I open the door to my apartment as quietly as possible. The hallway is lit and Mike's blocking it. I look back through the open door. There's no mistake, this is my apartment. I've had my cup of dark roast French press at Ben's already.

"Hi," says Mike and puts his leather jacket on.

Angie peeks around him. I wasn't wrong about these two. I grin and give them two thumbs up, killing two birds with one stone: embarrassing Angie and reminding Mike what he did the first night we met. Payback is a bitch.

"Should I even ask?" I say when the door closes behind Mike.

"Should I ask about you and Ben disappearing in the middle of the dessert yesterday and reappearing looking like you had christened one of his parents' bathrooms?"

"Don't deflect. Are you and Mike an item now?"

"Is 'I hope' an answer?"

"It most definitely is." I wiggle my eyebrows.

My room smells of stale coffee. Three days with two dirty coffee cups on my desk are at fault. I crack the window open and let the cold air in. I pick up the dirty clothes off the floor, change into my store uniform and plop on my bed to scroll through the texts, the missed posts on my feeds and my emails. There are two messages from Bretagne-Loire, probably letting me know how to reapply.

I open the first one. "Félicitations ! Nous vous souhaitons la bienvenue au programme de doctorat de l'Université de Bretagne-Loire..."

The words strike my skin like icy hail and scatter over my skin. Congratulations? How is this possible? My heart flutters against my ribcage. They told me I didn't get in. I read it again. The email provides the details on the additional documentation needed, how to browse the class catalog, and a request to confirm my attendance by Monday. Cold sweat beds on my forehead. I navigate to the second one. It's a personal letter from Professor Hallot. What he says paints a clearer picture. A student dropped out, and I was someone they wanted. How lucky for both the University and me. My vision swims, and I drop my head into my hands.

The information sinks in. I got in. I actually fucking got in. This can't be real. It must be a joke. I re-read the emails over and over again until my temples throb. I roll every word in my mouth as I say them around. But it's all there in black in white.

My life can change. Just like I wanted. New school, new city, new me. Years with Mom and my brothers. I squeeze my temples. . This is what I wanted. I'll be able to get the degree I wanted. The career I wanted. The life I wanted. Wanted. The pressure in my skull mounts and changes into a sharp headache. Do I still want it? I want all that, but now I also want Ben. What's the right thing for me to do?

Angie's bloodcurdling shriek interrupts my thought. I charge out of my bedroom to see what happened. There's no pool of blood in the middle of the living room, no robbers or severed fingers. She's standing, fists tight, eyes squeezed shut, screaming hard enough to shatter the windows in our apartment.

She opens her eyes in time to see me and stops, but the stillness lasts mere seconds. Unable to contain herself, Angie switches to jumping around the living room. A voice garbles out of the phone on the floor. I walk over and grab it.

"Angie, are you there? What's that noise?" A man's voice asks on the other end.

"It's her roommate. What's going on? She might've lost her mind."

"Of course, that's understandable. I lost my mind too when she got the offer."

"Offer?"

"'The Whats' are hiring her as their opening act."

"You mean the British pop-rock group 'The Whats'?" That can't be true. They are mega stars. Angie is great but that is serious show-business.

"It's sheer luck. Their scheduled opening act got into an accident over Thanksgiving. And their guitarist heard Angie at some friend's party and convinced the band she's their perfect opening act." Ben and Marguerite's Friendsgiving? No way.

Angie's screaming resumes. Neighbors three floors below and above us must be hearing her squeals. I shove my finger into my ear.
"When is the tour?"

"It's happening now. She'll have to fly out tomorrow. You'll have the place to yourself for a while." He chuckles. "Tell her to call me back when she's able to talk again. We have a lot to discuss"

I put down her phone on the coffee table and turn to go back to my bedroom. With a sprint worthy of a star high school quarterback, Angie tackles me down onto the couch.

"I'm going to sing to thousands of people live—" she jostles my shoulders and screams into my face "—thousands, you hear me, thousands."

"Oh, I hear you, but I won't be able to anymore if you keep shouting. I'll be deaf in both ears."

"Some of the shows are at arenas. An arena, Am. Do you even know how many people that is?"

"No clue. How many?"

"I don't know, but a lot. An arena!"

"I got it, an arena. I'm beyond excited for you, but could you please get off and give my ears a break?"

Angie clinbs off me and plops back onto the couch, her eyes wide, staring at the ceiling, a crazy half-smile on her lips.

"An arena, an arena, an arena," she goes on whispering to the ceiling.

"I'm proud of you. Your dreams are coming true." Her talent is undeniable, but it's her hard work and persistence that's most impressive.

A giant smile fills her face.

I scooch over to her prostrate body and hide my face between her arm and the crease of the couch.

"I got in," I say into the cushion.

"What?"

I move my face, liberating my mouth from the soft plush fabric. "I got in, you know, into the program, in France."

She drums the heels of her feet against the bottom of the couch, so that it shakes and rattles the lamp on the side table. "Wh-a-a-t! This is the best day e-v-e-r!"

I roll my lips between my teeth and, unwilling to face her, tears swelling, suck the air in through my nose and hold my breath. Although a good trick for stopping hiccups, it does nothing to prevent the tears from soaking into the couch.

"Are you crying?" Angie slides down and puts her face next to mine, her hand grazing my hair. I give in to the sensation and rest my eyes.

"What is it, Am? You know you can tell me." She keeps petting me like I'm a sad puppy, her hand gentle and overly cautious.

I let a long arduous breath out, readying myself, forming the words to give her the details I read in the email that are ripping my head at the seams.

"I think I love him," comes out instead.

"Ben? Aww, Am. It's great." She smiles, then frowns. "Why cry? Isn't that a good thing?"

"Not when I have to break up with him."

"Fuck..." Angie turns and stares at the ceiling again.

"If I accept, then I'll be gone for five years. At least." I join her and fix my eyes on the crack in the plaster above us. "There's no future for us. But I have to tell him I got in. He needs to know."

"It's best if you are honest with him. You'll figure it out."

There's nothing to figure out. I break up with Ben or I don't take the opportunity of a lifetime and keep living in Chicago. I need to choose what to do and have two days to do it.

"Your agent needs you to call you back," I say. And I have more choices to make.

"Right. I sort of lost it when I heard." She kisses my forehead and gets up. "You will figure it out. I'll go call Jason back—you stay here."

I sit up and suppress the unsettling feeling in my gut. No matter what I told Angie about the casual nature of my relationship with Ben, it's harder to lie to myself. I get the phone out of my pocket, push the call button, and wait for him to pick up. After several rings, I get his voicemail and hang up. I call the second time with the same result. Then I get a text.

Ben: Can't talk right now. I will call you in a couple of hours.

I have this huge thing hanging over me. In a couple of hours I'll be working. I could wait until the evening, when I'm done, but holding the news until then feels wrong. Like I'm trying to find an excuse to not tell him. Like I'm lying to him by omission. He has the right to know. I pound the fingers on the screen.

Me: i got accepted to the bretagne-loir university in france.

A confirmation comes that he had read it, but there's no reply.

Me: i'll call you when I'm off work.