Page 96 of The Girlfriend Goal
"Rachel's worth standing up to anyone for."
"Smooth talker." But he smiled. "Good. She needs someone who can keep up with her mouth."
"Dad!" Rachel protested, mortified.
"What? You talk faster than anyone I know. Poor boy probably gets dizzy."
The graduation ceremony itself felt surreal. Four years of struggle and growth, ending with a walk across a stage. When they called my name, the cheers from my section were deafening.
Matt and Jared had somehow procured air horns, which they used liberally despite repeated warnings from security. Rachel whistled sharp enough to pierce eardrums, her pride visible even from the stage.
When they called her name, I returned the favor, standing and cheering until the dean shot me a look. Worth it to see her smile, to watch her accept the diploma she'd worked so hard for.
The photos afterward took forever – every possible combination of friends, family, teammates. My favorite showed the four of us – Matt and Jared wrapped around each other, Rachel tucked against my side, all of us laughing at something off-camera.
"We're really doing this," Rachel said that night, looking at our collection of apartment listings. "Adult life, careers and long distance."
"Second thoughts?"
"No." She crawled into my lap, our laptops forgotten. "Just processing. In one week, everything changes."
"Not everything." I held her close. "This doesn't change."
We drove west together, our cars packed with everything we owned. The plan was simple – get Rachel settled in Seattle, spend a week together, then I'd continue to wherever the draft sent me. Jared and Matt had already said tearful goodbyes, promising to visit wherever we landed.
"Twenty hours," Rachel said as we crossed into Wyoming. "We could make it in one shot if we traded driving."
"Or we could enjoy the trip," I countered. "Stop at weird roadside attractions. Eat at questionable diners. I want to make memories everywhere with you."
She was quiet for a long moment. "Okay. But I draw the line at any museum involving taxidermy."
We compromised on dinosaur statues and the continental divide, taking pictures at every state line. Rachel documented everything, creating Instagram stories that had Jared commenting with increasing envy.
"Tell him about the motel with the vibrating beds," I suggested.
"Absolutely not. He'd never let us live it down."
"The fact that we actually used the vibrating function—"
"Will go to our graves," she said firmly. "Along with the gas station sushi incident."
"But that was your idea."
"You didn't have to agree."
Our bickering felt comfortable, worn in like favorite jeans. Even facing separation, we'd found our rhythm – the push and pull that kept things interesting without tipping into real conflict.
Seattle appeared through rain, because of course it did. The city sprawled before us, all water and bridges and possibility.
"Home," Rachel breathed, and I heard the longing in it.
Her studio apartment was tiny but perfect – walking distance from the Storm's arena, big windows overlooking the market. We spent three days making it hers, arguing about furniture placement and testing the weight capacity of her new bed.
"I should get kitchen stuff," she mused, staring at empty cabinets. "Pots and pans and whatever adults own."
"Bold of you to assume you'll cook."
"I might. New city, new me. Domestic goddess Rachel."
