I focused on my task. The back of his ankle was swollen along the Achilles tendon. I wasn’t an expert on injuries, but I knew enough to understand Noah shouldn’t be running on this.
One thing I was an expert on? Shoes. Specifically, good running shoes.
The sneaker had seen better days. The once-bright fabric was now a dull, weathered shade, scuffed and stained with remnants of past runs. The sole had been worn down to an uneven, threadbare state. Tread? Nonexistent. Laces? Frayed. How was Noah running with these? I didn’t know.
“You need new shoes.”
Noah placed his elbows on his thighs, looking down at me. It suddenly occurred to me how intimate the position could look to a stranger—Noah on the bench, me on my knees in front of him. I rolled to the side, reaching for my bag.
“These are Nikes,” he said.
I laughed as my hand blindly searched the bottom layer of my bag. Pretty sure there was a corner of crushed Cheez-Its and peanuts in there. Gross. “Obviously. But they’re worn out. They’re not giving you any kind of support anymore.”
“And you’re a Nike expert because…?”
“Because I worked in a running shoe store for two years.”
My first job, actually. Not to mention, I’d been running since I was sixteen.
“Huh,” was all he said. But once I slipped off his sock, he jolted. “If you wanted me to take off my clothes, all you had to do was ask.”
Noah’s words were flirtatious, but his tone was quiet, hesitant. Like he was trying to use a flirty remark as a shield, instead of addressing my help.
I started to wrap my spare KT tape around his ankle. Good thing I was a running nerd and always had supplies on me. As I did so, the ends of his hairs stuck up. I ignored it, asking, “If not a fight, then what happened to your ankle?”
“Achilles tendonitis,” he answered, wiping a bead of sweat off his brow. “I’m a glutton for running injuries, apparently.”
“Oh?” I tightened the wrap, and he squeezed the edge of the bench with one hand. “What other injuries?”
“Tendonitis, knee sprains, stress fracture,” Noah rattled off like he was collecting injuries as one would souvenirs.
I hummed, cutting the edge of the tape and finishing the wrap. “Have you ever considered that you get so many injuries because you don’t give yourself time to rest in between?”
“No.”
Eye roll.
I was thankful I didn’t have to look him in the eye when I said, “I have asthma.”
“…Okay?”
Right, so I wasn’t great at connecting the dots for people. “What I mean to say is that I love running. But this disease that I’ve had since I was a kid gets in the way sometimes. That doesn’t mean I stop running. It just means I learned how to live with it, even if it means taking breaks.”
And it meant that I always carried an inhaler with me. Even now, it was tucked into the corner of my bag. Another one stayed in the fanny pack I took running. Sometimes the most unexpected thing set me off, but I knew how to manage my asthma now.
“Yeah. I see what you’re saying.”
Lifting his ankle, I inspected my work. Damn. I should be a nurse in my next life. He reached for his sock, but I beat him to it, stretching it over the wrap and fitting it snugly against his skin. He willingly accepted my help with the shoe, and I took my time lacing it up again.
I finished the bow, then gently placed his foot back on the ground. His breath shuddered and the artery in his neck pulsed with a tattered rhythm.
“Noah.” The signals of his body gave me a boost of self-confidence. “Do I make you nervous?”
No response.
I placed one hand on each of his knees, rising up on my own knees to force eye contact. “You know, everything you post online makes everyone think you’re this scary bad boy.” Leaning forward, close enough to see the flickers of yellow in his eyes, I said, “I don’t think that’s true at all. Do you?”
Constellations of freckles shimmered around his nose. I wished I had a permanent marker to connect them all.
