I let myself hold on for three seconds. Four. Five. Six. She doesn’t pull away first. I do. And that’s the problem. I don’t want to let go as fast as I should.
Then I step back, throat tight. My hand is still warm where it touched her back. I shove it in my pocket.
“There.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “Done.”
She’s watching me with an expression I can’t read. “How do you feel?”
“I’m not doing another Post-it.”
“Just tell me.”
I consider lying. Consider deflecting, making a joke, changing the subject. But her eyes are steady and patient and something about this tiny room with its wall of feelings makes the usual escape routes feel impossible.
“Uncomfortable,” I say finally. “But also... I don’t know. Less alone.” The words sound pathetic out loud. Like words you’d read on a greeting card. But they’re also true, which somehow makes them worse.
Warmth flickers across her face. “That’s a good start.”
She moves to the door, holds it open. “Same time tomorrow. I’ll see you here at six-fifteen.”
“Six-fifteen?”
“You can adjust your routine. You’re a big boy.” She grins at my expression. “And tomorrow, you’re going to complete your first bingo square. Compliment someone without sarcasm. Start thinking about who.”
“Gisele—”
“See you tomorrow, Bennett.” She gestures for me to exit. “Virg is going to pick you up. Go do your captain things. Think about feelings occasionally. Try not to sit in any streets.”
I walk out into the salon proper, blinking at the sudden brightness after the dim back room. Carrie’s setting up at her station, and she waves at me with a knowing smile that makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
By the time I’m outside, standing in the morning sun with the weight of a laminated bingo card somehow heavier than my entire gear bag, I realize what’s happened.
Gisele didn’t ask permission. Didn’t negotiate. Didn’t give me space to argue or escape or wait her out.
She just showed up and started.
And tomorrow, she’ll do it again. And the day after that. And the day after that.
This isn’t a moment I can outlast. It’s a pattern. A routine. A permanent fixture in my life that I never asked for and have no strategy for avoiding.
Then I hear it. That low, steady hum. Mechanical. Familiar.
Sleetwood Mac rolls into view, sunlight catching on the freshly polished metal. Virgil sits at the wheel, one hand draped over it. The man’s got nowhere else to be and all the time in the world to get there.
The Zamboni rumbles to a slow, deliberate stop in front of me.
Virgil looks me over once, taking inventory. Not judgmental. Just… thorough. “Morning, Captain.”
I stare at him. Then at the machine. Then back at him. I hesitate for half a second. Then climb up because apparently this is my life now.
We ride in silence for a minute, the steady grind of the machine filling the space where conversation should go.The town looks different from up here. Slower. Smaller. Like everything’s been dialed down a notch.
Virgil doesn’t rush it. He never does.
“Routine ain’t the problem, Captain,” he says finally. “It’s what you’re hiding behind it.”
I huff out a breath. “She already gave me that speech.”
“She ain’t wrong.”
