Chapter 6
NILS
The first thing I noticed when my alarm blared was that my stomach was staging a rebellion.
Throughout the night, I’d been restless, and now I was all kinds of queasy.
The way my upper lip started to sweat was a tell-tale signal I had about five minutes before whatever was churning in my stomach would force its way out. Yuck.
The second thing was that I had forty-five minutes before I was supposed to meet Adan for our regular Wednesday-morning session.
Yeah, that wasn’t happening.
I sat up carefully, testing whether the room would spin. It did, enough to confirm that whatever I’d eaten for dinner last night had not agreed with me. Probably that leftover Chinese takeout that had been sitting in my refrigerator for longer than it should’ve been.
I reached for my phone and typed out a text to Adan. Luckily, I had his number through the Campus app Millard used to communicate with students.
Me
This is Coach Anders. I’m afraid I need to cancel our session today. I’m feeling unwell. We’ll resume Friday as scheduled.
His response came back within minutes.
Adan
No problem, Coach. Feel better. Need anything?
The kindness in the simple question made something warm flutter in my chest, which was immediately followed by another wave of nausea.
Me
No, but thank you. Rest and fluids should do the trick.
That, and getting rid of whatever was causing my stomach to be this upset. With a sigh of resignation, I made my way to the bathroom, where it only took two minutes before my prediction came true and my stomach emptied itself. Ew.
Twenty minutes later, the second wave hit, and after that, I felt better. Weak and with the worst taste ever in my mouth, but better. I did a superficial brushing of my teeth, careful not to trigger my gag reflex, then hauled myself back to bed for a nap.
When I woke up, I felt better, so I made some tea, then padded over to my living room, where the brIMNES cabinet components were still scattered across the floor like Swedish furniture confetti.
I’d been putting off that assembly project for weeks now.
Maybe today, stuck at home and feeling sorry for myself, would be the perfect time to finally tackle it.
But it became quickly clear that the instructions still didn’t make sense to me.
I sat cross-legged on my living-room floor, surrounded by wooden pieces and small plastic bags of screws, feeling like I was failing at the most basic expression of my own cultural heritage.
This was Swedish furniture. I was Swedish.
By all rights, this should be as natural as breathing.
Instead, I’d somehow managed to attach what I was pretty sure was the back panel to what might have been a side panel, creating something that looked less like furniture and more like modern art.
Abstract modern art. Bad abstract modern art.
Here I was, a grown man with a university degree, defeated by what was essentially an adult Lego set.
My phone buzzed with another text.
Adan
How are you feeling? Any better?
Me
Improving.
The nausea had subsided and the tea had landed well, but I still couldn’t imagine eating anything.
Adan
Good. Rest up.
I made another attempt at connecting two pieces, resisting the urge to chuck the whole thing in the dumpster.
The doorbell rang. I looked down at myself—sweatpants, an old Rideau University T-shirt, hair that probably looked like I’d been electrocuted—and debated pretending I wasn’t home. But curiosity won out, and I padded to the front door in my socks.
Through the peephole, I spotted Adan standing on my doorstep, holding what looked like a container of some kind. My heart skipped a beat. What was he doing here?
I opened the door.
“Hey, Coach,” he said, offering a slightly sheepish smile.
“I know you said you didn’t need anything, but I thought you might want some soup.
It’s from the dining hall, but it’s pretty good.
” He held up a large styrofoam container.
“Chicken and rice. My mom always said it was good for whatever ails you.”
The thoughtfulness of the gesture hit me harder than it should have. When was the last time someone had brought me soup when I was sick? When was the last time someone had cared enough to check on me beyond a text message? “That’s… That’s very kind of you, Adan. Thank you.”
“Are you feeling any better?”
“Some. Still not quite ready for food, but I will be by tonight, probably, so I appreciate the thought.”
He glanced past me into the apartment, and I saw his eyes widen slightly as he took in the explosion of furniture components visible in my living room.
“Dude, what happened in there?”
Despite feeling terrible, I laughed. “I’ve been attempting to assemble a cabinet. The key word being ‘attempting’.”
