New Rules, No Escape #2
“Then pick ‘I don’t know.’” She points to a gray Post-it in the corner. “That’s a valid starting point.”
“That’s not—” I hit the pause button. “I’m not going to stand here and read feelings off a wall like some kind of kindergarten exercise.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s ridiculous.”
“You said that already.” She doesn’t move, doesn’t push, just watches me with those steady honey-brown eyes. “Try a different reason.”
“Because I don’t need this.”
“You sat in the middle of the street because you couldn’t process a single difficult conversation. I’d argue you need exactly this.”
The words hit like a slap. Not because they’re cruel—they’re not—but because they’re true.
“Fine.” I move to the wall, jaw tight, hands clenched at my sides. My eyes scan the notes—too many options, too many feelings, everything jumbled together in a way that makes my brain itch for categories and hierarchies. Finally, I grab one from the red section and turn to face her.
“Pissed off.” I hold up the note. “There. Done.”
“At what?”
“At this. At you. At the fact that I’m standing in a break room at seven in the morning being asked to identify emotions like I’m five years old.”
“Good.” She takes the note from my hand, sticks it on a small board near the door. “That’s your check-in for today. We’ll track them over time, see if patterns emerge.”
“Patterns.”
“Mmm.” She moves to the coffee table, picks up the bingo card again. “Now. Next piece.”
“There’s more?”
“There’s always more.” She flips the card to show me a small section at the bottom I hadn’t noticed. “The greeting exercise. Every time you see me from now on, you choose how we greet each other. Options are: hug, fist bump, or verbal acknowledgment only.”
I stare at her. “Why?”
“Because physical touch is a way of connecting, and you avoid it unless you’re on the ice hitting people. Choosing a greeting forces you to consciously decide how much connection you want in that moment.”
“What if I don’t want any?”
“Then you pick verbal only.” She shrugs. “There’s no wrong answer. The point is choosing. Being intentional instead of just defaulting to avoidance.”
My chest cracks open, just slightly. A hairline fracture in the armor I’ve spent thirty years building.
Because she’s right. I do avoid. I keep people at arm’s length through logistics and schedules and the constant forward momentum of responsibility.
I can’t remember the last time I hugged someone who wasn’t family, the last time I initiated physical contact that wasn’t a hit check or a victory celebration.
“Okay,” I hear myself say. “Fine. Hug.” The word feels like stepping off a cliff without checking the drop.
Gisele’s eyebrows rise. “Really?”
“You said I have to choose. I’m choosing.” I spread my arms slightly, feeling ridiculous, feeling exposed. “Get it over with.”
She moves toward me slowly, giving me time to back out. I don’t.
When her arms wrap around me, and my brain short-circuits.
She’s warm, solid, smaller than I expected even though I know exactly how tall she is.
Her cheek presses against my chest. My hand settles at the small of her back without my permission, like it knows where it belongs.
She smells like that floral sharpness I caught yesterday, expensive and completely her.
I let myself hold on for three seconds. Four. Five. Six. She doesn’t pull away first. I do. And that’s the problem. I don’t want to let go as fast as I should.
Then I step back, throat tight. My hand is still warm where it touched her back. I shove it in my pocket.
“There.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “Done.”
She’s watching me with an expression I can’t read. “How do you feel?”
“I’m not doing another Post-it.”
“Just tell me.”
I consider lying. Consider deflecting, making a joke, changing the subject. But her eyes are steady and patient and something about this tiny room with its wall of feelings makes the usual escape routes feel impossible.
“Uncomfortable,” I say finally. “But also... I don’t know. Less alone.” The words sound pathetic out loud. Like words you’d read on a greeting card. But they’re also true, which somehow makes them worse.
Warmth flickers across her face. “That’s a good start.”
She moves to the door, holds it open. “Same time tomorrow. I’ll see you here at six-fifteen.”
“Six-fifteen?”
“You can adjust your routine. You’re a big boy.” She grins at my expression. “And tomorrow, you’re going to complete your first bingo square. Compliment someone without sarcasm. Start thinking about who.”
“Gisele—”
“See you tomorrow, Bennett.” She gestures for me to exit. “Virg is going to pick you up. Go do your captain things. Think about feelings occasionally. Try not to sit in any streets.”
I walk out into the salon proper, blinking at the sudden brightness after the dim back room. Carrie’s setting up at her station, and she waves at me with a knowing smile that makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
By the time I’m outside, standing in the morning sun with the weight of a laminated bingo card somehow heavier than my entire gear bag, I realize what’s happened.
Gisele didn’t ask permission. Didn’t negotiate. Didn’t give me space to argue or escape or wait her out.
She just showed up and started.
And tomorrow, she’ll do it again. And the day after that. And the day after that.
This isn’t a moment I can outlast. It’s a pattern. A routine. A permanent fixture in my life that I never asked for and have no strategy for avoiding.
Then I hear it. That low, steady hum. Mechanical. Familiar.
Sleetwood Mac rolls into view, sunlight catching on the freshly polished metal. Virgil sits at the wheel, one hand draped over it. The man’s got nowhere else to be and all the time in the world to get there.
The Zamboni rumbles to a slow, deliberate stop in front of me.
Virgil looks me over once, taking inventory. Not judgmental. Just… thorough. “Morning, Captain.”
I stare at him. Then at the machine. Then back at him. I hesitate for half a second. Then climb up because apparently this is my life now.
We ride in silence for a minute, the steady grind of the machine filling the space where conversation should go. The town looks different from up here. Slower. Smaller. Like everything’s been dialed down a notch.
Virgil doesn’t rush it. He never does.
“Routine ain’t the problem, Captain,” he says finally. “It’s what you’re hiding behind it.”
I huff out a breath. “She already gave me that speech.”
“She ain’t wrong.”
Once we roll to a stop outside my place, I climb down, still not entirely convinced this actually happened.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say, already turning toward the door. Then I pause.
Bingo card.
Compliment someone without sarcasm.
I look back at him. At the machine. At the man who showed up without questions because she asked.
“…Thanks for not running me over the other day,” I add, because apparently we’re committing to honesty now.
Virgil snorts.
I hesitate again. Then nod toward the Zamboni.
“And… I really like your Zamboni.”
There it is.
My first compliment.
It feels like I just dislocated my heart.
Virgil studies me for a long beat. Then nods once, slow and approving. “Careful,” he says. “You keep that up, people might start thinking you mean it.”
I don’t answer that. Because I think I do. Mean it.
Sleetwood Mac hums back to life, rolling away like it was never there in the first place. I watch it go for a second, then turn toward my house, the weight in my chest shifting into something I don’t have a name for yet.