But I can’t. Not yet.
He puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezes, then walks off toward his own car.
I stand in the cold for a while, helmet dangling from my fingers, trying to make sense of the noise in my head.
That night, I go home, eat ramen standing over the sink, and try not to think about anything. I don’t watch TV, don’t check my phone, just sit on the couch and stare at the dark.
Eventually, I end up in bed, staring at the ceiling, willing myself to sleep.
But the shower scene comes back, not as a flash but as a slow-motion replay. The look. The tension. The moment we both realized it wasn’t nothing.
I’ve spent all day trying to rationalize it away, to file it under “coincidence” or “bad timing” or “just dudes being dudes.” But I can’t. Not anymore.
For the first time, I don’t shut the thought down. I let it live, raw and terrifying and hungry.
I whisper into the dark: “What if it wasn’t nothing?”
The words hang there, unanswered.
But for once, I don’t want them to go away.
HIS BROTHER'S KEEPER
Six weeks is long enough for your body to forget the immediate aftermath, but not nearly enough for your brain to let anything go.
Six weeks is also exactly how long it takes to turn a trauma ritual into a routine.
I wake before the alarm, always, because the punishment for not doing so is a dream about Cap’s last words or the wet, red halo that spread under his head on the ice.
I brush my teeth with the bathroom door open. I dress in the dark because Ash is never late and I refuse to be the guy who shows up second, not even for him.
The gym opens at five, but we get there at 5:04, every time, because Ash needs the extra four minutes to “decompress” and because I can’t face the idea of the machines being empty, the room sterile, the world too quiet.
The way the weights clang and rattle is as close as I get to church. I like to think Ash feels the same, but he never says it. We don’t really talk about feelings. Not yet.
Today is a bench day, and Ash is already stretching out on the mat when I arrive.
He’s wearing the old Huskies hoodie, the one that looks like it’s never been washed, and a pair of navy shorts that ride up whenever he does leg lifts.
I watch him for a minute, just a minute, because I like the way his calves knot under the skin, the way the vein jumps in his forearm whenever he adjusts his grip.
“Morning,” he says, voice rough as sandpaper.
“‘Sup,” I grunt back, and rack my own bar.
If anyone’s watching, it looks like two guys who barely know each other, who happen to show up at the same time and nod out of mutual athletic respect.
In reality, we know every inch of the other’s body, or at least what’s visible. We spot each other, hands ready at the bar, fingers ghosting just above the knurled steel.
When I lift, he counts, voice low and steady, never encouraging, just factual: “Five. Six. Seven. C’mon, D, don’t be a bitch.”
I rack on eight. He helps, just barely, but enough for our knuckles to brush, and for a second my arms go numb.
We switch.
His set is tighter, more controlled, but by rep six he’s fighting for it, and I can see the way his abs clench, the way his jaw goes tight enough to snap teeth.
“Push,” I say.
