Chapter 18
Eighteen
My physical therapist massages the muscle next to my tibia, but I stare at my phone screen. “Yes,” I mutter to myself. Rosalie’s text is a shining beacon. I jerk with the jolt of pain Darwin’s caused me. “Ow.”
“You could have nerve damage,” he says. “That would explain your pain and your slow recovery.”
“How long is that going to take to heal?”
He tilts his head and lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “It could take months. It could also never heal correctly. When is your next appointment with the surgeon?”
“Couple of weeks.” But I may have a heart attack long before I see the surgeon. My heart is going through an acrobat of emotion—sky high with Rosalie’s address text and plummeting with the PT’s evaluation.
Practice only has thirty minutes left by the time I’m done with therapy. I’m so tempted to skip, knowing I’ll sit, watch, and die a little inside.
Me: At work. Soup will be on your doorstep within an hour.
Rosalie: Bless you, Mr. Hayes.
I smirk. I’m not sure where the Mr. Hayes talk is coming from. But I’ll take it. Rose can call me whatever she wants.
Me: Glad I can help, Miss Conrad.
I’ll play her game—forever if that’s how she likes it, as long as she’s talking to me.
Rosalie: Sorry. I’ve taken a lot of cold medicine. It’s messing with me.
I walk the edge of the field, slow and steady, as my teammates scrimmage. Coach Jacobson has assumed the position, feet planted, arms crossed, eyes focused. So, I’m surprised when he sees me from the corner of his eye. “Zev,” he calls.
“Yeah?” I’d normally jog the few yards over to him, but I’ve just finished my own workout, and I’m feeling it. So, I walk, while trying hard not to limp, over to Jet Jacobson.
“How was therapy today?”
“Good.” I swallow, thinking about what Darwin said about possible nerve damage. “Progress.”
Jacobson takes his eyes from the field to look at me. “And?”
I clear my throat. The man’s smart. “And he said my slow recovery might be due to nerve damage.”
One of Jacobson’s brows lifts. “That would make sense. Not exactly good news.”
“It’s a theory.” I shrug. “Nothing definite. He’s probably wrong.”
“Which is why you’re limping?”
I cough. “Um—”
“Zev, we want you on the field, playing with your teammates. But more than that, we want you healthy and healed. How’s Rosalie? Are you two—”
“No.” My gaze falls to the ground and I shake my head. “She’s still figuring some things out. But we’re talking again. She’s got the flu. I’m taking her soup after practice.”
“Yeah?” he says. I’m unsure how much he knows. But I’m guessing more than I realize, possibly everything.
“Yeah. So, that’s a step in the right direction.” At least I hope it is. Rosalie insisting we are just friends and calling me mister is making me wonder.
“Then what are you doing here? Go take the girl some soup. You’ve put your time in today.”
The man doesn’t need to tell me twice.
I drive five miles out of the way to find that food truck Rosalie and I went to last year. She loved their chicken tortellini soup. I think it’s close enough to chicken noodle. I order two tubs of it, as well as a couple slices of their sourdough bread, and head over to Rosalie’s house.
It felt deceptive asking where she lives when Fran’s already shared the address with me. When I’ve driven by it almost daily. But Noreen’s right, I can’t just show up on her doorstep. And I wouldn’t want to without her knowing I was coming. She doesn’t need any more of the unknown.
And yet—
Me: Soup’s on your doorstep.
I text while standing on her porch, soup in hand.
A full five minutes later, I’m wondering if she’s sleeping. If I’ll be out here all night. But then—I hear something inside.
A shadow falls over the window of her front door, and then it’s creaking open. My Rosalie, with her rosy cheeks, red nose, and watery eyes.
She gasps when she sees me and shuts the door.
“Rosalie,” I say, one palm on her door.
“You said you were leaving it on the doorstep. As in, setting it down and walking away,” her nasally voice calls through the closed door.
“No, I said it was on your doorstep,” I say, my fingers growing warm around the plastic containers of chicken tortellini goodness.
“You didn’t mention that you were with it.” Her words are followed by a bout of coughing.
“Hey,” I say, turning the knob and attempting to push open her door. She wouldn’t have minded before. But we aren’t in that place anymore and the door doesn’t make it far.
Rosalie peeks through the crack I’ve made, her body blocking the door from opening any farther. “What do you think you’re doing?” she croaks, her brows low.
“I—you were coughing. I was worried. I just—” I exhale, deflating. It shouldn’t be this hard. This woman loves me. I know she does. The way she looks at me, says my name, and doesn’t let me get away with anything is proof. “Sorry.”
She sighs and lets the door swing open two more inches.
Progress.
“Listen, Zev, you don’t want to come in here.” She swallows and winces. Her throat must be sore, too. “I’m sneezing and coughing and—” She sniffs. “Leaking.”
“I don’t mind,” I say, senseless hope surging through me.
“You would if I let you in.” She shakes her head, but she must step back because the door moves open another inch. “It’s a mess in here. I’m going to have to disinfect everything before my gram gets home.”
“I brought you another book,” I say, motioning to the book beneath my arm. My girl can’t resist a book. I’m banking on it. Even if her eyes are too sore to read it right now.
She nibbles on her lip and sniffs, a nasally sigh falling from her chest. “You’ve been warned.”
And I’m in.