I finger-comb my hair up into a messy bun. “Is this like the Dr. Marlowe medicine for getting over being ditched by literaryfuckboys? First, rage against the boxing bag and then comfort PB and J’s?”
He shrugs. “Sort of… Mom always made these for us when we had bad days as kids.”
“And you still make them for yourself when you have a bad day?”
“Yeah.”
I nibble on my lower lip, stopping the audibleAwthat wants to come out. It’s adorable to think of Garrett coming home after a long shift at the hospital to make himself comfort PB and Js. As much as I know about Garrett, there’re closed drawers about this man I’ve never ruffled through.
“Did your mom have youtell the bagbefore you got your comfort sammy when you were a kid?” I slide onto the island stool.
“Sammy?” He huffs an incredulous snort. “We’re not calling it that.” He clicks off the burner and places the sandwich on a plate. After cutting the sandwich, he places the plate in front of me.
I pick up one of the triangles and take a bite. The salty sweetness explodes on my taste buds; the creamy peanut butter and the tart raspberry jam.
“Oh god.” Eyes closed, I release a breathy moan. “This is next level.”
“Thanks.”
“No. You don’t get it.” I gesture with the sandwich. “Where has this been my entire life? I’ve been doing PB and Js totally wrong this entire time.” I take another bite, licking excess jam from my lips.
“Glad you enjoy it,” he says, amusement radiating from him.
“Have some.” I push the plate toward where he stands on the other side of the counter. “Technically, you didn’ttell the bag, but you earned a treat with this yumminess.”
“Thanks.” He picks up the other half.
“Where did telling the bag come from anyway?”
“Bryce recommended it to me a few years ago.”
I’ve met Garrett’s family a few times. His parents have been out here twice in the last five years. Both his older brother, Bryce, and younger sister, Lara, have also visited. Outside of those trips, Garrett doesn’t seem to get back to Chicago to visit them that often. Which is weird because in the few interactions I’ve had with them, they seem close. Garrett even does virtual Sunday dinners with them each week, where they all cook the same thing and eat together via video chat.
It's odd. Anker and I drive up to Solvang to see our parents each month. Not to mention, we spend every holiday with them. Garrett spends most holidays here, unless we drag him along with us. Unlike my brother who uses all his leave to travel for races or to visit our parents, Garrett claims it’s hard to take time off as the hospital’s inpatient service chief. From what Anker explains, between he and a few other seasoned attendings, there are people who can cover, yet Garrett rarely takes time off.
“Bryce thought it would help me with my anger and emotions,” he says before taking another bite.
“Anker says that about running for him. I think even if the Larsen lore wasn’t a thing, he’d still be as voracious about running.”
Our dad, a runner like my brother, got Anker into sports as a kid to manage his social anxiety. It’s hard to think of my now-social-butterfly brother being awkward and shy, but he was. Athletics, especially running, gave him direction. Whenever emotions get too much, he goes for a run. I, on the other hand, turn to pastries or cry.
After tonight, I see the value in exercise as a coping strategy. Even if boxing didn’t fix anything, I do feel better.
“Is boxing for general mental health maintenance or to deal with specific emotions?” I take another bite of my sandwich.
“General now, but specific then.” He clears his throat. “Probably still specific.”
I meet his gaze in a silent conversation. Does he want me to ask more? I know I want to know. Let’s face it, it’s only a matter of seconds before I prod him. While I may hold back with most men, I’m incapable of doing that with Garrett. From our first meeting, just about every thought or question spinning inside me about him has come out.Just about…
“My wife,” he says, as if that offers any explanation.
“You have a wife!” I say, mouth slack. “How? When? Where is she?”
This explains his almost monk-like existence, but what the actual fuck? In five years, you’d think he’d have mentioned that. In the whiplash-inducing relationship I have with Garrett, where one moment it’s like we’re friends and the next moment it’s as if my existence is barely tolerable, this tips the scales in favor of me being nothing more than an inconvenience he has to deal with.
Don’t friends tell each other things like this?
“Hada wife.” He swallows thickly.
