Chapter Nineteen — Tessa
Chapter Nineteen
Tessa
Then stared at the confirmation email for eleven minutes like it might change its mind.
It did not.
The screen continued to say:
We are delighted to welcome you to the summer associate program.
Delighted.
A word with no respect for panic.
Paige stood behind me holding two mugs of coffee.
“You did it.”
“I clicked a button.”
“You changed your summer.”
“I clicked one button.”
“That is usually how modern life gets ruined.”
I looked over my shoulder.
“Helpful.”
She handed me a mug.
“Or improved.”
“That seems optimistic.”
“You accepted because you wanted it.”
“I accepted because the deadline was nine.”
“Also because you wanted it.”
I looked back at the screen.
The truth settled slowly.
I did want it.
That was what made the fear harder to dismiss.
The case work.
The pace.
The people who had listened when I challenged them.
Ten weeks in a city where nobody knew my father, my schedule, or the version of me that always chose the safest option.
I wanted the chance.
I also wanted Rhett.
Apparently adulthood was discovering that two true things could still hurt each other.
My phone sat beside the laptop.
No new messages.
Rhett had texted at six thirty.
Rhett: Deadline day. No pressure. Just reminding you that Boston has terrible hockey and worse coffee.
I had replied:
Tessa: Strong argument.
He sent:
Rhett: I prepared several.
Then nothing.
He was giving me space.
Which was kind.
Mature.
Absolutely unbearable.
Paige sat on the edge of my desk.
“Have you told him?”
“No.”
“Your father?”
“No.”
“The firm?”
“I accepted. They know.”
“That’s one.”
I wrapped both hands around the coffee.
“I want to tell Rhett in person.”
“Good.”
“And Dad.”
“Also good.”
“Possibly not in person.”
Paige smiled.
“Coward.”
“Correct.”
My phone rang.
Dad.
I stared at it.
Paige looked toward the ceiling.
“The universe has timing.”
“I hate the universe.”
“Answer.”
I did.
“Hi.”
“Tessa.”
His voice carried tension before the second syllable finished.
“Did you respond?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“And?”
“I accepted.”
Silence.
My stomach tightened.
Then my father exhaled.
“That helps.”
Only that.
Good.
No questions yet.
Only relief.
The old frustration rose immediately.
“You sound relieved.”
“It was an excellent offer.”
“It was.”
“You made the correct decision.”
There it was.
Correct.
Not mine.
Correct.
I closed my eyes.
“Dad.”
“What?”
“I didn’t accept because it was correct.”
Another pause.
“Then why did you?”
“Because I want to go.”
The sentence felt different spoken aloud.
Stronger.
More real.
My father’s voice softened slightly.
“That is good too.”
I had prepared for resistance.
Prepared to defend the decision.
I had not prepared for him to agree.
“That’s all?”
“What else should there be?”
“I don’t know.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I’m not.”
“You expected an argument.”
Yes.
Maybe because arguments made choices easier.
If he opposed me, accepting became rebellion.
If he approved, the decision belonged entirely to me.
“I expected questions,” I said.
“Are you still seeing Rhett?”
There it was.
I rubbed one hand against my forehead.
“Yes.”
“And what does he think?”
“He told me to take it.”
My father was quiet.
Then he said, “That surprises me.”
The defensiveness came quickly.
“Why?”
“He seems impulsive.”
“He is.”
“And unserious.”
“He isn’t.”
The answer came sharper than intended.
Dad paused.
“I thought you said the relationship was new.”
“It is.”
“Then you may not know him well enough to defend him that quickly.”
That landed.
Not because I thought he was right.
Because I knew exactly how quickly I had once assumed the worst of Rhett too.
“You don’t know him at all,” I said.
“I know what people say.”
“So did I.”
The room felt smaller.
Paige stood and quietly left.
My father exhaled again.
“I’m not trying to criticize him.”
“You are.”
“I’m trying to understand what happens when you leave.”
“So are we.”
“You’re considering long distance?”
“Yes.”
“That’s difficult.”
“I understand.”
“And college relationships often—”
“Dad.”
He stopped.
I looked at the acceptance email.
At my name.
At the decision I had made.
“I don’t need you to predict how this ends.”
“I’m trying to protect you.”
“I understand.”
That phrase again.
The one that softened every boundary if I let it.
“I need you to let me find out.”
