“Vincent, it’s after five. Are you almost ready to stop?”
A terse shake of his head.
I stand, peering over his shoulder to assess what he’s doing. A spreadsheet is open, rows and rows of numbers. It looks to be in the thousands. Vincent’s fingers scroll as he taps, deletes, taps, deletes. It suddenly dawns on me he hasn’t moved since he returned from Sheldon’s class. That was hours ago.
“Vincent, are you hungry? Don’t you need the bathroom?”
Again, he shakes his head.
I take the seat across from him and watch. Still trying to figure out what to do.
“I’m supposed to have dinner at my daughter’s tonight.”
Vincent’s fingers tap, tap, tap, and small beads of sweat form on his brow. I stare at one as it infiltrates his eyelashes. My fingers fumble in my pocket until I find my phone and dial Gillian’s number.
“Where are you? Louis smoked brisket, and Lia has a play for you.”
“Really?”
My mouth waters, thinking about the salty, smoky meat melting in my mouth.
“I’m not sure I’m going to make it.”
“Why not? It’s almost six. On a Friday. You’re allowed to leave school, Dad.”
“Something’s come up.” Vincent uses his sleeve to wipe his brow.
“You’re coming. Lia can stay up until eight. Eight-thirty. It’s Friday. Come when you can.”
“Okay. I’ll see you soon.” Vincent’s eyes haven’t wavered, and I’m unsure if he’s even heard my conversation. “Hopefully.”
Something has taken over, and Vincent’s determination to finish the task won’t untangle its clutch from his psyche. I’m not leaving him in my office alone on a Friday night. I grab my computer and begin working on the school newsletter. That will be one less thing for me to do next week. Helen will be thrilled.
We sit across from each other, typing. I place a bottle of water next to his laptop, but he doesn’t touch it. By six thirty, we’re the only people left in the building.
“Vincent, you must be starving,” I say, my stomach growling. “My daughter is expecting me. Do you like brisket?”
His fingers strike the keyboard in a crescendo of sound.
“I need to lock the school. Set the alarm. We have to stop soon.”
“Four more minutes.”
It’s the first time I’ve heard his voice since we returned from Sheldon’s class, and the tension in my shoulders releases at his familiar timbre.
“Okay.”
I pack up for the weekend. Typically, things begin to slow down in February. I’m not intending to do much this weekend after the work I just banked. My laptop and planner make it into the messenger bag Corrine bought me for my fiftieth birthday. It’s navy-blue, with white trim and nothing I would ever buy for myself. There’s a good chance nothing will leave my bag.
“Done.”
The perspiration on Vincent’s brow now drips, and he’s sweat through his shirt. He’s completely soaked.
“Vincent, you’re, you’re … ” The hair on the nape of my neck lifts, thinking about telling him about his current state.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters. His voice is soft and apprehensive.
“Don’t apologize.” I place my hand on his back, alarmed by the dampness. “What happened? Are you okay?”
