Me: I mean it. You looked like you again.
Three dots disappear and come back.
Parker: Didn’t feel like it at first.
I could see it without being there, that first pass.
The drop.
The hesitation.
The doubt, trying to crawl its way in.
Me: You reset.
A longer pause. Is he trying to kill me?
Parker: Yeah.
Then more words pop up.
Parker: I wish you were here too. There’s so much I want to say.
My breath catches, something fragile and hopeful blooming in my gut where there’s been nothing but tension for a week. I close my eyes for a second before typing again, careful about the words I choose.
Me: Can we have a session? At the rink?
This time there’s no delay.
Parker: Yeah.
Relief loosens the pain, the guilt, and the unknown.
Parker: When?
Me: Tuesday?
Parker: I can be there by seven.
Me: Parker. This is a session for me, not you.
The cursor blinks. I don’t know how to say what needs to be said, so I don’t. Not yet.
Me: Thank you.
There’s a pause before his response comes through.
Parker: Tuesday.
My lips press together, but there’s something softer around the edge of his words. I can feel that something has changed with Parker. But I don’t know what.
For the first time since last Sunday, I don’t cry myself to sleep. Instead, I think of all I need to do before Parker and I meet at the rink.
My to-do list is a mile long on Monday. Two appointments in the office and then I meet Witt outside a small café just a few miles from the stadium. The kind of place that oozes ambition and smells like espresso. He’s already hunched over his laptop, fingers moving in quick succession like he needs to solve a problem only he understands.
“You’re late,” he says without looking up.
“I’m two minutes early.”
