Chapter 2 #2
“Don’t listen to her. She has trust issues.”
Kate let out that laugh again, softer this time.
Then she told me about the radiator in her building and a neighbor who practiced the trumpet on Thursdays.
Small details. I was already thinking about replacement valves, a toolbox, and a free morning to fix it.
The reflex started before I could stop it.
I didn’t offer to help. That was the first smart decision I made all night.
I woke up at 5:41, like I had almost every morning since I was fifteen. The room was gray, and Kate’s side of the bed was empty.
She’d pulled the sheets tight, squared the corners, and centered the pillow. The nightstand was cleared off. She’d taken her watch, her shoes, every bobby pin. She hadn’t left behind a single thing I could return, not one excuse to see her again.
I sat on the edge of the mattress. Disappointment landed hard. Then I pulled on my boots.
I went to the kitchen humming, a habit I got from my mother. When I lit the burner, I realized I’d set out two plates. My hands had moved ahead of my head.
The napkin was propped against the pepper mill. Blue ink, straight handwriting.
Don’t look for me. — K
I read it three times.
It wasn’t an invitation to chase her, and it wasn’t a test. Kate had done exactly what she’d agreed to do. I could respect it even if I didn’t like it.
I could also find her.
I knew the bar manager at the Huxley. The valet would have seen her friend arrive and might remember the name on the reservation.
I knew Kate lived in a building with a busted radiator, that she ran at Green Lake, and that she had a brother who studied on an ironing board.
With a couple of calls, I could probably find her before Thursday.
That was where I stopped.
I’d opened a text to Domingo, the manager at the Huxley, and I’d already typed out *Hey, there was a woman on the rooftop last night...
* when I pictured how that would look from her side.
The guy who shows up at dawn by Green Lake with two coffees and a pipe wrench isn’t romantic if he was explicitly asked not to show up.
I deleted the message and set the phone down on the counter.
I pushed the eggs aside without serving them, folded the napkin along the crease Kate had made, and carried it out to the truck. I slid it under the sun visor.
Leaving something alone when I wanted to step in was going to take more out of me than I liked to admit.
* * *
On Monday, the Georgetown facility smelled of fresh-cut grass and liniment. Chalk dust drifted over the weight racks, and down the hall, tackle bags hit the turf with heavy thuds.
The whiteboard still held Friday’s lineup: my name next to number seven, with the assistant-captain note in parentheses. Coaches love a win they can still critique. I got my usual itemized list: good hands, two bad reads, one turnover prevented because I refused to let go of the ball.
Reyes was taking notes two seats down. He was twenty-two, bounced back from hits in half the time I did, and studied my position with quiet intensity. Every spring, the league drafts a younger version of you. It’s never personal, which doesn’t help.
On my way out, I tapped his shoulder.
“Your chase defense was better than mine was at your age.”
He stared at me, unsure whether he’d just received a compliment or a warning.
“Thanks, Cap.”
“It was a compliment.”
That didn’t seem to reassure him.
Then came the ice bath, Monday’s way of congratulating you. I lowered myself in up to my ribs and controlled my breathing as steam rose off the water. The cold bit right where I’d taken the hit on Friday.
Marcus was leaning against the next locker over, his keys between his teeth and one cleat on. He waited while I untied my laces and tied them all over again.
“So...”
“So what?”
“The rooftop. Lena wants to know if she has a sister now.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“With you, there’s never anything to tell. That’s how I know it’s a big deal.” He tossed his towel at the hamper and missed by three feet. “Friday you disappear with a woman. Today you’ve spent five minutes fighting with your shoelaces. In my house, that’s called a situation.”
“In your house, taking out the trash is called a situation.”
“Because it is. After the match, Lena looked at me and said, ‘Great job, you won. Now take out the trash.’ I’ve spent all weekend thinking about that. That’s marriage, Callahan. Winning doesn’t get you out of anything. You still have to take out the trash.”
“Inspiring.”
My phone lit up inside my locker.
Rick: *They’re saying serious talks start after week four. San Diego called to say hello. I said hello back. We talk Thursday.*
San Diego could say hello all they wanted. Seattle was four hours in the truck from the orchard, and the water down there didn’t have a dock I’d rebuilt with my own hands. Even so, I read the text four times while measuring how much my ribs hurt.
I typed *Thursday*, hit send, and put the phone away face down. It was as close to a no as I was willing to give Rick.
I drove east with the windows down. When I caught the red light on Marginal Way, I flipped down the visor.
Don’t look for me. — K
In the orchard, I learned early on that you don’t dig up a row in April just to check the roots. You water it, you watch the sky, and you wait. The frost hits at night and never gives warning.
The light turned green. I left the visor down, hummed an unfinished tune, and took the road along the lake.
I didn’t look for her.
I could wait. I knew how to wait for frost. I said it out loud, as if hearing it would let me check the math. What I didn’t know yet was whether I could stay still while I waited.