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“Group?” I ask.
“Yeah, the teenage girls she mentors?” My face must convey that I have no idea what she’s talking about, because Isa continues. “It’s through some counseling center—Nala knows one of the head organizers, and when she came back last year she got a job working with teen girls.”
“Like, therapy?”
She shrugs, standing to take her bowl into the kitchen. “Beats me. All she’s ever told me is that she meets the girls on Thursday mornings near the beach or Bay where they can paddle or swim, and then they work through some things. They’re teenage girls, so who knows what those things are.”
I would bet my good leg that as a teenage girl, Isa wasn’t one for talking, but doing. And though it surprises me to hear Nala’s running something like that, I learned in our brief time together yesterday that the girl I left behind has changed, and I no longer really know her.
I want to ask Isa more, because while that thought settles, another comes on the heels of it that I’m greedy to know anything that will show me who Nala is now.
Yesterday, watching and listening to her, I realized that no matter how much I thought I remembered, there were things I’d blocked out in what can only be described as self-preservation. Things that came swarming back to me about her, like the way she always curls her legs underneath her when she’s sitting for more than a brief minute, or the way she eats like a small child who has lost their taste buds, combining things like jellybeans and carrots. Even the way she can be silent, just comfortable without words…it all hit me when we were together. I want to dig deeper until I can put those pieces together with the pieces of who she is now.
“How long has she been doing this?” I try to keep my voice casual, but Isa’s grin over the counter tells me she knows what I’m doing. Since she doesn’t call me on it, I ignore her.
“As long as I’ve known her. She does that, teaches swimming lessons, makes jewelry with her mama, and teaches an exercise swim class for adults with disabilities.”
“All that while she goes to school?”
Isa shrugs, walking around the counter to look inside my bowl. “You did okay. Tomorrow, you better finish. You’re looking a little thin, my friend.”
That stings, and because of it, I shovel in the rest of the oatmeal, grimacing at the texture. Flavorful or not, I hate oatmeal.
“Skinny my ass,” I say. Before she can grab the bowl and take it to the kitchen, I grab her hand and squeeze. “Thanks, Isa. And tell your mom thanks. She and Rose are welcome anytime. The rest of your family, too.” When she looks at me strangely, I let her go. I’m the smartass of the group. Not the sentimental one. “But I still hate oatmeal.”
Now she laughs, and it eases the tension. When another truck pulls up, I start to stand, but Isa waves me away. “It’s Burton. He’s here to take me to work. These are yours,” she says, tossing me a set of keys. When I just look at her, she shrugs. “Hunter said your Challenger is a stick. I would hate to be injured, and I would hate to be dependent. Now, you’re only injured. Truck’s yours until your cast is off.”
She slams the door behind her, and I stay where I am staring after her. And then I smile, and a little more of that dissatisfaction seems to disappear, telling me that maybe it isn’t just the broken leg that I need to heal.
