I walked back out into the sunlight. Standing on the bluff, I understood, in my body, that I would be good at this. Not the inherited good at hockey. Good in a way that was mine.
I called Heath that night from the hotel.
He picked up on the second ring.
"How's the ocean?"
"Still there."
"Good. I was worried it might've left." Heath's tea kettle whistled. I heard him pull it off the burner. "What'd you do today?"
"Went to a seminar. Sat in the back. Took notes."
"About fish?"
"About coral reef restoration in the Indo-Pacific."
"So. Fancy fish."
"Corals aren't fish."
"Fancy not-fish. Got it."
I leaned against the headboard, letting the warmth of Heath's voice wrap around me.
"The program director reminded me of Markel," I said.
"Terrifying and economical?"
"She told me the reef doesn't care about my thesis statement."
He laughed. "I want that on a shirt."
"What are you doing?"
"Exciting stuff. Made soup. Watched a thing about bears. Called Maggie." A pause. "Cleaned the apartment even though you're not here to see it."
"You cleaned for me?"
"I cleaned because you ruined me. I keep noticing things now. The grout. There's grout I didn't know about, Kieran. You've made me aware of grout."
"You're welcome."
"I wasn't thanking you."
I heard him settle, the specific creak of that one cushion on the couch molded to his shape.
"Varga posted a surfing video," I said.
"I saw. He used a GoPro. The wipeout at the end is cinematic."
"Cross asked where I was."
"Saw that, too, and you didn't respond."
"Didn't need to. Pratt covered."
"Pratt covers a lot."
