“I know who she is.”
And I was already nervous about meeting the team in two days. Registering my body’s reaction to hearing her name spoken aloud—quickened pulse, dry throat, uneven breaths—is accelerating my anxiety.
I’m just stressed about my shoulder, I tell myself.
It’s a lie, or maybe it’s not, but it’s enough to refocus on the present. To register that the row ahead of me is standing, exiting, and I’m about to be able to do the same.
I aim a, “Nice to meet you,” across the aisle as I straighten to my full height. My muscles protest, stiff from disuse. I went from a daily routine of sprints, push-ups, squats, lunges, and lifting weights to being told to limit all movement as much as possible to not disturb my shoulder.
I think the guy across the aisle snaps a photo as I walk by, but I don’t glance back to confirm. And I definitely don’t look at the girl Claire used to babysit. I didn’t mention my name, but the man next to her certainly knows it. Is she texting Claire right now, telling her Otto Berger is on her flight?
Better question: Why do I care? Still?
2
CLAIRE
At first glance, Little Red Wagon Preschool is a well-maintained brick building. As I speed-walk past the playground, it feels like a judgment zone. A group of moms is clustered around one of the picnic tables, all of them dressed in down coats and cashmere hats.
I smile and wave as I hurry past, pretending not to notice the pursed lips as they survey the Siege windbreaker and track pants I’m wearing. The February wind is rapidly destroying what little remains of my messy ponytail, so my hair looks even less put together than my outfit.
Almost there. I yank the front door open so wide that I have to play tug-of-war with a gust of wind to get it shut again. The sudden blast of heat once I do makes my eyes water.
Tommy is the last kid left in the classroom, carefully stacking a pile of wooden blocks on the desk attached to his assigned seat.
I mouth a hasty,Sorry, to Mrs. Combs, who’s seated at the front of the classroom, sorting papers.
Her nod is understanding, but I note the worry creased in her forehead and tightening the corners of her mouth. If I could assure her this would never happen again, I would.
I clap my hands together once. “Tommy boy!”
He glances over, excitement erasing the seriousness that was settled on his face. “Claire!”
Tommy abandons his blocks to hurtle toward me as fast as his four-year-old legs allow. I bend down and scoop him up, spinning him around. He shrieks with uninhibited glee, kicking his feet like he does during swim lessons.
My shoulders feel lighter as I listen to the happy sound.
“Can I go to work with you?” Tommy asks eagerly, tugging the drawstring of my teal windbreaker before I set him down.
“Not today,” I reply. “I’m finished with training.”
He frowns. “When?”
“Soon. The season is about to start, so we’ll start playing games.”
His whole face lights up at that last word. “And I can go?”
I ruffle his hair, the same cinnamon shade as mine. His is a little curly too. “You sure can.”
His grin dims a little, like a cloud passing over the sun, as he blinks at me. “Youpromise?”
A lump expands in my esophagus. I have to clear my throat twice before I can answer. “Yeah. I promise. Go get your things and say goodbye to Mrs. Combs.”
“Bye, Mrs. Combs!” Tommy calls, waving at his teacher as he rushes toward his decorated cubby.
“Bye, Tommy,” she answers, standing from her desk and approaching. To me, she says gently but firmly, “Dismissal is at three p.m., Claire.”
“I know. I’m so sorry.” I shift my weight from foot to foot, jitters lending fresh energy to exhausted muscles. “I wasn’t supposed to pick up today, and I wasn’t able to check my phone during practice, and—” I swallow hard. “I’ll do my best to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
