12. Chapter Twelve #3
I look over once. He’s leaning back into the chair, magazine folded in one hand, and his brow is low as his eyes scan the page.
I look over again after a while, and he’s got the magazine flat on my desk, leaning over to read it. He’s shifted a few times, and my fingers are aching from drawing.
“Are you comfortable?” I whisper.
“Yeah,” he answers.
I stand up and put my sketchpad back on my desk. “Are you really not tired?”
“I am, but it doesn’t mean I can sleep.” He looks up at me.
“Do you want to try magnesium?”
He stares blankly at me.
“It’s a supplement to improve sleep.”
“Does it work?”
I nod.
“Okay,” he says.
I take a step to my door, and then I stop. “Do you like banana bread?”
He nods.
“I’ll be right back.”
I head to the kitchen and reach for my magnesium tea packets. I make both of us mugs, and I bring all the banana bread. I set everything down on my desk in front of him. There’s only one chair, so he stands.
“You can sit.”
I turn around and look for my stool. “Here,” I say, carrying it over. “I’ll sit here. You can take the chair.”
He doesn’t move for a second, and then he takes the chair and grabs a mug. He takes a sip, and nothing happens on his face.
“It’s not supposed to taste good,” I say as I take a piece of banana bread and eat it.
He takes a piece and eats it. He nods while looking at me.
We sit quietly, drinking our tea and eating the banana bread. I look down at the magazine he left open. I remember this issue from last year. I turn the page until I find the beautiful kitchen from a house in Montana.
“Look at that view,” I say.
His eyes flick to the magazine.
“Can you imagine?”
“No,” he says.
“My grandmother had a similar stove like that.” I point at it, memories filling my head. “She used to let me stand on a chair and stir things for her.”
He looks down at it again, and then his eyes travel back to my face.
“She passed a few years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“Thank you.” I turn the page. “It’s a beach town where she lived. Cape May. You’d see the Coast Guard marching right up the middle of the street. Have you ever been?”
He shakes his head. “I haven’t heard of it.”
I sip my tea. “I’m sure hockey doesn’t go there.”
“What state is it?”
“New Jersey.”
He nods. “Princeton’s out there.”
“Have you played them?”
“Different conference. Probably never will.”
I hold my cup, not knowing what any of that means.
“How is hockey?” I ask, meeting his eyes. “How’s that going for you?” I hear myself and internally cringe because I sound like my mother when she’s trying to get information out of someone.
“There’s two goalies ahead of me. I don’t play much.”
“Oh,” I say, searching his face.
He takes a sip. “It’s fine.”
“I know nothing about hockey.”
“I’m still learning.” He takes another long sip.
“How much do you hate the tea?” I ask. “Honestly.”
His lips twitch as he leans forward. “Honestly? It tastes like dirt.”
I laugh.
“But it’s not bad. Thank you for making it.”
“You’re welcome.”
“If it works, I’ll need to buy myself some.”
I take a small sip. “Are you still working at the Camerie?”
He shakes his head. “I’m on call, so if they’re desperate and I don’t have hockey, then I can go, but they haven’t called me yet.”
“They sound understanding of your schedule. That’s good.”
He finishes his tea and asks, “How’s your internship?”
I inhale. I wasn’t expecting that to come up, and now that it has, I don’t know whether to tell him about Friday or keep it to myself.
“What happened?” he asks, like he can see right through me.
That’s not normal. People can never read me.
“What?” I ask. The word slips out, breathless.
“Did something happen?” he asks, concerned, but not overly.
I set my mug down. “I turned in a project on Friday. I made a big change to the layout, and Oliver was pleased.” I raise my eyebrows. “And as a result, he offered to get me on the Chicago project.”
He listens to me patiently, but I’ve lost my words.
He says, “And there’s nothing for you in Chicago.”
“Yes,” I say, relieved I don’t have to say it. “And that’s why I can’t sleep.” I look down. “I didn’t speak my truth when it was offered to me, and that’s unlike me, but it would mean disappointing my mom who got me the internship.” I nod, pursing my lips to the side.
“It’s on your list,” he says. “Saying no to her.”
“You remember that.”
He nods once.
“I keep coming back to it being a good experience.”
“Is it what you want?”
My eyes meet his. The light shines into them, and for the first time, I see that they’re light. “No.”
He shrugs. “Then no is no.”
I nod. “You’re right.” I reach for the banana bread and close the container. “Do you want a ride home?”
He shakes his head.
“I’m going to sleep.”
He stands and grabs his boots. We step into the hallway quietly and walk to the living room. He walks behind me, setting the mug in the sink.
“I’ll wash them,” I whisper.
“Good night,” he says, walking to the door.
I wash the mugs and listen for the elevator. I dry the mugs and place them in the cabinet. Then I walk to the window and peek out of the curtain. I see his shadow walking in the distance through the light snow.
Then I lay in my bed and try to fall asleep.