Open it again.
Type:Hey.
Stare at it.
Delete it.
Type:Good practice today.
That’s not nothing. That’s true. It’s something.
I hit send.
Her response comes fast, because it always does:I heard. Virgil texted me the play sequence breakdown. He rates it a 7.8.
Me:Tell Virgil to mind his own business.
Gisele:He says the ice doesn’t lie.
Me:The ice is a surface. It doesn’t say anything.
Gisele:That’s very unpoetic for a man who’s been doing emotional growth exercises for two months.
I stare at that for a long moment. Feel something that might be a smile trying to happen and doesn’t quite make it.
Me:I’ll call you later
Gisele:Okay, she sends back.Then, after a beat:You good?
I look at the question for a long time.
Me:Yeah, I type. Long day.
Gisele:Okay. Talk later.
I put the phone in my bag.
Drive home.
Eat something I don’t taste.
Review tape I don’t see.
At eleven PM, I’m in my truck with the engine running, sitting in my own driveway, and I don’t know how I got here from the couch. My body just stood up and got in the truck the way it does when it’s decided something before my brain catches up.
I know where I’m going.
I drive to her street. Park half a block down, which is ridiculous, which I’m aware of even as I do it. Her apartment windows are lit—she’s still up, probably working, the Luxe launch is two weeks away and she’s been running on borrowed time and coffee for days.
I sit in the truck.
I should go up. Knock. Tell her what Franklin told me. Let her do the thing she does, which is listen and ask the right questions and make the weight of something manageable by sharing it.
That’s what the new version of me does, right?
I watch her window for a long time.
Then I start the truck and drive home.
