Chapter Twenty-Nine
Maren
The problem with missing someone is that it is very hard to schedule.
I tried.
Obviously.
I was a professional.
I had a new job, a real badge, a shared drive with too many folders, and Patty’s voice in my head saying, “If it is not labeled, it did not happen.”
So I made a plan.
Morning: staff meeting.Midday: championship archive uploads.Afternoon: fall sports media calendar.Evening: rink access.Feel Carter’s absence: not on the calendar.
Unfortunately, feelings lacked respect for workflow.
By nine fifteen on Carter’s first day at camp, I had checked my phone eleven times.
This was not ideal.
By nine twenty, Patty noticed.
Deeply not ideal.
She walked past my desk with a stack of sponsor forms, stopped, backed up, and looked at me.
“No.”
I locked my phone.
“What?”
“You are checking for Vance.”
“I am checking the time.”
“On your phone.”
“Yes.”
“While sitting in front of a computer with the time in the corner.”
I looked at the computer.
Betrayal.
Patty set the forms on my desk.
“How is long-distance day one?”
“It is not long-distance. It is two weeks.”
“That is a length of distance.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
Everyone had learned that phrase.
Carter had infected the building.
“He is at camp,” I said. “He should focus.”
“And you should work.”
“I am working.”
“You renamed one folder four times.”
“It needed accuracy.”
“It was called ‘June Assets.’”
“Too broad.”
Patty stared.
I stared back.
She smiled first.
Terrible woman.
“Eat lunch today,” she said.
“I always eat lunch.”
“Coffee does not count as soup.”
“Debatable.”
“No.”
She left before I could win.
Fine.
I worked.
Actually worked.
The championship archive was messy because celebrations made terrible file discipline.
There were photos from three student assistants, two staff photographers, alumni submissions, and one mysterious folder labeled NOLAN IMPORTANT that contained eleven photos of the rubber duck in different parts of the arena.
I rejected all eleven.
Then restored one.
For culture.
At ten forty-three, Carter texted.
My phone lit up beside my keyboard.
I stared at it for a full three seconds like it was a small animal.
Then opened it.
CARTER: Made it to camp facility. Room smells like bleach and ambition. Duck judging everything.
A photo followed.
The rubber duck sat on a hotel desk beside Carter’s camp credential, a water bottle, and a banana.
I smiled so hard my face hurt.
Then I deliberately waited two minutes before answering because I was a grown woman with boundaries.
One minute and eight seconds.
Close enough.
ME: The duck has high standards.
CARTER: Higher than the room. Room has one lamp and no emotional warmth.
ME: You brought your own emotional support poultry.
CARTER: Waterfowl.
ME: Unclear.
Three dots.
Then:
CARTER: First meeting in 20. Nervous.
There it was.
Not performance.
Not a joke thrown over fear.
Truth.
I sat back.
My chest softened.
ME: Good nervous?
A pause.
CARTER: Scared nervous. Excited nervous. Trying not to become charming-as-defense nervous.
I read it twice.
Then typed carefully.
ME: Notice it. Do not punish yourself for having the instinct. Choose the second thing.
His reply did not come immediately.
I let it not come.
Progress.
Work.
Allegedly.
When it did, my throat tightened.
CARTER: You sound like you. Helpful and bossy.
ME: Concerned.
CARTER: Good concerned.
A second message:
CARTER: Going in. Truth/funny ratio pending.
I smiled.
ME: Go be known, Vance.
Three dots.
Then:
CARTER: Trying.
I placed the phone facedown and breathed.
Good yes.
At noon, I ate half a sandwich because Patty stood in the doorway until I did.
At one, Coach Adler rejected another flyer.
This time he wrote Absolutely not in the margin, which felt expressive.
At two, I met with the ice programs director about restarting the junior media clinic.
Her name was Dana Price.
She brought a binder, two pens, and the terrifying optimism of a woman who had been waiting years for someone to say yes.
“I think we can run a pilot in July,” she said.
“Small group?”
“Six girls. Maybe eight. Skating plus media basics. Not performance pressure. Story ownership.”
Story ownership.
I liked that.
A lot.
Too much maybe.
“We can include camera basics,” I said. “Shot selection. Consent around footage. How to decide what part of a routine tells the whole story.”
Dana smiled.
“That is exactly why I wanted you involved.”
I looked down at my notes.
Praise still arrived weirdly.
Less like weather now.
More like a doorbell I did not expect.
“I would like that,” I said.
“Good.”
The word landed clean.
After the meeting, I walked to the media hallway.
The two panels were still there.
Carter’s and mine.
Side by side.
No crowd.
No ceremony.
Just present.
I stood in front of mine and thought about six girls in July learning how to hold cameras, how to tell their own stories, how not to let one fall become the only file anyone kept.
My phone buzzed.
Carter.
CARTER: Update: I made one joke. It was fine. Then I said I was nervous. Also fine. Did not die.
I laughed.
ME: Strong start.
CARTER: One guy laughed with me, not at me. I noticed the difference. Felt weird.
ME: Good weird?
CARTER: Good weird.
Another message:
CARTER: Also there is a defenseman here named Tyler who says “buddy” like a threat.
I smiled.
ME: Avoid buddy threat.
CARTER: Impossible. He is my roommate.
ME: The duck will protect you.
CARTER: The duck fears nothing.
I kept smiling at my phone until footsteps stopped beside me.
