Still, atonement.
We catch up for ten minutes or so. He shows me photos of the new house on his phone. Reminds me Poppy turns one in the new year, tells me Hayley’s doing well back at work. It’s hard, as he talks, not to be distracted by his biceps. I see them twitching beneath his skin, like there’s only so long they can be parted from the dumbbell station.
I feel more than a bit out of place here, in my jeans, long sleeves, and boots.
Eventually he puts his phone away. “How’s Callie?”
I keep it neutral. “Great. Really nice neighbor. Seems like a good tenant.” I think about her note to me, propped up in my kitchen now. About how hard it’s been recently to think of her in purely platonic terms.
“All right,” Steve says, smiling wryly. “You can thank me later.”
I say nothing. Unfortunately this gives me no choice but to take another sip of pulverized vegetable.
“So how’s everything? You know—life, work, health.”
“No change, really.”
“Still no job?” he muses, like we’re talking about someone else. “You must be burning through your savings.”
I mumble acknowledgment. It’s a sore point, predominantly because I am. I lived like a monk to build them up in the first place, cashed in a small investment inherited from a great-aunt. I’m careful with it (trips to the coffee shop are my sole indulgence). And I’m lucky to have a financially illiterate landlord, who’s put my rent up once in ten years. But the money won’t last forever.
Steve’s never shied away from asking personal questions, which I mostly attribute to the confidence that must come with having a gladiator-grade physique. But he has a warmth about him too. Affability honed like an extra muscle from years of talking to clients, listening to their problems while they force out sit-ups and try not to spew.
Steve sets down his smoothie. Rubs at something that isn’t there on our table. And then, just like that, a hand grenade of a question. “Did I ever mention I have a master’s in neuropsychology?”
I manage to tell him no, he did not mention that.
“What I’m saying is... if you ever wanted to talk...” He opens the damn door and leaves it swinging by its hinges. But the landscape beyond looks cold and uncertain.
“Why? I mean, if you’re a neuropsychologist, why do you work here?”
“Does there have to be a reason?”
I look at Steve busting out of his vest in front of me. Then I try andfail to picture him wearing a white coat. “Yes,” I say, blinking. “There does, as it happens.”
A shrug. “I joined a gym to help me deal with the stress of studying, then realized my heart was more in this than that. So I started training people part-time during my PhD, and felt like I was born to do it.”
Jesus. A PhD. “You’re a doctor?” Why did his mail never reflect this, alert me to this code-red situation?
“Nah. Dropped out after three years. Though sometimes Hayley does like to call me Doctor—”
I raise a hand to cut him off, then lower it. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I thought you might like to know.”
“Know, as in avail myself of your services?”
From out of nowhere, my university GP sneers into my mind. I can still picture his face like he’s sitting right in front of me. The side-eye, the derision. The inexplicable irritation.
Steve’s shaking his head. “Not like that. I’m no counselor. But I suppose I just wanted to say that if you ever fancy a chat, I might understand more than you think. I don’t just lift weights.”
Can’t say I ever judged him before. But I wouldn’t necessarily have gone with brain specialist if I’d been asked to take a punt on his former career path. “You ever regret it?”
“Regret what?”
“Not pursuing it.”
“Never. I wouldn’t have met Hayley, and we wouldn’t have Poppy.” He looks around the café. “And this is loads better than a career in some anonymous lab. I still get to make a positive difference to people’s minds. Just in a more direct way.”
