“Why’d you do that?” he asked, sitting.
“I didn’t mean to, I tripped. After his admin threatened me.” Her face fell and then she jutted her chin up, like a little girl acting tough to get herself through a difficult spot.
“Tiny little Liv?”
“I think he let her think that I’d been a bitch to him, too.”
“And you’re sure you haven’t?”
“I only found out about his accident four days ago. So how could I have been a bitch about it?” Her voice hardened and she looked out the window, fingering the frayed piping of her army jacket.
“But?” he encouraged.
“I guess I said something insensitive when I last saw him.” Her chin dropped.
“After you knew about his—”
“Yeah. After I cut myself, he went with me to the hospital. And I guess I was worried about how my face looked. I think I called it hideous and disfigured.”
“How’d he take that?”
“He left.”
Good. Smart man.
“If that’s the case, seems damned straightforward to me. What’s the point of chasing someone who doesn’t want you?”
“But that’s the thing,” she insisted, straightening. “I don’t think it’s so straightforward. My stupid comment didn’t mean anything. I’ve got to let him know that we should try again.”
Damn, she’s tenacious.
“Don’t you freak out over every little scratch?”
She ran a hand through her hair. Her eyes grew large. “He probably thinks I do, but I swear, after the initial shock of seeing his arm, he was just Phoenix to me. All I could think was how I’d missed him. I mean, I feel terrible for him, but it’s not going to freak me out.” Her fist pounded the armrest for emphasis. “You’ve seen us together. What’d you think?” she pressed.
“Yeah, I guess you had something. At that triathlon, and down the shore. But that was all before, you know.” He was surprised he couldn’t name the time that dominated his life last fall. He looked out the window at piles of shoveled snow. He worried about Phoenix taking a tumble.
“I don’t know. Tell me what happened,” she said, her eyes growing even more expressive.
He stood to stretch, looking up, thinking. Only with Sascha had he shared the images and regrets that still dogged him. A pressure built. He wanted to unload the memories. Not for her. Rather, for himself. He talked while he paced.
“Freakin’ call came to my shop in Jersey,” he said, remembering the day. “I couldn’t believe it, I couldn’t picture it. I couldn’t even drive, I was so messed up, so Sascha drove me. Mom said I needed to come say goodbye, just in case.”
Orchid appeared to have forgotten to breathe, eyes frozen wide.
He stopped, gazing at the pattern of the black-and-white checkered tiles on the floor, his mind elsewhere. The whine of a siren whizzed by and faded, reminding them of the city past the clear glass door.
“Then I saw him, and it was him, but he looked bad, not moving, tubes and shit. Scary, you know?”
She nodded, even though she hadn’t been there and couldn’t have known.
“I didn’t know you could be hit by a train and survive.”
She yelped.
He strode, pacing around the shop in the darkening shadows of late afternoon, agitated. “What? You didn’t know?” He stopped walking, hands on his hips.
“So he really was hit by a . . . train?”
