We can't.
I had meant: I'm afraid of what this costs.
He had heard the difference. Of course he had. Shay heard everything I tried not to say , had been hearing it for four years, filing it away with the same care I pretended not to notice, the same way he filed my coffee order and my film session schedule and the specific laugh I didn't do for cameras.
I turned onto my side.
In the other bed, Shay slept. One arm thrown up, face toward the window, blanket doing nothing. The city light touched the line of his jaw, the curve of his shoulder.
I looked at the wall.
The wall was very unhelpful.
At two,thirteen I accepted that sleep was not happening on any schedule the system approved of, and I ran through the defensive coverage breakdown instead because at least that had a solution. I found the seam their winger had used, mapped the adjustment, made a mental note for film tomorrow. It took forty minutes. It helped approximately nothing with the actual problem.
At three,oh,four I fell asleep.
At seven,oh,two my alarm went off, which meant I had slept for two hours and fifty,eight minutes, which was the worst night's sleep I had logged in three seasons.
I lay still for four seconds. Then I turned the alarm off and got up, because lying in the dark pretending was not something I was willing to add to the list of things I was currently doing.
I dressed. I packed. I ran through the system , charger, toiletry bag, room key returned, nothing left behind , with the focused efficiency of a man using routine as scaffolding. I did not look at the other bed until I had to.
Shay was asleep. Still. The same position, the arm, the blanket, the city light. The alarm on his phone wasn't for another twenty minutes and he would use every one of them.
I looked at him for three seconds. Longer than necessary. I noted this and added it to the list of things I was choosing not to examine, which was a list that had grown considerably since approximately eleven,forty last night.
I picked up my carry,on and went down to the hotel gym.
I ran for fifty,five minutes, which was thirty more than scheduled and about forty more than my legs technically wanted after a game the night before, but the legs were not the problem. I ran until the protocol had something to work with , until the thoughts had less oxygen and the body had more of the conversation. It helped. Marginally.
I showered. Went to breakfast. Got two coffees.
Set Shay's on the table across from mine and sat down with my phone.
Hartley arrived at seven,fifty,four. Looked at the two coffees. Looked at me. Did not say anything. Sat down.
"You look terrible," he said.
"I'm fine."
"Two hours of sleep looks like exactly this."
I looked at my phone. "I got nearly three."
"My mistake," Hartley said, without any indication that it was a mistake. He drank his coffee. Looked at the table. Then, in the way Hartley said important things , sideways, without buildup: "Whatever it is. Don't let it sit too long."
I didn't answer.
Hartley didn't push. He never pushed. He said the thing and let it land and trusted you to do something with it, which was, I had come to understand, his version of caring.
The room filled. Mivo, Reeves, Kieran. Charlie, who caught my eye when he sat down and held it for one second with the particular look of a man who knew something and was deciding whether to deploy it. I looked at my phone. He looked at his coffee. We both let it go.
At eight,oh,four, Shay walked in.
He looked , fine.
Easy. Comfortable. Hair slightly damp from the shower, hoodie with the uneven drawstrings, the walk of a man for whom the world was a reasonable place that generally worked out. He dropped into the chair across from mine, pulled the coffee toward him, wrapped both hands around it the way he always did, and looked up at the table with a general, amiable warmth.
