Chapter 6 #2
I glance away as we duck into a burger joint two blocks from the clinic. It’s nothing fancy, and nothing that feels like a statement.
We sit across from each other in a booth that’s slightly too small for him, his knee angled carefully to avoid bumping the table.
He orders double of everything, and I order without really thinking, defaulting to a small cheeseburger.
“You always eat like a bird?” he asks.
“I eat when I can,” I reply. “Which is usually later than I should.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
I give him a look. “Do you always interrogate people over lunch?”
“Only when I’m worried they’ll pass out on me.”
“I’m not fragile.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
Our food arrives quickly, steam rising between us over the fries. I open my burger and reach for the ketchup automatically, twisting the cap loose and swirling the bottle across the bun as I keep talking—about donor fatigue, about timing, about how the numbers look worse than they should.
I only pause when I realize he’s no longer paying attention, instead looking down at my burger.
“You good?”
“Did you just write hope on your burger bun?”
I look down, and my stomach drops.
Hope.
The word is there, written clean and red across the inside of my bun.
I freeze, but Reid doesn’t say anything. He just watches me, letting the moment sit exactly where it is.
“I didn’t mean to. It just… happens when I’m thinking.”
He stares at me like I’ve grown another head. “You manifest with condiments?”
I snort. “Shut up. It’s better than writing give up and die, isn’t it?”
He chuckles, and I catch the beginnings of a smirk hiding at the edge of his mouth as he takes a bite. “Jury’s out.”
I drag my thumb through the letters, smearing them into nothing. “It’s stupid.”
“Didn’t look stupid,” he says.
“My dad used to do it.”
That gets his attention, and he tilts his head as he chews, waiting for me to explain.
“When I was a kid,” I continue, “if I was tired, or scared, or had a big day coming up, we’d go for a burger and write words on the inside of our buns. He said sometimes you just need a top-up of whatever you’re running low on.”
I swallow, my throat tightening unexpectedly. “Confidence. Courage. Hope.”
Reid doesn’t rush me or roll his eyes. He doesn’t fill the space; he just waits for me to continue.
“I guess I never really stopped,” I add, bringing the burger to my lips. “And right now… I need all the hope I can get.”
Something shifts in his expression as he watches me take a bite.
“You carry a lot,” he says.
He states it like a fact, and he’s right. I do.
“Someone has to.” I shrug, suddenly a little self-conscious. “It helps me focus. Reminds me why I’m doing this when everything feels a bit shit or heavy.”
He nods once, as though that answers something he didn’t ask out loud. I keep eating in silence until he nudges his tray aside and leans back.
“So, this gala.”
I chew thoughtfully, then nod. “They need visibility. The kid—Levi—he’s got a shot at the trial, but only if they raise enough by the deadline. We’ve got donors lined up, but not enough traction. People show up for athletes—especially when those athletes care.”
“I can get a few of the guys there, maybe even auction off something stupid if it helps.”
“Like what?”
He shrugs. “Karlsson’s left skate. Miller’s playoff beard trimmings. Your call.”
I chuckle lightly. “You might be onto something there.”
When we stand to leave, my phone slips from my hand and clatters to the floor, skidding under the table. I sigh, rubbing my forehead as I crouch to grab it, nearly knocking my drink in the process.
“Sorry,” I mutter, frustrated. “Sometimes I get a little clumsy when I’m overtired or stressed.”
“You hadn’t eaten,” he says, gently taking my arm to guide me back upright. “And you’re trying to keep control of things that can’t really be controlled.”
I straighten, meeting his gaze. “It’s not a character flaw, it’s just my brain working faster than my limbs sometimes.”
“Right,” he says, mustache twitching as his grin rises. “Havoc.”
“What?”
“Havoc. You’re an absolute weapon until you’re hungry or tired,” he says. “Then everything around you falls apart… and you think ketchup therapy is normal.”
Despite myself, I laugh. It slips out before I can stop it. God, I haven’t laughed in days, and he looks almost pleased with himself.
“That’s rude,” I say, pointing at him.
“It’s accurate.”
I shake my head, still smiling, and for a moment, the world feels lighter.
“For someone so scowly, you’re not half bad at this,” I say, nodding in thanks as he holds the door open for me to step out.
“At what? Annoying you?”
“No,” I say, suddenly feeling shy. “Caring.”
A soft smile forms, and he looks away. “Yeah, well. I try not to make a habit of it.”
He walks me back to the clinic, but doesn’t try to prolong it.
A silent, grounding presence beside me. I feel him glancing at me every so often, and I sneak a peek at him when he’s not looking, too.
The profile of his nose, his mustache, the strong line of his throat, all silhouetted by the low winter sunlight.
When we reach the clinic doors, I pause.
“Thanks for dropping by.”
He nods. “You’ll let me know what else you need?”
The question feels loaded, but I ignore the feeling that sparks up my spine.
“I will.”
He reaches out, his hand grazing the crease of my shoulder lightly as he pushes the door open behind me, holding it open for me to go through.
“Bye, Havoc.”
When I step inside with a laugh, he doesn’t follow. Just lifts a hand in parting, a small grin on his lips, and walks off into the cold parking lot.
Back in my office, I sit at my desk, the clinic settling around me and the fake plants staring back at me.
I open my browser, hesitate, then add succulents to my cart to purchase. As I close the tab, I notice a tiny smear of ketchup on my hand, the ghost of a word I feel has been topped up today immeasurably.
Hope.