Chapter 6 — The Wrong Chair （Beck） #2
She noticed the cost without making it a thing. Her eyes flicked to my fingers on my wrist, then away. “Hey,” she said, low. “We can pause. We've got — I'm not going anywhere.” She slid her cup an inch toward the center, like an offer with no words in it.
“We can switch. I don't need the — seriously, take it back,” she said, and she started to stand like she would give me the door seat. Her chair legs caught soft on the floor. She kept her voice easy, but her brow pulled tight. “You've paid enough for tonight.”
“No. You've got it. I'm staying. I'm good,” I said, plain, and I shook my head once. I pressed my palms flat to prove it. My chest felt tight but my hands stayed steady on the oak. I held the bad chair on purpose and let the cold glass bite my back.
She sat back down slow. “Okay,” she said. “Okay, Hale. Bad chair's yours, then.” She did not ask why again. She pulled her notebook closer and turned to a clean page. Her knee brushed the table leg and the whole table trembled once.
I thought about how she would tell it later, if she ever did. He took the wrong chair so I could have the door, and never said why. The line sat clean in my head while the radiator hissed. I did not say it out loud. I let it stay hers to keep.
We ran two more cards slow. “What about empty?” she asked. “When they spread you out — what's the picture then?” I closed my eyes for half a beat to find it. “Five dots. Like stones across water,” I said. “I find the soft spot. I put it there.” I opened my eyes and drew it.
“Do the dots move?” she asked. “Or do they hold still while you read them?” I thought about Thursday's look.
“They move,” I said. “Like water. I wait half a beat. Then — there. It opens.” She drew another row of dots.
“Half a beat,” she said. “Patience, then.” “Patience,” I said.
“Hardest play I've got.” “Same here,” she said.
“Stones across water,” she repeated, and she smiled for real that time. “See? Poet brain. Don't let anyone tell you different.” She drew five small dots in her margin and circled the middle one. Her snort broke through on the laugh and she covered her mouth fast.
I liked the sound more than I should. “Don't cover that,” I said, before I weighed it. “Sorry. I mean — it's fine. Laugh however.” My face went hot again. She peeked over her fingers. “No one's ever — said that,” she said. “Most guys would've — never mind.”
“You're not most what?” she asked. “Finish it. Come on.” I shook my head. “Not most loud,” I said. “I don't say stuff just to fill it.” She held my eyes. “I know,” she said. “That's why I listen when you do.” My hands went still on the table. “Okay,” I said. “Okay, then.” “Okay, then,” she said.
“I'm not most — never mind,” I said, echoing her on purpose, and she laughed again, quieter. The hiss dipped for a second and the room felt less sharp. I rolled my shoulders down and felt the ache run long down my back. I stayed in the chair.
The wind hit hard and the windows rattled in their frames. I flinched, fast and helpless. My hands jumped on the table. She saw it and did not look away fast like people do. “Loud out there,” she said, even. “We're good in here, though. Right?”
“Workable's good,” she said. “Workable I can do all night.” She pulled her sleeves over her knuckles.
“Cold hands, hot room. Make it make sense, Hale.” I glanced at her fingers.
“Blood goes where the work is,” I said. “Hands wait. Brain first.” She laughed.
“Brain first,” she said. “Okay, quarterback.” “Okay, tutor,” I said.
“Right,” I said. “In here's — workable. Out there's — a lot.” I jerked my chin at the black glass. The quad lights smeared yellow through the reflection. I could hear Friday noise far off, low and dull through the walls. I kept my breathing even.
“Talk me through red,” she said, to give me something straight to hold. “When do you — when's it red for you?” I tapped the blitz card once. “When the picture crowds,” I said. “Too many bodies moving. No lane. I throw it away. Live next down.” I set my jaw and nodded.
“Tests, though?” I asked. “You'd use football for psych?” She shrugged.
“Why not? Bomb a question, move on. Don't spiral, right?” she said.
“Don't stare the miss down,” I said. “Next play's already coming.” She tapped her notebook.
“See? You're already tutoring me,” she said.
“Don't tell Marisol,” I said. “Rate's too low.”
“Live next down,” she said. “I like that. Can I — steal that for psych? For tests?” Her eyes stayed on me, steady and warm. I felt something pull low and tight under my ribs and I breathed through it. “Yeah,” I said. “It's yours. Use it.”
“Last one,” she said. “Two-high, you what?” I found it fast. “Middle stones. Quick. Short and sure,” I said.
“No hero ball. Just move it.” She smiled.
“No hero ball,” she said. “Write that on your wrist or something.” I almost laughed.
“Noted,” I said. “Say it once more,” she said. “No hero ball,” I said.
We stacked the papers by size when the hour thinned. I squared the edges twice. She capped her highlighter and set it parallel to the pens. I pocketed the scrap with the bad drawing, the one where the safety line went wrong. The paper crinkled soft in my pocket.
I squared the pens last. Two good pens, parallel, tips north. Her loud pen stayed in her bag. The table looked clean and even under the white light. My hands stopped buzzing once the lines held. I felt my shoulders come down another inch.
She stood when the radiator knocked. I stood when she stood.
“You stiff?” she asked. “That glass is cold on your back.” I nodded.
My knees popped soft. She shrugged into her jacket and wound her hair back up.
Her hands still looked cold at the tips.
She wrapped them once around her cup for the road.
“Same time next week?” she asked, and she slung her bag over her shoulder. “We'll do empty sets first. No blitz till — till we've got coffee that isn't cold.” She grinned crooked. “Deal?” I nodded. “Deal,” I said. “Empty first. I'll have the pictures ready.”
The hall spilled noise when we opened the door. Voices bounced off tile and the stairwell hummed low. My chest went tight at the threshold. The air out there felt thin and fast after the hot room. I stepped out anyway and pulled the door shut behind us.
“I'll walk you to the stairs. Can't — not past that. Too loud out there,” I said, and I kept to the wall side where the light felt less sharp. Our steps fell in line without trying. Her cup warmed the air between us with thin cinnamon. I counted the tiles to stay even.
We stopped at the stairwell where the noise stacked up. The echo hit hard off the concrete and my teeth ached with it. “Got to plant my feet,” I said. “Not letting the hum push me back.” She turned to face me with one hand on the rail. Her eyes searched my face once, quick and careful.
I stayed one extra minute past comfort. “One more minute,” I said. “Too loud to leave her yet.” My skin prickled under my shirt. My hands wanted my pockets but I kept them out. I breathed in through my nose and felt the cold hall air cut clean.
I stayed till the radiator clicked off, and the quiet afterward sounded like her name.