I doubt there’s anything here that can help me make sense of what happened. I’ve been tearing apart the carcass of my failed relationship for two months, trying to find a morsel of truth to explain it. Nate seemed so sure about us—the thought of him having an epic case of cold feet doesn’t track. If our fight scared him off, why did he wait so long to say something? It feels like a piece of the puzzle is missing.
I flip the page, and some of the papers slide out of the stack and fall to the floor. I get to my hands and knees to scoop them up and see an interview transcript dated July 18, a few days ago.
Okay, I’m recording now. Thanks again for taking the time, Dr.Nasseri.
This isn’t for an article? Am I getting that right?
No, as I said in my email, I’m trying to support a friend through a brutal breakup, and there’s a bit of a time crunch. I was hoping to ask you a few questions and run some ideas by you. I’m happy to pay for your time as a client since this won’t be published anywhere.
No need. Your note sparked my curiosity. So Frankie is a good friend of yours?
My best friend.
And if I’m reading between the lines of your email correctly, you have feelings for her?
I don’t…That’s not…[Inaudible]
Oh. Did I get that wrong?
We’re just friends.
My apologies. Tell me about Frankie’s situation.
“What are you doing down there?”
I freeze, still on my hands and knees. When I look up, I find George across the room in running shoes and black shorts, his hair damp and his cheeks bright from exertion. His chest is bare, bronzed, and slicked with sweat, and my mouth goes dry at the sight of him.
“Frankie?”
“I was going through your research,” I say, getting to my feet with the stack of papers. George is nearsighted and isn’t wearing his glasses, which I hope means he missed me checking him out. He crosses the room, still out of breath from his run.
“Can I see those for a second?”
“You said I could read them.”
“You can,” he says. “After I’m done with them.”
He smells like spruce and sunshine, and when a bead of sweat melts down his temple, I find myself tracking its path. What’s wrong with me? I pass the papers to George.
“I’ll sort through it all later,” George says. “And give you what’s relevant.”
He goes to the kitchen and pours a large glass of water that he gulps down all at once, his head tipped back. I listen to the sound of his swallows, watch the water run down his chin and onto his chest, and stare as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
George casts me a questioning glance.
“Long run, huh?” I say.
He shrugs. “Ten K.”
“For someone who doesn’t run, that seems pretty long.”
“I’ve been running for about three years now.”
“After the fires?” The months George spent covering the wildfires left a mark. How could they not have? He saw so much devastation. He almost lost his life. He wouldn’t talk much about it after he returned, but two years ago, when we were both home at Thanksgiving, we went for a long walk beside the creek and he told me how he sometimes could still smell the smoke when he closed his eyes.
“Mmm.”
“You never mentioned it.”
