Page 20 of Canadian Boyfriend

“It sure is.”

“His real name?”

“Yes! I asked him exactly that when we were messaging, and he sent me a picture of his driver’s license.”

“That seems…”

“… unwise?” she supplied cheerily.

“I mean,Iknow you’re not going to steal his identity and ruin his life, buthedoesn’t know that.”

“Talon is a mystery. On the one hand, he’s kind of dumb. On the other, he’s apparently some kind of high-finance stock trader dude.”

“Huh.”

“So I have to go out with him, right?”

“I don’t see how you can pass up a date with a dumb stock trader named Talon.”

“I mean, you’re the one always telling me my standards are too high.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever said it in exactly those words.” But I’d thought it in exactly those words. Gretchen hadn’t had a boyfriend in all the time I’d known her. Shedatedall the time—she was on all the apps—but no one ever seemed to stick. “If there was a ‘Miss Miller’s Morals for Men’ list, it would have ten pages of criteria,” I teased.

“No, it would just be ‘Must love cats. Don’t be a dick.’” She paused. “And also ‘Have a dick.’” She snorted. “‘Must love cats. Have a dick, but don’tbea dick.’” I laughed as she made a silly, self-deprecating face. “But I’m taking your point. I’m going to give Talon the Trader a chance.” She grew serious.“I think maybe you and I need to meet somewhere in the middle. I can have lower standards—slightly lower—and you can have higher standards.”

Gretchen had never been the president of the Ian fan club. She had always been accusing me of being too eager to please, too quick to forgive when we had fights. Too willing to let him leave me with an apartment I couldn’t afford when technically both our names were on the lease.

She wasn’t wrong.

And weirdly, even though it had been inconvenient to have my best friend openly disapprove of my boyfriend, I’d always found it mind-blowing but strangely refreshing how, in the land of Midwestern passive aggression, Gretchen always said what she meant.

“Anyway,” she said, “look at you. Not even two months post-Ian, and a hot, rich hockey player moves in to fill the void.”

“Get up and show me your brilliant recital idea for the Tap 3 kids,” I said, instead of arguing with her about Mike Martin.

She hopped up. “OK, so my idea is it’s an all–Go-Go’s recital.”

“I don’t know that many Go-Go’s songs, but I love the idea.”

“You were too busy being immersed in Tchaikovsky to know the Go-Go’s,” she said, executing a purposefully affected series of glissades. “But also I suppose you’re too young.”

We worked on some of her ideas, laughing and dancing together, and when we ran out of steam, she hit me with her signature “You’re the best” on her way out the door.

As I got ready for bed, I thought about what it meant to be “the best” in Gretchen’s estimation and to be someone Mike Martin could trust.

It occurred to me that I would be neither of those things if I had stayed in New York.

Dear Mike,

I’ve been putting off writing this letter, I guess because things don’t feel real until I tell them to you. Which is normally a good thing. But this… I would rather this not be real.

But here it is: I had a panic attack yesterday. I was at a costume fitting for the spring ballet. You know how I’m Rosaline but I’m understudying Juliet? Juliet’s costume doesn’t fit me. I could tell it wouldn’t, but they kept saying that I was almost certainly not going to have to step in, so if they didn’t have to make me my own costume, it would be so much less hassle. They tried to stuff me in it, and they asked me to do part of “Juliet’s Variation,” and it was just too tight. My chest felt like it was imploding all of a sudden, and I was crying, except no sound was coming out because I couldn’t breathe. They called an ambulance. I thought I was going to die. But no, the doctors ran a bunch of heart tests, and I’m fine. Panic attack. They told me to start doing yoga.

I guess the only good part is that on the way back to the studio, I asked the teacher who’d come with me if we had to tell my mom. She said, “I’m not sure that would do anyone any good.” So we didn’t.

What I want to know is do you ever feel this way in hockey?

Love you to the moon and back,

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