Chapter 26
Reese
My apartment feels like someone else's. It’s too quiet. Everything I hear just sounds wrong. I don't remember it ever being this quiet. Now there's just this weird emptiness and the soft tick of the clock on my wall.
I load the coffee into the filter, pour in the water, and press the start button. I want the familiar gurgle to be comforting, but it’s not.
I drag my hand along the countertop and pick up the broom I left leaning against the refrigerator yesterday. I sweep half-a-dozen strokes across the linoleum before stopping mid-motion, and lean the broom back on the fridge.
The A.D.D. I don’t officially have takes over, and I drift toward the laundry basket overflowing in the corner.
I begin separating shirts from underwear, creating little piles.
A Chicago Blades compression shirt—his—appears in my hands.
All the feelings it brings up freeze me for a second, and then I carefully set it aside in its own pile, neither colors nor whites. A category of its own.
My phone lies facedown on the coffee table. I flip it over. No notifications. No calls, no texts, no emails that matter. I check anyway, scrolling through old conversations, re-reading the last texts we exchanged before everything fell apart.
Logan: On my way to the rink. See you after the game.
Me: Good luck! Love you
Nothing after. Just a chasm of silence.
I plop down on the couch and turn on the local news for background noise. A sports announcer's voice immediately fills the room.
"—another tough loss for the Blades last night in Denver, putting them on the brink of elimination in the Western Conference Finals against Colorado. Captain Logan McCoy's struggles continue to be the story of this series—"
Another voice cuts in: "You have to wonder how much the off-ice issues are affecting his performance. Between the custody battle, being a new father, and the drama with his girlfriend—"
I stab at the power button three times before it works, mercifully putting the room back into silence. Hearing them accuse me of being part of the problem feels like an intrusion, a violation. The way they say it is just gross—like I'm an injury, a human version of a concussion or a broken leg.
The coffee maker beeps its completion, but I don't move to pour a cup. Instead, I stare at the dark TV screen where my reflection looks back at me—hair unwashed, wearing the same sweatpants I've had on for two days. I don't recognize myself.
At some point the doorbell rings, followed by the sound of a key in the lock. Elena steps inside carrying grocery bags, her expression carefully neutral but her eyes scanning me skeptically.
"You're alive," she says, moving toward the kitchen with purpose. "That's good."
"Barely," I reply, watching as she sets the bags on the counter and begins unpacking them. "You didn't have to do this."
"I know." She pulls out vegetables, a container of chicken broth, a loaf of fresh bread. "I wanted to."
I hover in the doorway between kitchen and living room, uncertain where to put myself in my own home. Elena moves with the confidence I lack, finding pots and utensils like she lives here.
"Have you eaten today?" she asks without looking at me.
"I had..." My voice trails off. I can't actually remember eating anything. "I'm not hungry."
Elena nods like this is the answer she expected. "You've heard from him?" she asks after a long pause.
"No." The word comes out smaller than I intended. "Nothing."
She stops chopping a carrot, looking up at me with those eyes that see too much. "It's only been a few days, Reese."
Has it? I’m actually not even sure. Days and nights have blended together into one endless blur.
"I keep thinking he'll call," I admit, picking at a stain on my sweatpants. "I keep checking my phone like I imagined the whole thing. Like maybe we didn't really break up and it was just some weird dream."
"But you know it wasn't."
"Yeah." I attempt a smile that feels more like a grimace. "I’ve done it again. Fallen for the one guy with more baggage than the O'Hare lost and found."
The joke falls flat. Elena doesn't even pretend to laugh.
"He's an idiot," she says instead, resuming her chopping. "He thinks he's protecting you, being noble or some shit. Men and their hero complexes."
"He's trying to keep his son," I say, defending him automatically. Even now, I can't help it. "I can't blame him for that."
"You can blame him for how he's handling it." The knife comes down with extra force on an innocent onion. "There were other options. Better ones."
I sink into a chair at my kitchen table, suddenly too tired to stand. "Doesn't matter now, does it?"
Elena works in silence for a while, the rhythm of her cooking filling the empty spaces. The apartment begins to smell like something real—garlic, onions, chicken stock simmering. It should make me hungry, but my stomach might as well belong to someone else for all the interest it shows.
"You can't just sit here forever," Elena says finally, ladling soup into a bowl.
"I know." I trace patterns on the table with my finger. "I just need a little more time."
"Time for what?"
"To stop checking my phone every five minutes. To stop hoping he'll change his mind. To figure out who I am without him and..." I catch myself before saying his son's name. That wound is still too raw to touch.
Elena sets the bowl in front of me, steam rising. "Eat," she commands. "Food first, existential crisis later."
I pick up the spoon to appease her, but the thought of swallowing anything makes my throat tighten. "Thank you," I say instead. "For coming. For the soup. For not telling me to get my shit together."
"Oh, I'll tell you that eventually." Her smile softens the words. "Just not today."
She stays another hour, distracting me from my drama by talking about normal life, helping me fold the rest of that overflowing laundry basket and wiping down counters I haven't noticed were dirty.
When she leaves, the silence rushes back in, but luckily the apartment smells different now—like food and evidence someone cares.
