“That was before I re-potted Bertha.”
“Bertha?”
“The begonia. She needed more drainage.”
“You said that about the fern.”
“Fernanda was rootbound.”
“And the ficus?”
I hesitate. “Less fine.”
She gives me a look. “You ever think about letting a few more actual people into your life, beyond me and the chorophyll crew? Most people unwind by sleeping or having sex,” she adds. “Not by having a rotating ICU for plants.”
“They’re notdying,” I say. “They’re adapting.”
“To what? You? That apartment? The sunlamp schedule you built from scratch?”
“Photosynthesis is an important science.”
“You’re more nurturing with leaves than you are with people,” she says. “And you give them names.”
A reluctant smile tugs at my mouth. “Leaves don’t talk back.”
And they don’t ask questions. Don’t look at me like I’m an anomaly in scrubs. They don’t pause before deciding whether I’m competent or justimpressive for a woman.
“No,” she agrees, “but when they fall off, you lose your mind.”
I don’t answer, and she doesn’t need me to.
She smiles behind her mug. “You do know most people don’t need to re-pot their stress every two weeks, right?”
I keep my gaze on the swirl of cream in my cup. “Maybe I just like giving things a second chance.”
“Maybe,” she says. “Or maybe you like being the one who fixes it.”
A silence stretches that’s not awkward, but the kind that settles when someone knows you well enough not to fill it.
“I’m fine,” I say eventually with a sigh, because it’s the quickest way to end a conversation that wants to go places I’m not ready to follow. But she doesn’t buy it, she never does.
“I know this case is getting to you,” she says quietly. “You’re carrying it in your shoulders. In your jaw. In the fact that you’re skipping more lunches than normal.”
“It’s just the red tape,” I explain, looking up and away again. “And the waiting.”
She nods, slowly stirring her chai. “Is he still asking about his leg?”
“Every time I walk in the room.”
Heidi swallows. “Shit.”
I don’t say anything, just stare out the window at the passing foot traffic, the thin sheen of frost on the sidewalk. A dog trotsby in a tiny raincoat, and people move as if time isn’t snapping at their heels.
“I really want to get him in this trial,” I say eventually. “The access is still tied up between the funding, approvals, and logistics. All the things I can’t fix. But I think I can make it work so long as this gala goes to plan.”
“The fundraiser Jenny mentioned?”
I nod, lifting my own cup back up. “There’s a venue and some auction items. We just need more stuff and better awareness. I think the organizer has secured an athlete or two to attend, which means Moreno will come, and some of his associates, too.”
