▪️Friday, December 11th, 2017▪️

▪️Chicago, IL▪️

I could swear I blinked, and the week flew by between the extra classes at the dojang, nightly staring at my second-hand copy of Structural Analysis: Skills for Practice by James Hanson, and scheduling calls with Angie around her and my schedules, trying to find the moment when both of us are alone. The days with her were singular, exceptional. The days since she left on tour seem like one long gray blur. The last time we talked was two days ago, when she was leaving Kansas City for Denver. The note on my calendar marks 7 to 10 as her concert runtime today. What time zone is Denver? I've learned more about US geography and time zones since the start of Angie's tour than in eighteen years of school.

If it's five here, it's only four there. Maybe she can talk.

Me: I'm headed to the dojang. Call if you want to talk while I'm on my way.

Mom would be pissed if she knew I talked while driving, but if that's the only time I can talk to Angie, I can't help it.

No reply.

I collect my stuff and leave before my boss, who glances at me and at the clock. I know it's early, but it's Friday, and I'm teaching at the dojang again. I race through the traffic jams the cars are sitting in, grateful for my bike. I have ten minutes to change and get ready for the two classes I teach tonight. I spend three checking for messages and finding none.

At eight-thirty, I send the last student home.

"Mike? Mike Stavros?" A petite brunette I recognize instantly greets me when I enter Mr. Chang's office.

"Nancy?"

Master Chang's daughter nods. "I was wondering if you'd know who I was."

I point at the photos on the desk spanning the last fifty years of her mother, her, and her kids. "Is everything alright with Master Chang?"

"He got discharged today. I took him to his place, and he's with a nurse I hired to take care of him. I can't stay in Chicago much longer."

Instead of heading to Ben's place for our Friday Game Night, I lean on the door frame of the office and silence my phone. "What's going on?"

"This won't be an easy conversation." She picks up one of the photos of herself and gives it a sad smile. "I know you've become like a son Dad never had." Nancy fidgets with the straps of her handbag on her lap, not looking up.

"Dad is a stubborn old man, and you know it better than I do, but the doctors agree with me this time, and even though he's never listened to me, he is listening to them. This second heart attack scared him enough to listen." She pauses again, glances up at me, and can't hold my gaze for longer than a second. The sweat from the last class cools into a clammy mess on my skin, aggravating just like this conversation is turning out to be.

"You see, Mike, Dad should've retired five years ago after his first heart attack, but he defied me. It's just me he has, you know that. I've never been able to make him do anything he didn't want. I can't be with him here and take care of him: my husband's and my jobs are in Toronto, my kids are still in school, and I'm not moving us back to the US. There's no choice." Nancy looks up, and this time I'm the one who can't hold the gaze.

"Moving him to Canada?" And leaving the dojang. Pain pierces my temples. My stomach reminds me of the protein shake I drank between classes. I suck in air through my nostrils, afraid to open my mouth and say something she doesn't need to hear.

"I'm glad you get it." Her face slackens, as relief washes over it. "It's going to take at least three months, between him recuperating and packing his apartment before he can move, but it's happening. You understand."

I do. But I don't have to like it. The additional duties I've taken on over the past two weeks that Master Chang used to do are a lot of work. At his age and condition, retiring is a perfectly logical choice. My brain is listing all the reasons why I'll be supporting Mr. Chang in his decision to take care of himself, but my heart is shoving an even longer list of why I want him to stay. Why not seeing him several times a week will mess with so much more than exercise in my life. "How can I help?"

"I've talked to Dad, but we can't agree on a lot apart from the move. He's hoping you can run the place for now. He'll increase your salary, of course. He just needs your help until he makes up his mind. "

"About what?"

"What to do with this place." She gestures around the room, and I finally get it.

"He's selling the Academy?"

"That's what I think he should do. You must agree that there's no other sensible way to go about it." Her words are no longer a jumbled explanation but a statement.

"I see."

"I'm glad you do. I'm really glad you are on my side. Will you help me convince Dad to sell?"

