussed this.”
“I heard you.”
His smile arrived slowly.
The real one.
Warm.
Unprotected.
It still felt like winning something every time.
“Say it again,” he said.
“No.”
“Tessa.”
“You are becoming repetitive.”
“Emotionally necessary.”
I glanced toward the open tunnel.
Players moved in and out carrying equipment. Staff pushed carts toward the locker room. Students passed at the end of the corridor.
Public.
Visible.
I looked back at him.
“My boyfriend needs to help with the youth clinic.”
His face changed again.
More ridiculous this time.
“You did that on purpose.”
“Possibly.”
He leaned down.
“Can my girlfriend kiss me before I go?”
I looked around.
No cameras that I could see.
That was no longer the only consideration.
Privacy was not hiding.
And public did not have to mean performance.
“Yes.”
He kissed me softly.
One hand at my waist.
No show.
No audience required.
When he pulled back, Cam shouted from the tunnel.
“We can all see you!”
Rhett did not turn.
“Then learn something.”
“I learned that you’re late!”
Coach Mercer’s voice followed.
“Callahan.”
Rhett closed his eyes.
“I should go.”
“Probably.”
He took two steps backward.
Then pointed at me.
“Boyfriend.”
I stared.
“That is not how nouns work.”
“It does now.”
He disappeared into the tunnel.
Cam leaned around the corner.
“Tessa.”
“What?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“He’s going to be unbearable, but at least now he’ll stop asking whether people know.”
“I doubt that.”
“Fair.”
He vanished too.
I stood alone in the corridor smiling.
That should have been the entire moment.
Simple.
That helped.
Then my phone buzzed.
Boston.
The email subject line read:
SUMMER ASSOCIATE HOUSING UPDATE
I opened it.
Read once.
Then again.
The apartment assignment had changed.
Not dramatically.
Still Boston.
Still furnished.
Still shared with Priya.
But orientation now included a mandatory weekend retreat beginning June second.
One day after arrival.
No visitors.
No exceptions.
Rhett’s first planned trip had been built around that weekend.
I stared at the schedule.
The second weekend was now a firm networking event.
The third, a case intensive.
Every neat line of our long-distance plan began shifting before the summer had even started.
My stomach tightened.
This was normal.
Jobs changed schedules.
Life ignored notebooks.
I knew that.
Still, I had built the plan because the plan made distance feel survivable.
Now Boston was rewriting it without asking.
I opened my messages with Rhett.
Typed:
Housing schedule changed.
Deleted it.
Too vague.
Typed:
Your first visit may not work.
Deleted that too.
Too heavy for a text before a youth clinic.
I locked the phone.
That was not avoidance.
It was timing.
Possibly.
Mostly.
Paige appeared from the concourse carrying two coffees.
She handed me one.
“You look like someone canceled oxygen.”
“Boston changed the schedule.”
“How?”
I showed her the email.
She read quickly.
Then looked up.
“That’s annoying.”
“It eliminates the first two weekends.”
“The third?”
“Case intensive.”
“The fourth?”
I scrolled.
“Possibly free.”
“Possibly?”
“The firm says weekend availability may be required depending on workload.”
Paige handed back the phone.
“You knew the job would be demanding.”
“I did.”
“You sound like that sentence insulted you.”
“It did.”
She studied me.
“What are you actually upset about?”
I looked toward the tunnel.
Rhett’s laugh echoed somewhere beyond it.
Easy to recognize now.
Even in a crowd.
“We made a plan.”
“And the plan changed.”
“That quickly.”
“Plans do that.”
“I understand.”
She waited.
I hated when people waited.
It made honesty harder to avoid.
“I’m afraid this is how it starts,” I said.
“How what starts?”
“Distance becoming the reason we stop trying.”
Paige’s expression softened.
“Did Rhett say that?”
“No.”
“Has he done anything to suggest it?”
“No.”
“Then this is fear doing advance work.”
The phrasing sounded like Rhett.
Possibly because both of them were becoming intolerably reasonable.
“I don’t want every schedule change to become a crisis.”
“Then don’t make it one.”
“That is unhelpful.”
“It is simple.”
“Simple is not the same as easy.”
“No.”
She smiled faintly.
“But you already know that.”
I looked down at the email again.
The truth was less dramatic than the fear.
One visit had changed.
Maybe two.
Not the relationship.
Not the choice.
Only the plan.
Still, I wanted Rhett.
Not as reassurance.
As a partner.
That meant telling him before I had converted the problem into a completed solution.
A terrible concept.
Possibly growth.
The tunnel doors opened.
Rhett walked out carrying three mini hockey sticks, a box of donated jerseys, and one child’s helmet perched on top of his head.
The helmet was pink.
Too small.
Cam followed behind him laughing.
Rhett saw me.
His entire face changed.
Still.
Every time.
He handed the box to Cam.
“Take this.”
“You’re wearing a child’s helmet.”
“I’m aware.”
“You look beautiful.”
“I remember.”
Cam took the box.
Then saw my expression.
The laughter faded.
He glanced at Rhett.
Then at me.
“I’m going to demonstrate emotional intelligence by leaving.”
“Historic,” Rhett said.
Cam walked away.
Rhett removed the helmet and set it on the equipment cart.
“What happened?”
No delay.
No joke first.
He knew.
I held out the phone.
He read the email.
His jaw shifted.
Then he scrolled.
“When did this come?”
