The sight of it being so empty bothers me. Even though I knew he’d have to pack up, it’s a fracturing thing to witness. I pull out my phone as I walk across the track and through the opening of the gate and finally send him a text. I need to know he’s okay.
When I get to my apartment, there is no response. I wait for hours to hear from him and nothing. What is going on with him? I know he’s still around. He has to be, right?
Around ten at night, Kendall comes strolling in. She spots me on the sofa, my knees drawn to my chest and my eyes on my phone that’s on the coffee table. She walks in my direction. “Amber? What’s going on?” she asks.
I can’t bring myself to look at her right now. I know if I do, I’ll cry.
“Amber?” Kendall calls again.
I sigh and drop my legs, but still avoid looking at her. “Torres resigned,” I murmur.
“What?” Her voice is loud and confused. “Why?”
I finally give her my eyes. “Hamilton found out about us.”
“Holy shit!” she gasps. “B-but how? I thought you were being careful? That you created rules or whatever so you wouldn’t be seen together on campus?”
“Yeah, well, we sort of broke those rules. It was a stupid accident, but it cost him his job.”
“Damn, Amber.” Kendall drops down on the sofa beside me, in utter disbelief. “Does anyone else besides me and Hamilton know about it?”
“No. Hamilton didn’t want to escalate it, so she thought his resignation was the best option too. He’ll be gone, and doesn’t have to be punished, and I get to stay on the team. Big hoorah,” I mutter sarcastically.
“Damn, Amber. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were going through so much. I’ve been a shitty friend lately. Working and coming home and passing the fuck out.”
“Oh, my gosh, Kendall. Stop it. You are a great friend. You have a job now. You’re busy! The last thing you should be worried about is my relationship with Torres.”
She purses her lips and shakes her head. “How are you feeling about it?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I guess I feel like…things are going to change now. Between me and him. They already are changing.”
“Does he want to keep seeing you?”
I shrug again, and this time I don’t say anything. That question stings a lot—so much so I bite into my bottom lip to keep the tears at bay.
“Aww, Amber.” Kendall scoots over and wraps me up in her arms. I lay my head on her chest, surprised I don’t cry on the spot.
“There will be no reason for him to stay in the Bennett area if he’s resigned,” I murmur.
“No, there won’t be,” Kendall agrees.
“And that sucks. A lot.”
“It does.” She pauses. “Do you love him?”
I can’t bring myself to say the words, so I nod instead, and that’s all the answer Kendall needs. She hugs me tighter around the shoulders and says, “Yeah, I can tell.”
FIFTY
I figure the best thing I can do is give Torres space. I mean, I am going home in three days and would love to see him again, but since he hasn’t responded to any of my messages, I don’t think it’s best. I assume he’s trying to get his head in the game, figure out his next move, and with me around, he probably won’t be able to concentrate, and that’s fine. Totally fine.
But I miss him, and I know that’s so selfish to think, but I do.
The day before I have to leave, after running on the track with Kendall, I do become worried. Kendall is going home for the summer today, and I’ve helped her and her mom take some of her things down to the car. When I’m back in the apartment, I’m left alone. My phone doesn’t vibrate or ring. There hasn’t been a text from him for days.
I need to know that he’s okay.
I open the Uber app and book one, and it arrives in less than ten minutes. After I give the driver the address, I ride in the back in silence. The driver is chatty, and he doesn’t ask many questions, which means I don’t have to respond much.
When the ride is over, I climb out and thank him, and as he takes off, I stare at Torres’ apartment building. Drawing in a deep breath, I release it and move ahead.
I knock on his door three times.
No response.
I knock again.
Nothing.
I press my ear to the door to see if I’ll be able to hear anything, like the TV running or music playing—some kind of sign that he’s around—but there is nothing but silence on the other side.
“Are you looking for Mr. Torres?”
I gasp, pulling my ear away from the door and turning to find the voice. There is a woman standing in front of the door on the right, a brown bag of groceries tucked in her left arm, the other hand holding a set of keys. She’s an older woman with olive skin and stringy gray and brown hair.