“The girl? No. My mom? Yes, to tell her to stop.”
Tori laughs, and the sound does something to my chest, loosening a knot I didn’t know was there.
The appetizers arrive—burrata with tomatoes and some kind of stuffed mushroom—and we eat while we talk about our childhoods, our families, and the dreams we had when we were young and foolish, convinced we knew everything.
“I wanted to be a marine biologist,” Tori admits, “until I realized it involved a lot more chemistry than swimming with dolphins.”
“I always planned to be a hockey player. There was never a backup plan.” I twirl pasta around my fork. “Which is terrifying in retrospect. What if I’d gotten injured? What if I wasn’t good enough?”
“But you were good enough.”
“I got lucky. Right place, right time, right genetics.” I set down my fork. “But it’s made me think a lot about what comes next. I can’t play forever—another five years, maybe, if my body holds up. Then what?”
“What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know. Coaching, maybe. Or something with kids—hockey camps, youth programs. Something that gives back.” I’ve never said this out loud to anyone before.
“That could be cool.”
“What about you? Where do you see yourself in ten years?”
She’s quiet for a moment, swirling her wine. “I used to have this whole plan: career ladder, accomplishments, titles. Be the head of a sports medicine department by thirty-five. Open my own clinic by forty.”
“Used to?”
“I still want those things. But lately, I’ve been thinking about other aspects of life too—things I always told myself would come ‘later.’” She meets my eyes. “Family. Kids. A life that isn’t just about work.”
“And what does ‘later’ look like now?”
“I don’t know. That’s the scary part.” She laughs softly. “I spent so long protecting myself, keeping people at arm’s length, that I never really thought about what I actually wanted—just what I didn’t want.”
“Which was?”
“To be hurt. To be the cautionary tale. To need someone and have them leave.” She sets down her glass. “But you can’t build a life around avoiding things. At some point, you have to choose what you’re running toward instead of what you’re running from.”
I reach across the table and take her hand. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you stopped running.”
“Me too.” She squeezes my fingers. “Even if you did make it very difficult to maintain professional boundaries.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She laughs, and I think I could spend the rest of my life trying to make her laugh like that.
Dinner stretches into dessert, dessert into coffee, and by the time we leave, the restaurant is nearly empty. I’ve learned more about Tori Wells in three hours than I did in three months of treatment sessions.
I learn that her favorite movie isThe Princess Bride, and she can quote the entire sword fight scene from memory. She stress-bakes when she’s anxious and once made seven loaves of banana bread during finals week. It’s random and odd, and I love it.
I discover that she’s afraid of disappointing people and sometimes lies awake at night wondering if she’s good enough. (She definitely is.) I find out that she wants kids, which sends warmth spreading through my chest.
We linger over the check, neither of us making a move to leave. The restaurant has emptied around us, candles burning low, and I’m not ready for this to end.
“So,” I say, signing the receipt, “I should probably get you home.”
“Probably.” She doesn’t move.
“Or...” I set down the pen. “Hannah’s with Maisie until midnight. I could pay her, send her home, and we could... talk. At my place.”
Tori raises an eyebrow. “Talk.”