“Looks like the cabinet is winning.”
“Decisively.”
Adan shifted the soup container to one hand and gestured toward the chaos. “You want some help? I’m pretty good at putting stuff together.”
Every rational part of my brain screamed that this was a bad idea. Inviting my student into my house and spending time together in a completely non-professional context would only allow the boundaries we’d carefully maintained to blur even further.
But I was sick and lonely, and the brIMNES had become a symbol of everything I was struggling with. And Adan was standing there offering help with such genuine kindness that saying no felt impossible.
“If you don’t mind,” I heard myself saying. “I’m afraid I’m not at my most competent today.”
“No worries. Let me put this soup in your fridge for later.”
I led him into the kitchen, trying to see my house through his eyes.
The LACK table with my lukewarm third cup of tea still sitting on it.
The KLIPPAN couch—not one of IKEA’s best products as it was already rickety after mere weeks of use.
The complete lack of personal touches that might reveal anything about my actual background.
“Nice place,” he said, opening the refrigerator to store the soup. “Very… clean.”
“Thank you. I prefer minimalism.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?” He grinned to show he was teasing. “Looks more like you moved in yesterday.”
“I’m still getting used to having my own space. It’s my first own apartment.”
Not a lie. Technically.
“That makes sense. Tank and I are sharing a shoebox of a dorm room. I can’t wait to get a private dorm room next year where I can actually spread out.”
We moved into the living room, where the components of the cabinet somehow seemed to have multiplied during my brief absence.
Adan surveyed the scene with the expression of someone assessing a battlefield. He cracked his knuckles. “Where’s the instruction manual?”
I handed him the booklet, and he flipped through it quickly, nodding as he took in the diagrams.
“This doesn’t look too bad. You need to organize the pieces first. That’s always the key. Lay everything out so you can see what you’re working with.”
He started sorting through the components with an efficiency that made me slightly embarrassed about my earlier flailing. Within minutes, he had everything organized into neat piles according to size and function, while I disassembled my failed attempt.
He settled onto the floor across from me. “Now we can actually see what we’re doing.”
“You seem to have experience with this.”
“My dad’s super handy. He taught me a lot of basic skills. Said every man should know how to use tools.” Adan picked up one of the panels and examined it.
We started working, Adan interpreting the instructions aloud while I held pieces in place. There was something unexpectedly soothing about the process: the clear steps, the tangible progress, the satisfaction of seeing parts come together into something functional.
“So is this like a rite of passage in Sweden?” Adan asked as we fitted the first two panels together. “Everyone has to prove they can build IKEA furniture?”
“More or less. Though I’m clearly failing the test.”
“Nah, you just needed a better system. My dad always says the instructions are written by engineers who’ve never actually built anything themselves. And in this case, they weren’t written at all. If you’re not good at interpreting pictures, you’re screwed.”
“Your father sounds like a practical man.”
“He is. He works in a stamping plant, where they make car parts. But he also does small handyman jobs, fixing things around the neighborhood for people.” Adan secured a connection and tested its stability.
“He’s the one who got me into hockey. There was this outdoor rink near our house, and he’d take me there every weekend in the winter. ”
“He played?”
“All his life, but recreationally. Nothing serious. But when I was seven or so, he saw I had real talent, so he signed me up for travel hockey, working extra hours to pay for that and for better equipment.” Adan’s voice carried a mixture of pride and something that might’ve been guilt.
“I don’t think he ever imagined it would go this far. ”
“Are your parents able to come watch you play?”
“One of them will be at home games, but they can’t always make it if we play somewhere else.
It’s expensive to travel, and neither of them can really take time off work.
” He passed me a screw to hold in place.
“I keep telling them that once I make it to the NHL, I’m gonna buy them season tickets to the Sabres. Front-row seats.”
“The Sabres?” I had to fight to keep my voice neutral. The Buffalo Sabres weren’t exactly ranking high. Had they even won a championship, like, ever?
Adan sighed. “I know. They’re… not great. But they’re our team, you know?”
There was something about that local loyalty that I found endearing. “I’m sure they’re proud of you regardless of where you play.”