“I’m sorry,” I tell her sleeping form, even though she can’t hear me. “I’m trying to be everywhere and failing at all of it.”
My phone buzzes.
Rodriguez
Still good for tonight?
See you at six.
Rodriguez’s apartmentis cleaner than expected for a barely-adult hockey player.
He answers the door on crutches wearing sweats and that crooked grin that probably gets him out of most trouble.
“You came! I half thought you’d bail.”
“Considered it.” I step inside. “How’s the knee?”
“Bored. Lonely. Ready to be useful.” But he’s already on the couch, pulling up his pant leg. “Been doing everything you said. Ice, elevation. Being annoyingly perfect about it.”
I check his progress. The swelling’s down significantly. “This looks really good. You’ve been keeping it stabilized.”
“Told you. I’m not trying to end my career before I’m thirty.” He stretches. “Though everyone’s in St. Louis and I’m stuck here. It’s depressing.”
“You’re healing. That’s what matters.”
“I know.” He can’t hold still, constantly shifting. “How was hospice?”
“She was sleeping.”
“Yeah, you look exhausted.” He’s already reaching for his phone. “We’re getting actual food. Not whatever sad thing you were planning to call dinner.”
“Rodriguez—”
“I’m starving, you definitely haven’t eaten today, and I need to test my mobility.” He’s pulling on a hoodie. “We’re going out.”
“You’re on crutches?—”
“Which means I need practice navigating real environments.Very important for recovery.” He grins. “Come on, Doc. Let me buy you dinner. Consider it payment for saving me from another night alone with my thoughts.”
And maybe it’s exhaustion or loneliness or the fact that Roman’s in St. Louis and Mom’s sleeping and I can’t sit in my empty apartment for one more night—but I agree.
The restaurant is nice.Really nice.
With actual tablecloths, dim lighting, the kind of place people go for anniversaries or proposals.
The hostess takes one look at Rodriguez on his crutches and her expression shifts to something sympathetic and halfway flirty.
“Table for two?” she asks, and there’s a quality to her voice that makes me want to clarify we’re not on a date, that this is purely medical.
“Yeah, and we need lots of bread,” Rodriguez says before I can correct her. “My PT here forgot to eat today and I’m staging an intervention.”
“I didn’t forget?—”
“You definitely did. It’s a medical emergency.” He turns to the hostess with his most charming smile. “Can we get bread immediately? Like, before we even sit down? She’s a flight risk and I need to trap her with carbs.”
The hostess laughs and leads us to a corner booth.
Rodriguez maneuvers himself in with surprising grace, then immediately pulls out his phone.
