Instead, I’d somehow managed to attach what I was pretty sure was the back panel to what might have been a side panel, creating something that looked less like furniture and more like modern art. Abstract modern art. Bad abstract modern art. Here I was, a grown man with a university degree, defeated by what was essentially an adult Lego set.
My phone buzzed with another text.
Adan
How are you feeling? Any better?
Me
Improving.
The nausea had subsided and the tea had landed well, but I still couldn’t imagine eating anything.
Adan
Good. Rest up.
I made another attempt at connecting two pieces, resisting the urge to chuck the whole thing in the dumpster.
The doorbell rang. I looked down at myself—sweatpants, an old Rideau University T-shirt, hair that probably looked like I’d been electrocuted—and debated pretending I wasn’t home. But curiosity won out, and I padded to the front door in my socks.
Through the peephole, I spotted Adan standing on my doorstep, holding what looked like a container of some kind. My heart skipped a beat. What was he doing here?
I opened the door.
“Hey, Coach,” he said, offering a slightly sheepish smile. “I know you said you didn’t need anything, but I thought you might want some soup. It’s from the dining hall, but it’s pretty good.” He held up a large styrofoam container. “Chicken and rice. My mom always said it was good for whatever ails you.”
The thoughtfulness of the gesture hit me harder than it should have. When was the last time someone had brought me soup when I was sick? When was the last time someone had cared enough to check on me beyond a text message? “That’s… That’s very kind of you, Adan. Thank you.”
“Are you feeling any better?”
“Some. Still not quite ready for food, but I will be by tonight, probably, so I appreciate the thought.”
He glanced past me into the apartment, and I saw his eyes widen slightly as he took in the explosion of furniture components visible in my living room.
“Dude, what happened in there?”
Despite feeling terrible, I laughed. “I’ve been attempting to assemble a cabinet. The key word being ‘attempting’.”
“Looks like the cabinet is winning.”
“Decisively.”
Adan shifted the soup container to one hand and gestured toward the chaos. “You want some help? I’m pretty good at putting stuff together.”
Every rational part of my brain screamed that this was a bad idea. Inviting my student into my house and spending time together in a completely non-professional context would only allow the boundaries we’d carefully maintained to blur even further.
But I was sick and lonely, and the BRIMNES had become a symbol of everything I was struggling with. And Adan was standing there offering help with such genuine kindness that saying no felt impossible.
“If you don’t mind,” I heard myself saying. “I’m afraid I’m not at my most competent today.”
“No worries. Let me put this soup in your fridge for later.”
I led him into the kitchen, trying to see my house through his eyes. The LACK table with my lukewarm third cup of tea still sitting on it. The KLIPPAN couch—not one of IKEA’s best products as it was already rickety after mere weeks of use. The complete lack of personal touches that might reveal anything about my actual background.
“Nice place,” he said, opening the refrigerator to store the soup. “Very… clean.”
“Thank you. I prefer minimalism.”
