He hadn't told me he was coming.
"I'm your ride," he said. "If anybody asks."
"Nobody's asking."
"Good. The real answer is more complicated, and I don't have a prepared statement."
His car sat on level three. He popped the trunk, put my bag in, and closed it.
The car smelled like his apartment: coffee and radiator heat. A receipt sat in the cupholder. Chicken thighs. Onions. Black beans. Bananas. The staples of a man who fed himself on a budget.
We merged onto the Kennedy. A billboard for the Ironhawks' home stand loomed ahead of us. Rook's face, thirty feet tall, expression flat. Someone had tagged the lower corner with a spray-painted heart. Rook would hate that.
Heath changed lanes. "How was it?" he asked.
"Good. Warm."
"You look less tired."
"I slept."
"That's allowed during breaks."
He pulled up in front of my building. Double-parked, hazards on. The car idled.
"Kieran." He stared ahead through the windshield. Both hands firmly on the wheel. "What was in California?"
I couldn't lie. Heath had driven to O'Hare without being asked. He'd carried my bag.
"I went for grad school stuff," I said.
His hands didn't move on the wheel. His breathing didn't change.
"And?"
"It's real. The programs are what they say they are. The work is what I want."
"That means you're leaving."
It was a flat statement. Taking inventory like when he told me about his father's injury and the medications. His left thumb moved once against the steering wheel, a small unconscious stroke, and then went still. I'd seen that tell before. After bad goals.
The hazards clicked.
"I don't know anymore," I said.
Heath looked at me, and then he nodded once.
"I'm making soup," he said. "If you're hungry."
"I think I need to go home tonight."
His jaw tensed, and his eyes returned to looking ahead.
"Okay," he said.
"I need to think."
"I know. You don't have to explain."