The silence on the other end changed.
Not agreement.
Recognition.
“You sound sure,” he said.
“I’m not.”
“Then why proceed?”
Because uncertainty was not always a warning.
Sometimes it was simply the cost of choosing without guarantees.
“Because I still want to.”
He was quiet for a long time.
Then he said, “When do you leave?”
“June third.”
“And return?”
“August tenth.”
“Ten weeks.”
“Yes.”
“That isn’t forever.”
Rhett had said the same thing.
It still hurt.
“No.”
My father’s voice softened.
“I’m proud of you.”
The words caught me off guard.
“For accepting?”
“For deciding.”
My throat tightened.
“Thank you.”
We ended the call without solving anything.
That felt healthier than before.
Possibly.
I sat alone with the coffee and the confirmation email.
Then opened Rhett’s messages.
Typed:
Tessa: Are you free?
Deleted it.
He had practice.
Class.
A life that did not wait in suspended animation around my decisions.
Then another message appeared.
Rhett: I have forty-three minutes before class and am emotionally available for at least twelve.
I stared at it.
Then smiled.
Tessa: Economics building.
His reply arrived immediately.
Rhett: Already moving.
Rhett arrived carrying a blueberry muffin and two coffees.
Of course he did.
I waited beneath the stone arch where we had become official.
The same cold wind moved through the courtyard.
The same students crossed around us.
Everything looked unchanged.
I was not.
He saw my face and slowed.
Not smiling now.
Reading me.
“You decided.”
It was not a question.
I nodded.
His jaw shifted once.
Then he held out the coffee.
I took it.
Our fingers brushed.
Neither of us looked away.
“I accepted.”
There.
The truth between us.
Rhett’s eyes closed for half a second.
Then opened.
“Okay.”
I hated the word instantly.
Not because it was wrong.
Because it was careful.
Too careful.
“You said that like someone died.”
His mouth tightened.
“I’m trying not to make this about me.”
“It affects you.”
“I remember.”
“Then say something real.”
The request came sharper than intended.
Rhett looked toward the courtyard.
Then back.
“Real?”
“Yes.”
“I’m proud of you.”
My chest tightened.
“And?”
“I hate it.”
The honesty landed hard.
Relief and pain at once.
He continued.
“I hate that you’ll be six hours away. I hate that I won’t see you after practice. I hate that Boston gets ten weeks of you when we’ve barely had ten dates.”
“We have not had ten dates.”
“Emotionally, we have.”
“That is not math.”
“I’m upset.”
“I noticed.”
His expression softened.
“I still think you should go.”
“I know.”
“And I still want to try.”
“That doesn’t make it easier.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I do.”
I stepped closer.
He held still.
Not pulling me in.
Waiting.
That distance felt worse than if he had been angry.
“What are you afraid of?” I asked.
His gaze held mine.
“That you’ll build a life there that doesn’t have room for me.”
The words stripped every easy answer away.
I could have reassured him.
Promised that would not happen.
Said ten weeks could not change anything important.
But we had agreed honesty mattered more than comfort.
“I’m afraid of that too.”
His eyes dropped.
Not the answer he wanted.
The only one I trusted.
I reached for his hand.
He let me take it.
“What if you love it?” he asked.
“Then I love it.”
“And if they offer you something after graduation?”
“I decide then.”
“And if you decide Boston?”
The question came quietly.
I tightened my fingers around his.
“Not yet.”
Pain moved across his face.
Small.
Still there.
I hated causing it.
I hated more that there was no way to avoid it without lying.
Rhett nodded.
“Then we start there.”
“That word again.”
“It’s the only honest one I have.”
I looked down at our hands.
“I don’t want you to feel like I’m keeping one foot out.”
“That’s exactly what it feels like.”
The sentence struck.
I pulled back slightly.
Rhett’s grip tightened before he caught himself.
Then loosened.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“No. You mean it.”
“Yes.”
The courtyard noise pressed around us.
I searched for the right answer.
Found none.
“I don’t know how to promise you a future when I’m still learning how to choose one.”
His expression softened.
Not enough to erase the hurt.
Enough to understand.
“Do you?”
“I’m trying.”
That phrase.
The one that mattered because it admitted effort without pretending certainty.
I stepped closer again.
This time, he moved too.
His free hand settled at my waist.
I rested my forehead against his chest.
