When Andrew left, I sort of got into hockey—Blackhawks mostly. My dad had always been a fan and was thrilled, and we went to a lot of games. I learned the basics from watching, and my dad taught me the nuances. It was our thing, even though I went in the beginning because it reminded me of Andrew. When my mom got sick, we had to put a stop to our trips. Neither of us ever wanted to leave her home alone for long—her body was weak, and the chemo…it wasn’t working. I think we knew it wasn’t working long before a doctor told us. We didn’t want to miss any time with her, certainly not so we could sit in nosebleed seats at the United Center.

I haven’t been back to a game since. It just doesn’t feel right going without my dad. And I don’t think going anywhere but to work and home feels right to him. She’s been gone for two years, but it still feels like yesterday we put her in the ground and said goodbye.

I move to the kitchen while Lindsey finishes getting ready. There’s a dinner being served at the presentation tonight. It’s fish—salmon—which I guess most people think is delicious. It makes me gag. I pull the peanut butter from our cupboard, scraping it empty so I can overload a slice of bread to tide me over until the presentation’s done. I flip open the trash lid to throw the jar away, then go back to spreading the peanut butter when a flash hits me; I flip the lid up again with my pinky finger. No purple. The trash is halfway full. I know it hasn’t been taken out.

No purple.

I drop the knife and wipe my hands on a towel, then completely lift the lid, kicking the side of the can to move debris around just enough that I can see if my sweatshirt is buried.

It’s not.

“Hey…uhm…Linds?” I call for my friend, prepping myself to ask her if she’s seen my sweatshirt—if she’s the one who saved it from the county dump or if someone else did—when I march by the front door and do a double take at the clothes hanging from the hooks nearby. Her jacket. My jacket from last night, which I know I hung there without seeing anything else. But this afternoon…there is something else. My sweatshirt is hung on the last hook.

I pull it free and smell it, noticing it doesn’t smell like it’s spent the night in the trash. It also doesn’t smell like Andrew.

“Yeah?” Lindsey answers behind me. I grip my sweatshirt and take a quick breath before I turn to face her.

“My sweatshirt…” I start, waiting to see if she has a reaction to it, like an oh yeah, I saved it for you kind of reaction. She doesn’t, which means…

“You know, I heard Andrew say he liked purple. He mentioned it—that it’s a nice color—when I wore this. You should wear it,” I say, the words just coming out one after the next before that little gatekeeper in my head has time to tell me to stop it, because this is a really bad idea. And it’s mean. I’m using Lindsey.

She smiles and takes my sweatshirt into her hands, and my insides rush with conflict. She’s taken it, though, so I walk the line on the other side—the one that’s not being nice—and keep going.

“You know, I always loved this one. You should wear it more,” she says, carrying it back to her room.

I love it too. That’s why I wore it the first time I went out with Andrew. It’s Roxy, and has little diamonds on the front that are both tough and feminine at the same time. That’s what I wanted to be—tough and feminine. Not broken and frail and unable to do things like run, or skate, or date a boy. I should wear it more, especially now that my new go-to sweatshirt is forever ruined with wine stains. Except now, it reminds me of this Andrew—Drew—which makes me love it less.

I hover in the kitchen, nibbling at my sandwich while Lindsey changes, and when she comes out in my shirt, I compliment her, ignoring the loud voice kicking me from the inside and telling me I shouldn’t do this. I’m not being fair to Lindsey, and I’m stooping to Andrew’s level. But I let her walk out the door anyway, and I sit quietly in my chair and finish my sandwich, playing out the scene that’s about to happen in my head—she’ll show up, he’ll see her, and he’ll think of me.

* * *

Part of being the prized student is being available to shine the spotlight on your benefactor at a moment’s notice. Miranda Wheaton is winning an award, and she called me two days ago to ask if I would introduce her before her presentation and speech. She’s kind—but there’s also a very rigid thread that runs through her that’s not to be messed with. When she asks, you say yes. That’s the unspoken rule, and I learned it quickly when I backed out of something freshman year and found myself fighting to get back into her circle.