She takes my short answers for agreement. They're not, but I'm not sure I disagree with her either. I'm not able to make any rational decisions about what's been my home away from home. Nancy doesn't wait for my reply and plunges into the details.

"The studio is in dire need of a remodel, and it could take a long time to find the right person to buy it and keep it operational. But, I've consulted with a real estate agent. It's best if Dad just sells the building, and the new owners decide what they want to do with it. The agent said it would most likely become a restaurant—it's a prime location, for one, and they don't have to worry about parking. I have a potential buyer coming in tomorrow at nine to check out the space."

I push myself off the door frame. My legs wobble as I walk over, sit down on the chair opposite Nancy, and stare over her head.

The certificates and photos leave almost no space to see the dark fake wood paneling on the walls. The beige filing cabinet by the desk has a pile of student files. The fluorescent light on the popcorn ceiling needs a new light bulb. I've replaced some of the linoleum floor tiles over the years, and the rest of them look even drabber. Nancy's right-the dojang needs the right person.

And the beginning of an idea claws its way out of the deepest hidden wishes I confessed to no one, not even myself. After she leaves, I lock up and pull my phone to text Ben.

Me: Am I still coming over for games and pizza tonight?

Ben: Why are you asking me?

Me: You're the host.

Ben: I've been home since eight-thirty.

Me: I'm coming over then. We need to talk.

Ben: The pizza is getting cold. I'm planning on getting "The Call of Duty" a go.

I see more texts.

Angie: Just got done with Denver. Call?

Angie: Are you asleep already? It's not even ten.

MISSED CALL FROM ANGIE.

Angie: Text me when you can talk. Miss you. XOXO

I walk to the bike and text.

Me: Sorry. Was at the dojang. Can you talk now?

Angie: We're at a bar. Let me walk outside.

Her video is grainy, and I can hear laughter and loud music in the background. She's fine. The notion should've softened the stony grip that her silence set to my stomach. Instead, it tightens further and drags me into the abyss of a much less pleasant feeling.

"I thought you're playing late tonight." My voice doesn't sound like mine. It must belong to a jealous guy who doesn't trust his girlfriend. She's not even my girlfriend.

"We had a matinée today, so I was on stage when you texted. Then the press junket ran long. Then I called, and you didn't reply, so Poppy dragged me to dinner, because she thinks I'm not eating enough. People always try to feed me." She sounds angry, but I'm not sure if it's at Poppy or at food in general. I kick my boot against the bottom of the lamp post I'm standing under as light icy drizzle begins to fall from the sky.

"Dinner merged into some drinks, and we decided to hang out at the bar. This was such a great crowd, and we've got to get the energy out. It's the best show I've done so far. I think I'm getting used to the format, and their fans, and what they like. I've tweaked my set enough times to where I feel I got it. It's still surreal, though. I've been with them for not quite three weeks and some days I wake up, and OMG, I can swear I've been on this tour for a year already. So much stuff happens every day, and we've been working on our first collab piece as well. We're so close to getting it right."

I don't have to see her face well, to know she's happy and in her element. I watch her smile and gesticulate wildly with the one hand that isn't holding the phone. I wish I could reach through the screen and touch her. When are they going to come up with that technology?

". . .and they want me to sing second vocals on one of their songs too, so yeah, it's been way better than I would've thought. All because of singing at Marguerite's Thanksgiving bash. Who knew. . ."

"Are you hiding from us?" an unfamiliar male voice shouts in the background. My breath hitches when Angie's eyes dart away from the camera. Why can't I be the one on that end of the screen?

"Give me a sec," she shouts in their direction.

"Come on, Angie, the driver is here—we need to go," the voice with an English accent says closer. Angie makes a face at whoever it is, and I'm jealous of a voice now. Being away from her is much harder than I want to admit to her or myself.

"Mike, I have to go. I'll text you later." She smooches the camera, and I'm alone.

The rain falls in full force, and I must leave if I'm to get to Ben before he goes to bed.