His heartbeat was fast beneath my cheek.
“You can be angry,” I said.
“I’m not angry.”
“You can be scared.”
“I am.”
“You can tell me you hate this.”
“I already did.”
“Again.”
His arm tightened around me.
“I hate this.”
The words vibrated through his chest.
I closed my eyes.
“Me too.”
We stood there holding each other in the middle of campus.
No cameras.
No cheering.
No easy romance.
Just the difficult version.
The real one.
After a moment, Rhett touched his mouth to the top of my head.
“When were you going to tell the university?” he asked.
“About Boston?”
“About us surviving their campaign and becoming inconveniently real.”
I pulled back.
“You want to tell them?”
“No.”
“That helps.”
“I want them to stop using old photos like our relationship belongs to them.”
My expression tightened.
“They posted another one?”
He took out his phone.
The athletics account had shared the banner photo again.
This time with a caption:
Lakeview connections go the distance.
I stared.
“They don’t know about Boston.”
“Probably not.”
The caption felt invasive anyway.
A coincidence with terrible timing.
Comments had already started.
Boston internship girl?
Wait, is she leaving?
Long-distance Callahan is about to be a disaster.
My stomach dropped.
“How do they know?”
Rhett scrolled.
A student account had posted a screenshot from the firm’s public announcement page.
My name.
The internship.
Boston.
The campus had connected the rest.
Of course it had.
Rhett locked the screen.
“I’m contacting communications.”
“No.”
His head snapped up.
“Why?”
“Because asking them to remove it makes it bigger.”
“We have done this before.”
“And last time, we kept feeding it.”
“Tessa.”
“I don’t want the first public story about Boston to be whether you can handle me leaving.”
His expression hardened slightly.
“I don’t care what they think about me.”
“I do.”
The answer surprised him.
I continued.
“I care that they’ll turn this into proof you can’t be serious.”
“People already think that.”
“I don’t.”
His face changed.
That mattered.
I stepped closer.
“And I don’t want my decision used to punish you for your reputation.”
The irony was not lost on either of us.
The same promise he had made me.
Now mine to return.
Rhett looked at the phone.
Then at me.
“What do you want to do?”
There it was.
Choice.
Not reaction.
Not management.
I thought.
Then said, “Nothing.”
He raised one eyebrow.
“Your favorite strategy.”
“Publicly, nothing.”
“And privately?”
“We decide what distance looks like before strangers do.”
His expression softened.
“Operational planning?”
“Extremely.”
“Romantic.”
“Necessary.”
His mouth curved faintly.
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“My place?”
I considered the team house.
Cam.
Noah.
Zero privacy.
“No.”
“Your room?”
“Paige.”
“She likes me.”
“That is not a reason.”
“Student center?”
“Too public.”
Rhett smiled.
“The rink?”
I looked at him.
The community rink.
Our first real date.
Private.
Safe.
Ours.
“Seven,” I said.
“I’ll bring hot chocolate.”
“No four-pepper food.”
“Growth.”
He leaned down.
“Can I kiss you?”
The question still mattered.
Maybe more now.
“Yes.”
He kissed me softly.
Not desperate.
Not a goodbye.
A promise neither of us fully understood yet.
When we separated, he rested his forehead against mine.
“Ten weeks,” he said.
“Ten.”
“Not forever.”
“No.”
“Still hate it.”
“I heard you.”
He smiled faintly.
“I like when you say that.”
“I know.”
That made him laugh.
The sound loosened something inside me.
Not the fear.
The grip it had.
Rhett handed me the muffin.
“I have class.”
“You came all this way for twelve minutes?”
“Emotionally available.”
“You brought breakfast.”
“It’s eleven thirty.”
“You brought a muffin.”
“You like it.”
“I understand.”
He stepped backward.
Then stopped.
“Tessa.”
“What?”
“I’m not going anywhere before you do.”
The sentence landed deeper than he could know.
Not forever.
Not certainty.
Presence.
I nodded.
“Seven.”
“Seven.”
He walked toward the communications building.
I watched him go.
The acceptance email remained open on my laptop upstairs.
Boston was real.
So was the distance.
So was the man walking away from me now because he trusted I would meet him later.
For the first time, choosing both did not feel impossible.
It felt difficult.
There was a difference.
And tonight, we would find out whether wanting each other was enough to make difficult worth trying.