“Brooks, come on. You’re allowed to be a little impressed.”
“We came up with a plan. These numbers match the plan. It’s expected.”
“Up from September!”
“Lie back, Marchetti.” He shakes his head, but I know he is trying not to laugh. With me, at me, I don’t care at this point.
I lie back. His hands work the anterior deltoid, the long head of the bicep, the insertion points. I’ve had them on me enough times now that I know which stretch he’s about to do before he does it. I know the pattern. I also know that when I was coming down the hallway five minutes ago he was laughing with Thompson. Now he’s standing over me with his mouth set in that professional line, and I’m the only person in this building he does this around.
He finishes, snaps the towel off, and steps back grabbing his tablet. “Three sessions the week after the holiday break?”
“Second through fifth. Same slots.”
“Got it.” His head is down, marking the slots on his calendar.
I pull my bag up to my good shoulder. I could walk out now. I could walk out and not do the thing I came here to do. Instead I set my bag down and open the side pocket and take out the box.
It’s small. Matte black. It’s been in my bag for three days. Every morning I almost left it on my kitchen counter and every morning the bag won.
“Hey.” I set it on the counter next to his keyboard. “I got you a thing.”
He looks at the box. He doesn’t look at me.
“Marchetti. You didn’t need to do this.” He pauses, still staring at the box. “You shouldn’t have done this.”
“It’s not a thing. I mean, it’s a thing. But it’s not a thing. It’s just…Open it.”
He puts the charting tablet down. Careful, the way he’s careful with everything, setting it parallel to the edge of the counter. He picks up the box. He doesn’t look at me.
He opens it.
Two pens. One’s a fountain pen, matte black barrel, silver clip. The other’s a rollerball. The Firebirds crest is engraved on the clip of each, small, not flashy, the firebird at the same angle on both. I found a guy in Decatur who did the engraving by hand.Brooks doesn’t need to know that part, because it would make this a thing, and this is not a thing.
He doesn’t say anything for a minute.
Then he picks up the fountain pen. Holds it. Clicks the cap off and looks at the nib. Clicks the cap back on. His thumb runs along the clip where the firebird is, once, back and forth. His thumb just stops on the engraving, pressed there, and his jaw does something I’ve never seen it do.
“Marchetti.”
“The cheap ones the facility gives you are bad. You know that. I’ve watched you write with the cheap one, I’ve seen your handwriting when the ink skips. It’s upsetting.”
“The ink skipping is upsetting?”
“Yes.” Simple answer, but not the whole answer.
He’s still looking at the pen. Not at me.
“The rollerball’s for your pocket. The guy I got it from told me where to get cartridges, they ship in threes. You can use it on charts, on the bus, wherever. They’re just pens.”
He sets the fountain pen back in the velvet. His hand stays on the box.
I take a half-step toward the counter and my hand moves before I decide it should. Toward his arm, the inside of his forearm where the sleeve of the polo ends. My fingers get close enough that I can feel the warmth coming off his skin before I pull them back to my side.
Brooks doesn’t see it. Or he sees it and pretends not to. His hand on the box doesn’t move. His breathing doesn’t change. But he doesn’t step back, either, and he could have.
“I’m gonna be late,” I say, but I don’t mention for what. Because there isn’t really anything other than a flight in five hours.
“Marchetti.” He puts the box down. “Thank you.”