“Two minutes ago.”
“And the first weekend is mandatory?”
“Yes.”
“Second too?”
“Firm event.”
“Third?”
“Intensive.”
He stopped scrolling.
“So the fourth.”
“Maybe.”
The word sounded worse aloud.
Rhett handed the phone back.
“Okay.”
I hated it immediately.
His careful word.
His trying-not-to-pressure word.
“Say the real thing.”
His eyes lifted.
“I hate it.”
Relief moved through me.
Not because he was unhappy.
Because I was not alone in it.
“I do too.”
“I wanted to see your apartment.”
“You still can.”
“I wanted the second weekend.”
“So did I.”
“I already looked at flights.”
“You did?”
“Several.”
The fact that he had planned without announcing it should not have mattered.
It did.
Rhett shoved his hands into the pockets of his team jacket.
“What do you want to do?”
There it was.
Not What should we do?
Not I’ll fix it.
What do you want?
“I don’t know yet.”
He nodded.
Not frustrated.
“Do you want me to wait while you decide?”
“No.”
That surprised both of us.
I stepped closer.
“I want us to decide.”
Something warmed in his expression.
“Then we start there.”
The word sounded better this time.
Shared.
Not distant.
I opened the calendar on my phone.
“We could meet halfway after the retreat.”
“Where?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Excellent plan.”
“I am developing it.”
“There she is.”
“Do not.”
He smiled.
Then pulled out his phone.
“We find a place.”
“Now?”
“Why not?”
“You have the youth clinic.”
“Finished.”
“Coach?”
“Emotionally released me.”
“That is not a thing.”
“He pointed at the exit.”
“Close enough.”
We moved to a bench beside the tunnel.
Rhett sat close enough that our shoulders touched.
We searched the map.
Boston to Lakeview.
Lakeview to Boston.
Train lines.
Airports.
Small towns.
Hotels.
Everything became expensive or inconvenient.
Sometimes both.
Rhett suggested driving six hours Friday night.
I rejected it.
He said athletes recovered quickly.
I said car crashes affected recovery.
He offered to take a train.
There was no direct route.
I proposed meeting in Albany.
He said Albany sounded like a tax seminar.
I told him cities did not need romantic branding.
He opened three hotel websites anyway.
For twenty minutes, the problem became practical.
Not emotional.
Not because the emotion disappeared.
Because we were working on it together.
Finally, Rhett pointed to a town almost exactly between us.
“Here.”
I looked.
A small lake town.
One hotel.
Two restaurants.
A historic theater.
“That is three hours for both of us.”
“Manageable.”
“Assuming I can leave Friday.”
“If not, Saturday morning.”
“And you have training Monday.”
“Sunday night back.”
“That is a lot of driving for one day.”
His eyes moved to mine.
“I want the day.”
The sentence stopped every objection.
Not dramatic.
Not desperate.
Clear.
I looked at the calendar.
“The weekend after the retreat.”
“Booked.”
“We have not booked anything.”
“Emotionally.”
“That phrase does too much work for you.”
“It’s efficient.”
I saved the town.
Then closed the calendar.
The plan had changed.
We had changed it too.
That felt different from losing it.
Rhett took my hand.
“Better?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Not solved.”
“No.”
“Potentially difficult.”
“Definitely.”
“And you still want the day.”
“I want every day I can get.”
My chest tightened.
“That sounded like pressure.”
His expression changed immediately.
“Sorry.”
I squeezed his hand.
“No.”
He waited.
I tried again.
“It sounded like love.”
The worry left his face.
Slowly.
“Yes.”
I leaned toward him.
“Kiss me.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“Publicly?”
“Do not make this procedural.”
“I enjoy clear instructions.”
“Rhett.”
He kissed me.
Warm.
Unhurried.
His hand rose to my cheek.
The arena corridor remained busy around us.
Players.
Parents.
Staff.
Nobody stopped.
Nobody mattered.
When he pulled away, his thumb stayed near my jaw.
“Still my girlfriend?” he asked.
I looked at him.
“Status unchanged.”
“Disturbingly formal.”
“You like confirmation.”
“I love it.”
The words did not frighten me now.
Not less.
Differently.
Because love had already survived a changed schedule, one argument, public gossip, and an uncertain summer that had not even begun.
Not proven forever.
Only practiced.
That seemed more useful.
My phone buzzed again.
This time, a message from my father.
Dad: Dinner Sunday? I’d like to discuss Boston travel plans. Rhett is welcome.
I showed him.
Rhett read it.
Then looked at me.
“Your father invited me?”
“Yes.”
“Voluntarily?”
“Apparently.”
“Is this a trap?”
“Possibly.”
“Will there be pie?”
“Unknown.”
He stood.
“Accept immediately.”
I laughed.
Then typed:
Tessa: Sunday works. We’ll come together.**
I paused before sending.
We’ll.
Such a small word.
Still, it carried everything.
Boston.
Lakeview.
The plan.
The changes.
The choice to keep moving as two people instead of one person managing around another.
I pressed send.
Rhett looked at the message.
Then at me.
“You said we.”
“That doesn’t make it easier.”
His smile appeared.
Bright enough to make the fluorescent hallway feel warmer.
The future remained inconvenient.
Unscheduled.
Difficult.
But for the first time, I understood that choosing someone did not mean building a perfect plan around them.
It meant letting them help rewrite it when life refused to cooperate.