I take the train to Belltown, ride it standing up, backpack braced against my leg like a shield, and when I get off at Westlake, I walk the rest of the way just to burn off the chemical edge that’s been buzzing under my skin all day.
The restaurant is one of those places that pretends to be a dive but charges twenty bucks for a salad.
The lighting is so dim you have to squint to see the menu, and the music is a mix of indie tracks and ‘70s soul that’s supposed to signal effortless cool but just makes me want to scream.
Nia’s already there when I arrive, phone in hand, tapping out what I assume is a medical drama worthy of an HBO miniseries.
She looks up, smiles, and for a second it almost feels normal.
She’s wearing the dress I like, the one with the geometric cutouts, and her hair is pulled back so tight I can see the veins in her forehead.
“Hey, D,” she says, and I can tell she’s practiced the greeting, that she spent at least two minutes in the mirror before coming here, and I hate myself for noticing.
“Hey,” I say, and sit down across from her.
We do the usual catch-up, How’s work? How’s your sister? Did you see the latest on the shooting? (I did. We both did. We just pretend not to care.)
She tells me about her caseload, how she's been working with a college pitcher whose rotator cuff is shredded, how the clinic keeps booking her double shifts because they're short-staffed.
Physical therapy isn't glamorous, but she's good at it, better than good, actually and I used to love hearing her talk about it.
I nod at all the right moments, but my eyes keep darting to the clock on the wall, the second hand wobbling with every tick, mocking me.
The server comes, takes our order, her, the salmon, me, the steak and I notice she doesn’t order wine, which means she’s either on call tonight or she’s bracing for a conversation she doesn’t want to have sober.
She steeples her fingers, nails perfectly manicured, soft oval tips painted a color I can’t name.
I never used to notice things like that, but lately I’ve become obsessed with hands, with what they say about a person. Hers are careful, precise, like everything else in her life.
I imagine her at the clinic, the precise way she palpates a joint, angles a stretch, reads a body's limits like a scouting report.
I compare them, involuntarily, to Ash’s.
His hands are beat to shit, scars on the knuckles, cuticles chewed, one pinky that’s never set right from a broken bone in college.
The last time we were at the gym, he had black polish on his thumbs, chipped and uneven, like he’d painted them in a moving car.
I can’t stop thinking about how much more interesting they are, how I want to see what they look like when he’s not braced against a barbell or stuffed in a hockey glove.
Nia is talking, and I realize I haven’t heard the last three sentences. “Sorry,” I say. “Long day. The whole new practice routine is kicking my ass.”
She smiles, but there’s a crack in it. “You used to be able to do two-a-days and still meet me at the library for midnight coffee. Is it that bad?”
“It’s not the workouts. It’s the… everything else.” I almost say “the aftermath,” but swallow it.
She waits, patient, and I know she wants me to spill.
I want to tell her about the dreams, the flashes of violence that punch through the surface of my thoughts when I’m not paying attention, but I can’t.
Instead, I pick up the water glass, turn it in my hand.
A table behind us erupts in laughter. I flinch, and she notices.
“You’re still having nightmares,” she says, not a question.
I nod. “They’ll go away, I’m sure.”
Nia stabs her salmon, peels the skin with the fork, eyes narrow. “You know you can talk to me, right?”
