I press a palm to my forehead, torn between temptation and duty. As an econometrician, Stella doesn’t look at problems through an emotional lens. I was positive she’d find me expendable.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she’s saying exactly what I wanted to hear.

I was prepared to step down and do the right thing. Now I don’t know what I should do.

“You make it sound so rational to pass on this,” I say.

“That’s because it is.” There’s a beeping sound on the line, and she adds, “That’s him. I have to go. Bye, Quan.”

“Bye, Stella.”

I hang up and toss my phone onto the couch. I was prepared to move on and focus my energy on something else. I’m not going to waste my life trying to prove myself to stuck-up assholes with diamond cuff links. I don’t need to prove myself to anyone. I’m done with that.

But it looks like I still have work to do where I am. I haven’t finished my part yet.

THIRTY-FIVE

Anna

THE FOLLOWING DAYS GO BY IN A STRANGE BLUR. I FEEL LIKE I sleep away most of my time, but it’s not a good sleep that leaves me feeling rejuvenated and well rested. It’s fractured, an hour here, two hours there, and I toss and turn through most of the night, soaking my pajamas with sweat.

I should be caring for my dad, but I’m an outcast now. I can’t return to the house. Ironically, it’s a relief to be away from Priscilla, my mom, my dad, that room, and the E-flat moans. But guilt and a deep sense of rejection plague me constantly. I’m not better off than before. I might even be worse. Food doesn’t taste good. I can’t focus enough to read. I can’t escape into music.

I miss Quan.

When I’m awake, I watch documentaries so David Attenborough’s voice can keep me company or I look at pictures of me and Quan on my phone. I want to, but I don’t let myself message or call him. I hurt him. I let my fear of people’s opinions control me.

And what good did it do me?

My life is in ruins now. But that’s because it was built on lies in the first place—my lies. Perhaps this was always going to happen. Perhaps it needed to happen. I can’t bring myself to apologize to my family for speaking up for myself when they finally asked for more than I could give.

If there’s someone I need to apologize to, it’s Quan. I said the words the night of the party—“I’m sorry.” But I couldn’t make it right. I couldn’t claim him in front of everyone the way he deserved, and I’ll regret that forever. If I could do it over again, I’d be proud to tell everyone he’s mine.

Except he’s no longer mine.

I can give him a better apology, though. The more I think about it, the more certain I become that I need to do it. I fixate on it until one day—I’m not even sure what day it is; a glance at my phone says it’s Sunday—the need for action propels me into the shower, where I scrub two weeks’ worth of grime from my body.

When I’m clean and dressed in fresh clothes, I do the fifteen-minute walk to Quan’s apartment. It’s a boxy eight-story building that I’ve only been to once before, and that was the underground parking garage the first night my dad was in the hospital. I’ve never seen the inside of his place. There’s probably a list of Bad Girlfriend Attributes with that on it.

I’m building up the courage to call him and ask him to let me into the building when a guy in sweaty exercise clothes opens the front door and gives me a double take from the doorway.

“You’re Anna,” he says.

“Do I know you?” I’m not good at remembering faces, but his is pretty enough that I feel like I should know if I’ve met him before.

“Ha, no. We’ve never met, but I’ve seen pictures of you. I’m Michael.” He doesn’t try to shake my hand, but he does offer a guarded smile. “Here to see Quan?”

I duck my head self-consciously. “Yeah.”

“Why?” he asks.

I squirm in my shoes for an uncomfortable moment before saying, “I need to apologize to him.”

After a short hesitation, he smiles at me and steps aside to hold the door open for me. “He’s in 8C, since you don’t look like you’re familiar with this place. Knock. He never hears the doorbell.”

“Thank you,” I say gratefully as I run inside.

The elevator ride is short, but it feels long because my heart beats so hard. I know what I need to do to show him how I feel, and it’s terrifying. But if it works, if this makes a difference, it’s worth it.

When I reach a door labeled 8C, I straighten my dress, tuck my hair behind my ear, and lift my chin before knocking. Three times like I mean it.

Because I really do mean it.

I’m not just going through the motions. No one pressured me. No one pushed me. I knocked on the door because I intended to. I’m standing here because this is exactly where I mean to be.

It’s me, Anna. There’s something I need to say.

THIRTY-SIX

Quan

I’M STANDING IN THE SHOWER, ENJOYING THE EXHAUSTION IN my muscles and the stinging spray of hot water on my skin after my run with Michael—I sold him on the R2R2R run, and we’re planning to do it together as soon as we’re both ready—when I hear the knocks on my door. I groan and crank off the water before wrapping a towel around my waist. Michael must have forgotten his keys here or something.

When I open the door, I’m not at all prepared to see Anna standing there. Her color is off, washed-out almost. I can tell she’s nervous. But there’s a fierce glint in her eyes and a stubborn tilt to her chin. She looks like she did in her YouTube video right before she played the first notes on her violin. She’s absolutely beautiful. For a full two seconds, the breath is knocked out of me.

“I wanted to talk to you, if that’s okay,” she says. “To apologize.”

That word, apologize, makes everything come back to me, and I tighten my grip on the door handle as my need to keep looking at her wars against my need to shut the door in self-preservation. “You already apologized. You don’t need to do it again.”

“Does that mean you’ve forgiven me and you’ll take me back?” she asks in a hopeful tone. Her smile is light, but her eyes remain dark, uncertain.

“Anna …”

She looks over my shoulder into my apartment. “Can I come in?”

I indicate the towel around my waist and try to gently turn her away by saying, “Now’s not a great time. I was in the middle of—” Her face drops and her eyes gloss over as she backs away, and I can’t help it, I open the door wide. “Come in.”

Her expression immediately brightens, and she walks past me and enters my space. It’s the first time she’s been here, I realize. I don’t know how I feel as she considers everything. It’s decently neat because I finally had a cleaning lady here, and the place came furnished with all these contemporary-style couches and decorations and things. None of this represents me, but it’s bright and airy, especially in the daytime like this.

“It’s nice here. Thanks for letting me in,” she says, being so damn polite that this is ten times more awkward than it should be. We broke up, but it’s still us.