I sit at the table long after she's gone, watching the soup grow cold, untouched. My phone stays dark beside the bowl. I don't know why I keep expecting anything different.
The familiar streets around Parkside Elementary feel different from the driver's seat of my car at 3:15 PM.
I'm usually inside the building at this time, lining up wiggly kindergarteners, reminding them about backpacks and lunch boxes.
But today I'm an outsider, slowing my car as I approach the school zone, my heart doing something weird and skippy.
I shouldn't be here. I have no reason to be here. But I can't stay away.
It's been a week since Elena brought soup, a week and a half since Logan walked out of my apartment and my life.
Time is starting to regain its structure, hours distinguishable from each other again, though the days still blur together.
I find a parking spot across from the school, positioning my car where I can see the main entrance but where I'm unlikely to be noticed by anyone who might recognize me.
The school building looks different somehow—red brick, wide steps, the banner announcing the spring fundraiser hanging slightly crooked from yesterday's wind.
Nothing has changed, except everything has.
My classroom is in there, my desk, my reading corner with the beanbags I bought with my own money.
Mrs. Henderson is probably using them now.
I wonder if she rearranged the furniture or left it how I had it.
The dismissal bell must have rung because the front doors burst open, releasing a flood of children into the cold afternoon. Their voices carry across the street—high, excited, relieved to be free. I lower my window despite the bite in the air, letting the familiar sounds wash over me.
"Mom! I got an A on my spelling test!"
"What did you bring me for a snack? I'm starving!"
"Can Zach come over to play Minecraft?"
The voices tangle together, creating a familiar chaos that makes my heart ache with want. This was my world. These were my days.
Parents stand in clusters near the entrance, their breath visible in the cold as they chat and wait.
Cars idle in the pickup lane, exhaust being pressed down by the cold air.
I watch through the misty curtain. I chuckle as I realize it’s an appropriate symbol for my new reality—close enough to see, too far to touch.
Then I spot Mia bouncing down the steps, her unicorn backpack as big as she is, sequins attempting to flash in the winter light.
She's talking to another girl, hands gesturing wildly the way she does when she's excited about something.
A few weeks ago, she lost her first tooth in my classroom and was so proud she showed everyone, including the janitor.
And there's Lily, scanning the crowd of adults for her mother who is perpetually late.
I used to let her help organize the bookshelf while we waited, turning the extra minutes into special time rather than abandonment.
Today she stands alone at the top of the steps, shoulders tense under her pink coat.
I grip my steering wheel, fighting the urge to go to her, to tell her it'll be okay, that her mom will come.
A flash of blonde curls catches my eye—Vanessa, the little girl with a lisp who tried so hard to say my name correctly. "Mith Thompthon," she'd say, face screwed up with concentration. I taught her to say "Ms. T" instead, and her relief was immediate and beautiful.
The pain is sudden and sharp. These aren't my kids anymore. I'm not their teacher. I'm basically just a stalker sitting in a cold car, longingly watching people's lives play out.
A tap on my window makes me jump. It's Mr. Chen, father of the twins in my class, peering in with concern. I roll the window down further, trying to make it look like I’m not doing what I’m actually doing.
"Ms. Thompson? Are you okay?"
"Hi, Mr. Chen." My voice comes out steadier than I expect. "Yes, I'm fine. Just... passing by and couldn’t resist."
His eyes are kind but cautious. "The kids miss you. Michael asked about you just yesterday."
The lump in my throat makes it hard to respond. "I miss them too."
He nods, glancing back at the school where his sons are now racing down the steps. "They told us it was a leave of absence. Will you be coming back?"
"I don't know yet," I say, because it's easier than explaining the complicated truth. "I hope so."
He smiles uncertainly. "Well, we hope so too. Take care of yourself."
As he walks away to collect his boys, I start my car. I've seen enough. Being here hurts more than helps.
At home, my apartment is still a mess, though less apocalyptic than when Elena visited. In the few hours since I was at the school, I've managed to wash some dishes, throw away some of the junk mail, and I even took a shower. Small victories.
Before heading to bed, I open my laptop, telling myself I’ll take 30 minutes to look at job postings, maybe I can find some tutoring positions. Instead, my fingers type "Chicago Blades playoffs" into the search bar.
The headlines are immediate and brutal:
"Blades on Brink of Elimination After Game 5 Loss"
"McCoy's Playoff Nightmare Continues: Zero Points in Five Games"
"Captain's Personal Problems Sinking Blades' Cup Hopes"
I click on the last one, stomach clenching as the article loads. My name jumps out from the text almost immediately:
"...amid custody battle and recent breakup with his girlfriend, Reese Thompson, sources close to the team say McCoy has been 'distracted' and 'not himself' in the locker room..."
I close the lid of my laptop so forcefully it makes a sound protesting. It doesn't help. None of this helps. Not watching the school, not checking up on Logan, not sitting in my apartment pretending I'm dealing with any of this in a healthy way.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table. A news alert. Despite myself, I look.
"BLADES FORCE GAME 7: Kovalchuk's OT Heroics Save Season After McCoy Benched in Final Minutes"
I stare at the headline. They won. Without him. Game 7 will be here in Chicago. The winner goes to the Stanley Cup Finals. The biggest game of his career, and his team had to bail him out to get here.