I sit, stretching out my legs. The grass is cool against my backside, making me miss the temporary cozy spot I had pressed up against him.
“Bend one leg, keeping the other one straight, and then reach across your body toward the opposite side.”
Nodding, I do just that. My muscles groan happily with the stretch.
“It’s important to incorporate stretching into your training,” he says, stretching his long legs in front of him. He sits near me, mirroring my positions, except facing me.
“For someone who says I’m in charge, you’re awfully bossy.”
“For someone who does yoga once a week, you’re weirdly anti-stretching,” he quips back.
“I’m not anti-stretching.” I switch legs. “I’m pro-sleep.”
“What?” He chuckles.
“I train in the mornings. Ten minutes of stretching is ten fewer minutes to sleep in. It’s already bad enough I have to get up so early to train and get to work on time.”
“Hip flexor stretch. Lie flat, keep one leg out, bend the other, and pull it toward your chest.”
“Okay.” I follow his instructions.
“You could always exercise at night. Then you have all the time. That’s what I do.”
“Just go home andtell that bagafter a day dealing with patients and unruly residents?” My mouth twitches into a smile.
“Something like that. It helps me sleep.”
I sit up. “Do you have trouble sleeping?”
“Sometimes.” He sits up. “And before you ask… Yes, since Val died.”
Bending my knees, I wrap my arms around them and look over at him. “Do you have nightmares or intrusive thoughts that keep you awake?”
“Intrusive thoughts.”
“Like what?”
My brain is screaming for me to shut up. To change the subject or just remain quiet, but the need to know more pulses within me. It’s not just the natural curiosity I have, but Garrett is like a puzzle I want to put together. The image of this man is still fuzzy. Just as I think I know him, he reveals a little more. Each piece confirms the things I know to be true about him, but opens up whole other chapters about his story.
“All the ways I failed her,” he whispers.
The pain underscoring his words surges an ache in my chest. It’s raw and unabashed in self-blame. All I know is it was an accident, and he wasn’t there. He’d said in the thirty minutes from the time he had told her to text him when she got home to when he was called about the accident, he’d lost her.
“What makes you thinkyoufailed her?”
“Because she’s not here,” he says, his voice small.
“Garrett,” I breathe, rubbing my hand against the ache in my chest.
“Turnip,” he rasps.
I want to ask more. Not to poke and prod at that wound, but to help dig out the pain that infects him. If the last few years of therapy with Dr. Nor has taught me anything, it’s that the loud crack of broken hearts are not mended in silence. This is anotherpiece of that story he’s spoken out loud to me. Just like with marathon training, he needs to walk before he runs. And this seems like a big first step for Garrett. As much as I want to push, I want to honor.
“Turnip.” I smile.
Nodding, he stands up. “Wanna get that latte?” He reaches down and offers me his hand.
“Yeah, I do.” I take his hand, allowing him to pull me up.