Coach Adler.
Of course.
“Ellis.”
I locked the screen.
“Coach.”
“Vance alive?”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Do you all have a group chat without me?”
“No.”
“That was too fast.”
His mouth almost moved.
Almost.
“He texted. He is alive.”
“Good.”
“He said he admitted being nervous.”
Coach looked at Carter’s panel.
“Better.”
From Coach, that was fireworks.
“He will be okay,” I said.
Coach glanced at me.
“Probably.”
“Very comforting.”
“Comfort is—”
“Not always the point,” I finished.
He looked faintly pleased.
Terrifying.
Then he said, “And you?”
“What about me?”
“Are you okay with him gone?”
I looked at the panels.
The hallway.
The work waiting on my desk.
The rink beyond everything.
“I miss him,” I said.
Coach nodded.
“And?”
“And I am still here.”
“Good.”
This time, the word felt like approval and assignment both.
At four, I finished the championship archive and sent Angela the photo of Carter looking up after the trophy.
She replied with four heart emojis, one crying emoji, and then:
ANGELA: You gave me a seat in the room I could not reach. Thank you.
I sat very still.
Then replied:
MAREN: He carried you there.
Her answer:
ANGELA: You saw it.
Yes.
I had.
Seeing was becoming the job.
Not just cameras.
Not just edits.
Seeing rightly.
At six, I used the private rink time.
Alone at first.
Always alone at first.
The arena lights were dim, the ice fresh enough to reflect the rafters.
I tied my skates slowly.
Left first.
Blue ribbon.
Right second.
Breathe.
The first glide was clean.
The second, better.
I did not try anything dramatic.
No jumps.
No old routine.
Just edges.
Circles.
Balance.
Trust.
My phone sat on the bench.
Face down.
For twenty minutes, I did not check it.
That felt like its own small victory.
When I finally stepped off the ice, there was one message.
CARTER: First skate done. I was not the best. Did not combust. Told Tyler his “buddy” has serial killer energy. He laughed. Maybe friend? Hard to say.
A second message came after.
CARTER: Miss you. Not as performance. Just true.
My chest tightened.
I sat on the bench in my skates, cold air around me, phone in hand.
I let myself miss him.
Not panic.
Not schedule.
Just miss.
Then I typed:
ME: Miss you too. Also true.
I watched the message send.
No regret.
No follow-up making it smaller.
Good.
At seven thirty, I went back to my office.
Not because I needed to work.
Because the hallway was on the way out, and I wanted to see the panels one more time.
Carter’s quote held steady.
Mine did too.
The building felt different without him in it.
But it did not feel empty.
That was important.
At eight, he called.
I answered from my desk.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi.”
His voice was tired.
Warm.
Far.
Not too far.
The room around him hummed with distant voices.
“Camp dinner?” I asked.
“Pasta. Chicken. Something green that looked like it lost a fight.”
“Did you eat it?”
“Yes.”
“Proud of you.”
A pause.
Then softly, “Medium?”
“Medium.”
“Internally?”
“Medium-large.”
“Good.”
I smiled.
“How was the room?”
He was quiet for a second.
Then, “New.”
“What kind of new?”
“Everyone is trying to be impressive.”
“Including you?”
“Yes.”
“Good honesty.”
“I made one joke too fast.”
“And?”
“I noticed after. Did not spiral. Did not write a twelve-page accountability list in the bathroom.”
“That is growth.”
“Tyler says buddy too much.”
“You mentioned.”
“He may become a character issue.”
“Or a friend.”
“Same family?”
“No.”
“Worth trying.”
I leaned back in my chair.
The office light was softer at night.
The panels waited down the hall.
The rink waited beyond that.
Carter breathed through the phone.
“What did you do?” he asked.
“Worked.”
“Specific.”
“Championship archive. Junior media clinic meeting. Skated.”
His voice changed.
“Good?”
“Good yes.”
“Alone first?”
“Yes.”
“Proud of you.”
The words crossed state lines and still landed correctly.
“Thank you.”
Silence.
Not empty.
Then Carter said, “I thought distance would feel like disappearing.”
My throat tightened.
“And?”
“It doesn’t.” A pause. “It feels like carrying something. New. Annoying. But real.”
I closed my eyes.
“Good.”
“Yeah.”
“I thought you leaving might make me feel abandoned,” I said.
The words surprised me.
Carter went very quiet.
“But it doesn’t,” I continued. “Not exactly. It makes me feel the space. But not abandoned.”
His voice was careful.
“Good?”
I breathed.
“Good yes.”
We stayed on the phone for forty-three minutes.
Talking about camp drills.
Patty’s folder comments.
Tyler Buddy Threat.
Dana’s clinic plan.
The duck.
The panel.
Nothing and everything.
When we hung up, I did not feel less in love.
I felt less afraid of what love did when it had to stretch.
Before leaving, I opened a new folder on the shared drive.
JUNIOR_MEDIA_CLINIC_PILOT
Then a subfolder.
STORY_OWNERSHIP
I smiled at the name.
Accurate.
Maybe too accurate.
Still.
I shut down my computer, turned off the office light, and walked through the media hallway.
Past Carter’s panel.
Past mine.
Out toward the parking lot.
The night air was cool.
My skates were in my bag.
My phone was in my hand.
My job was real.
Carter was gone and not gone.
I missed him and stayed myself.
For day one, that felt like enough.
Good yes.