“Charles isn’t here yet, but I am,” I snapped at the doctor, misdirecting my hurt that Porter yet again didn’t want me talking to his parents but apparently was okay if Charles did.
“Okay, well, he’s very insistent on Charles, but I don’t think we should wait. Let me go and check with Porter about how he wants to handle it, or do you want to go back and ask him?”
“If he’s resting, let him rest,” I demanded in a tone that told this doctor several decades my senior not to mess with my directive. “I’ll call the Beaumonts.”
“Okay, your call. Go see Brenda up front; she has the number. After you let them know what’s going on, hand the phone to Brenda, and she can talk them through the details of the transfer and the procedure so we can get this show on the road. It’s a fairly routine surgery, but unfortunately, time is not on our side. While you are doing that, I’m going to go talk Porter through the next couple of hours.” I nodded once. I got the instructions loud and clear.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Mrs. Beaumont. This is Callie Steele.” I gripped the phone. My first conversation with Porter’s mother was to deliver scary news. I straightened my posture to attempt to imbue strength and confidence over the long-distance line that everything would be alright with her son.
“Sorry, hold on, I can’t quite hear you.” A large stream of water in the background turned off. “Better. Now who did you say this is?”
“Callie Steele. From Princeton.” Silence sat on the other end. “Porter’s girlfriend,” I offered for greater clarification.
“Well, now. I wasn’t aware he had one.”
In shock, I handed the phone to Brenda.
Chapter Nineteen
Present
“Okay, you invited me over here with the lure of tacos and listening to my opinion on whatever you are currently agonizing over, so here I am. And it better not be about how we are going to decorate our houses for Halloween this month; you know it’s my least-favorite holiday,” Lisa announces boisterously, arriving in my kitchen after letting herself in the front door with the spare key she holds for me. Or for her. Lisa’s dressed appropriately to settle in for the lengthy feedback session I requested, and she lives to give. Today’s novice therapist outfit is slippers, comfy yellow sweats, and a worn navy T-shirt that saysAskhole: A Person Who Asks for Advice and Does the Complete Opposite.
“What in the name of fugly are on your feet?” Horrified, Lisa points to my toes before I can give her props for her well-played T-shirt selection.
“These?” I look down at my feet, a hint of confusion in my voice. “They’re HOKAs. You haven’t heard of them?”
“I can proudly answer no to that question. I prefer to shop in the non-man-repelling shoe department,” Lisa insists, still grimacing at my feet.
“They’re actually great.” I kick a leg in her direction so she can get a closer look, and she hops back as if poor purchasing practices might land on her like a swarm of wasps.
“They have extra cushion at the midsole to cradle a runner’s foot, and the meta rocker really helps with momentum,” I say, mimicking the salesclerk at Jock and Jill. “Plus, they’re super comfy.” I jump up and down so Lisa can see for herself how cushy and plush they are.
“What they are is heinous.”
I defend my shoes under my breath. “Daphne at Mercy has the same ones, and she has a new boyfriend.”
“I’ll give you credit for wearing matching socks, though. First time I’ve seen you pull off that trick.” Lisa points to my ankles before helping herself to my snack drawer.
It’s true. Despite only piling up dirty clothing for one now, I’m doing more laundry than ever since I’ve taken up sweating as my new hobby, and my sock pairs are disappearing as quickly as they did when I washed for a family of four. Where those socks have gone remains a shared mystery the world over.
“Hey, this is empty!” Lisa points into the barren drawer where the chips and Pop-Tarts used to live.
I can’t run the risk of Lisa turning on her heels in outrage and heading home because I’ve cleared my house of any tempting treats, so I lie and tell her, “I need to go to the store.” She huffs in hunger, but then lets it go.
“So, what has you all hot and bothered that you risked your life by asking me to come over before I finished my Brad Pitt pre–Angelina Jolie marathon?” It’s true: I know better than to mess with Lisa’s Sunday schedule of picking a hot actor between the ages of twenty and eighty and binge-watching their movies in chronological order. “Do you need a second pair of eyes on a G-rated text from your X-rated running partner?”
“Chap wears HOKAs.” I’m still feeling defensive over my footwear choice.
“He can wear anything he wants. Not the same.” Though Lisa has yet to join me on my evening jogs, she has shown support for my exercise efforts in her own unique ways—specifically, following Chap’s @Fleet_AF account and wanting to discuss it thoroughly, which, I admit, I completely enjoy.
“No new texts from Chap.”
Lisa rolls her lower lip out in profound disappointment.
I shrug and pretend not to be bothered by it at all, but the truth is, I’ve been showing up consistently to the Heart and Sole Running Club in the hope that my attendance will get me on the inner-circle text chain Daphne showed me they have going. I tried to play it cool when, during my first couple of group runs, Daphne gave me a little bit of background on the core runners, and I gave it my all to keep up with her pace and her details-download. A little gossip goes a long way to make the miles pass by.
