Page 39 of Wedge

We order two pizzas because I’m feeling ham and pineapple and he wants pepperoni, and neither of us cares enough to fight about it. The boxes arrive already spotted with grease, the whole room suddenly smelling of cheese and oregano. I sit against my headboard, plate balanced on my knee, and make it through one slice before the adrenaline and energy drink that got me through eighteen holes drops away.

“Adrian.”

“Hm.”

“You’re falling asleep with pizza in your hand.”

“M’not.”

“You are. Eyes have been shut for thirty seconds. I timed it.”

I force them open, glare at him with no fire behind it. He’s grinning, the kind of grin that says he finds this endearing instead of annoying, which should probably worry me more than it does.

“Twelfth,” I mumble, like I’m reminding myself. “I got twelfth.”

“You did. Now eat.”

“M’eating.”

I’m not eating. My hand’s still holding the slice, but my body’s already checked out, the day catching up all at once, four rounds and however many hours of held breath finally cashing in. I feel Stephen easing the plate out of my hand.

“Night, Adrian,” he says quietly, like he doesn’t expect an answer. “You earned it.” I feel his hand run over the shaved side of my head, then along the strip of hair, slow and warm. I hum. So soothing.

He’s right not to expect an answer. I’m already gone.

Morning comes slowly, with none of yesterday’s urgency to it. Sun leaks through the gap in the curtains. Stephen’s up before me, already showered and dressed, and by the time I roll over, he’s got coffee from a local shop, the whole room smelling of it, and a look on his face that says he’s been watching me sleep for a while.

“Morning,” he says. “Ten hours. You didn’t move once.”

“Feel like it, too.” I sit up, rub my eyes, take stock of my body, sore in a good way instead of the drudgery of a day hauling. “What time is it?”

“Time to not rush. Nobody’s waiting on us today.”

We pack up slowly, no hurry to it, folding clothes and zipping bags with the TV murmuring some morning show neither of us is watching. We run into each other at one point; me zigging and him zagging, and he catches himself with his hands on my biceps and doesn’t let go right away, just holds them a beat longer than required before he lets them drop. It’s a small thing. I feel it anyway.

Loading the truck, he puts a hand on the small of my back to steer me around a puddle where a sprinkler overshot into the lot, keeps it there a second after the puddle’s behind us, and I don’t say anything, just let him. It feels good. Not gonna look too hard at why it feels good.

“Breakfast before we hit the road,” he says, tossing his bag in the bed. “Saw a diner on the way in. Grand Junction’s finest, probably.”

“Bold claim.”

“Low bar. It won’t be Sam’s.”

The diner’s got a bell on the door and a waitress who calls both of us honey without distinguishing between us. I work through eggs and toast at a pace that feels almost human. Under the table, his knee finds mine and stays there the whole meal.

My phone buzzes halfway through my second cup of coffee.

BEN

Twelfth place through four rounds. That’s not luck, that’s work. Really proud of you.

Dinner tonight, the club. 6:00. Bring Stephen. We need to talk Phase 2.

I turn the phone so Stephen can read it. He glances at the screen, then at me, something unreadable crossing his face before it settles into something more careful.

“Six o’clock. It’s ten now. Four hours to Denver, five if I-70’s a parking lot.” He sets down his coffee. “Ben’s got a hot tub. After four rounds and that drive, I’m getting in it. You should too.”

My eyebrows must be up high on my forehead.