Page 37
Me: At work. Soup will be on your doorstep within an hour.
Rosalie: Bless you, Mr. Hayes.
I smirk. I’m not sure where the Mr. Hayes talk is coming from. But I’ll take it. Rose can call me whatever she wants.
Me: Glad I can help, Miss Conrad.
I’ll play her game—forever if that’s how she likes it, as long as she’s talking to me.
Rosalie: Sorry. I’ve taken a lot of cold medicine. It’s messing with me.
I walk the edge of the field, slow and steady, as my teammates scrimmage. Coach Jacobson has assumed the position, feet planted, arms crossed, eyes focused. So, I’m surprised when he sees me from the corner of his eye. “Zev,” he calls.
“Yeah?” I’d normally jog the few yards over to him, but I’ve just finished my own workout, and I’m feeling it. So, I walk, while trying hard not to limp, over to Jet Jacobson.
“How was therapy today?”
“Good.” I swallow, thinking about what Darwin said about possible nerve damage. “Progress.”
Jacobson takes his eyes from the field to look at me. “And?”
I clear my throat. The man’s smart. “And he said my slow recovery might be due to nerve damage.”
One of Jacobson’s brows lifts. “That would make sense. Not exactly good news.”
“It’s a theory.” I shrug. “Nothing definite. He’s probably wrong.”
“Which is why you’re limping?”
I cough. “Um—”
“Zev, we want you on the field, playing with your teammates. But more than that, we want you healthy and healed. How’s Rosalie? Are you two—”
“No.” My gaze falls to the ground and I shake my head. “She’s still figuring some things out. But we’re talking again. She’s got the flu. I’m taking her soup after practice.”
“Yeah?” he says. I’m unsure how much he knows. But I’m guessing more than I realize, possibly everything.
“Yeah. So, that’s a step in the right direction.” At least I hope it is. Rosalie insisting we are just friends and calling me mister is making me wonder.
“Then what are you doing here? Go take the girl some soup. You’ve put your time in today.”
The man doesn’t need to tell me twice.
I drive five miles out of the way to find that food truck Rosalie and I went to last year. She loved their chicken tortellini soup. I think it’s close enough to chicken noodle. I order two tubs of it, as well as a couple slices of their sourdough bread, and head over to Rosalie’s house.
It felt deceptive asking where she lives when Fran’s already shared the address with me. When I’ve driven by it almost daily. But Noreen’s right, I can’t just show up on her doorstep. And I wouldn’t want to without her knowing I was coming. She doesn’t need any more of the unknown.
And yet—
Me: Soup’s on your doorstep.
I text while standing on her porch, soup in hand.
A full five minutes later, I’m wondering if she’s sleeping. If I’ll be out here all night. But then—I hear something inside.
A shadow falls over the window of her front door, and then it’s creaking open. My Rosalie, with her rosy cheeks, red nose, and watery eyes.
She gasps when she sees me and shuts the door.
