I give him the nod, the go-ahead, and he grabs the fifteens, does a lazy set of curls, and then sits on the edge of the bench, head in hands, breathing like he’s about to puke.
“You good?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Didn’t sleep much.”
“Yeah. Same.” I almost leave it there, but something about the way his shoulders are caved in, like he’s bracing for another impact, makes me add, “You want to grab food after?”
He blinks, looks up, surprised. “Yeah. Sure. I could eat.”
We don’t even shower, just throw on hoodies and walk the two blocks to a bagel shop that caters exclusively to hungover tech guys and ex-athletes with nowhere better to be.
I get two eggs, black coffee, and a plain bagel with nothing on it.
Ash orders a blueberry with “enough cream cheese to kill a small dog” and orange juice, and when we sit down I notice his hands are shaking, barely, but he manages to get the food in his mouth without dropping it.
The place is loud, every table full, and we have to lean in to talk. For a minute, neither of us says anything, just chew and stare at the street outside, but eventually he breaks the silence.
“Do you ever think about, like, what you’d be doing if you weren’t here?”
I don’t answer right away. It’s a loaded question, and I can see from the way his jaw clenches that he doesn’t even know what he wants me to say.
“I’d probably be working construction,” I say, which is true, “or bartending. Something with routine. Something where you don’t have to talk about yourself.”
He smiles, just a little. “I always figured you’d go into coaching.”
I laugh. “I'd rather chew glass than do that.”
There’s a pause. He sips his juice, looks away, and I realize he’s not wearing any of the old scars anymore, the ones that used to decorate his chin and forehead like badges.
He looks different, softer but also harder, like the difference between plywood and solid oak.
“What about you?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
He shrugs. “Honestly? I’d probably be teaching. History or something. I always liked the idea of making kids hate their life a little less.”
I snort. “You’d be the kind of teacher who lets the class watch movies every Friday.”
“Only if it’s historically accurate,” he says, grinning.
We finish the food, and for a second I want to suggest we just sit here, maybe drink another coffee, just to avoid going back to our respective cells, but the words don’t come out.
Instead, I say, “You want to hit the track later?”
He looks at me, surprised. “I thought you hated running.”
“I do,” I say, “but I hate sitting still more.”
We agree to meet at the college field at 4,00. He leaves first, tossing his trash and disappearing down the street without looking back.
———
When I get home, I shower, then lie on my back on the living room floor and try to slow my heart rate.
I do breathing exercises like Dr. Sharma taught me, in through the nose, out through the mouth, and for a minute it almost works.
The ceiling is the same dirty eggshell as always, but today it seems farther away, like the room is expanding, or maybe I’m just getting smaller.
I try to nap, but every time I close my eyes I see the color red, not the bright spray of fresh blood but the way it turns dark when it pools, the way it crawls across the ice.
