9. AVA #2
"You're my friend. Friends don't leave because it gets uncomfortable. You can yell at me. You can tell me my methods are terrible and my calendar is patronizing and my photos are in the wrong order.” I pause.
“Actually, you shouldn’t tell me any of that.
But whatever you do, you don't get to shut me out for caring about you. "
The silence stretches.
"Your photos are in the wrong order," he says quietly.
"No, they're not."
"The team portrait is from before the championship. You have it after."
I blink. Look at the mantle. He's right. The suited team photo is dated three months before the championship.
"You remember the order?"
"I read the dates on the frames."
"Oh." My shoulders drop. "That's less exciting than I thought."
The anger on his face loosens. He sits back down, closer than before.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Be accurate about who's helping you and why."
His knee presses against mine. He doesn't move it, neither do I.
Over the next two weeks, the apartment transforms.
I buy a whiteboard Kai uses for his daily reminders. Turns out he prefers that to desk calendars.
The photos stay on the mantle. The key bowl collects his wallet and phone alongside the keys.
Mira adds her own items to the bowl and tells me I've created a monster because now Kai corrects her when she leaves things in the wrong spot.
We discover that the ice rink parking lot triggers something. The smell of cold air through the facility doors.
Kai stands there one afternoon with his eyes closed, and I watch his face cycle through emotions he can't name.
"There's a feeling I have here," he says. "Not a memory. But the feeling is strong."
"That counts."
"It doesn't feel like enough."
"It's a start."
I drive him to the restaurant on Fourth Street because Mira mentioned he used to go there. He doesn't remember the name, but when the waiter greets him by name and brings his usual order without asking, something flickers behind his eyes.
"Rigatoni," he says, staring at the plate. "I order the rigatoni."
"Apparently."
"It's good. I have great taste."
"You have adequate taste. I have great taste."
He kicks me under the table. I kick him back.
We go to the beach where the team apparently held an off-season barbecue. To the arena where he played, walking the concourse while he touches the walls like he's reading braille.
Each place gives him a feeling, a sense of having been there within the last four years.
I'm there for all of it, beside him when something connects and beside him when nothing does.
And that's the problem.
Because at some point in the midst of all of it, I stopped being Kai’s friend who helps with recovery and became the person he reaches for when the world feels unsteady.
His hand finds my arm when a memory flickers.
His fingers brush my lower back when we walk through a doorway.
He stands too close when I'm writing on the whiteboard, his breath warm against my hair.
One evening, I'm updating the whiteboard with his therapy schedule for the following week. He's behind me, leaning against the kitchen island, watching.
"You missed Thursday," he says.
"Thursday's blank. You don't have anything."
"I have you on Thursday."
I keep writing. "I'm not an appointment."
"You show up almost at the same time every day. You bring food. You have a set routine." His voice drops. "If that's not an appointment, what is it?"
I turn around. He's closer than I expected. He must have moved from the island while I was writing because he's right there.
His hand comes up and rests on my hip, fingers curving against the denim of my jeans, his thumb tracing a slow line along the waistband.
Heat spills down my side.
"You could stay for dinner," he says. "Actually sit down instead of eating standing up over the sink like you're on a timer."
"I eat standing up because sitting down feels too..."
"Comfortable?"
"Domestic."
His other hand finds my other hip, both thumbs now tracing matching lines. My body tilts toward him like he's pulling me by an invisible thread.
"What's wrong with domestic?"
"Nothing. If you're a couple."
His thumbs stop. "And we're not?"
"We're not."
"Because you decided that."
"Because it's the right call."
"For who?"
My hands land on his chest. I put them there to maintain distance but they're not pushing.
They're resting against the warm cotton of his shirt, feeling his heartbeat underneath. It's faster than it should be.
So is mine.
"Kai, I can't date you."
"Why?"
"Because you've lost four years of your life and you don't know who you are yet. Starting something with me right now would be convenient, not real. You'd be choosing me because I'm here, not because you actually want me."
"I actually want you."
The words hit me square in the chest. I shove them right back out again. He has no idea what he’s talking about.
"You want the woman who shows up with pastries and organizes your kitchen and drives you to restaurants. That's not the same thing."
He leans down until his mouth is level with my ear.
"I want the woman who yelled at me when I tried to push her away, who refused to leave when I told her I wasn't her project."
His lips brush my earlobe.
A shiver runs the entire length of my body.
"That's who I want. Tell me that's not real."
I can't breathe properly. My fingers curl into his shirt.
"We're friends, Kai."
"You say that a lot."
"Because it's true."
"It gets less convincing every time."
He pulls back enough to look at me. His brown eyes are steady, certain.
He's right. The words have a hollow ring to them.
I step back. His hands fall from my hips.
"I should go. Biscuit needs to be walked."
"Biscuit is asleep on my rug."
I look. She is, in fact, snoring.
"She needs to be woken up and walked. It's a medical thing."
"You're making that up."
"Good night, Kai."
I scoop up Biscuit, who opens one offended eye, grab my bag, and head for the door.
"Ava."
I stop. Don't turn around.
"Same time tomorrow?"
My hand tightens on the door handle.
I should say no. I should tell him I need space, that this routine is becoming something neither of us can afford. That every day I spend in his apartment makes the line between friendship and everything else harder to find.
"Same time tomorrow," I say nonetheless.
I close the door behind me and lean against it in the hallway, Biscuit warm and heavy in my arms.
My heart is pounding. My hip bones still feel the ghost of his thumbs.
We're friends.
I mouth the words in the empty corridor.
Even the hallway doesn't believe me.