by Zoe Fishman
Teddy closed his door behind him, his heart pounding. He couldn’t do it. How could he do it? What if Krystal didn’t respond? What if she had given him the wrong number on purpose?
Teddy sat on his bed. Calm down. Take a breath. She was the one who insisted you take down her number, remember? You didn’t ask her for it. Why would she be trying to trick you?
It made no sense, had zero payoff for Krystal. She didn’t even go to his school, they didn’t know the same people, there was no one she could brag to about making a fool out of him. Maybe she just liked him. Stranger things had happened.
He typed in his father’s passcode, still puzzled by its origin, and up popped a picture, the rear view of his father on a bike, as narrow as a piece of paper turned upright and sideways, pedaling around the curve of a moss-hewn mountain, the sky gray and heavy. Who had taken this picture? Teddy had always wondered but had never asked. Certainly not his mother; the odds of her getting on anything with two wheels were zero.
A text popped up, startling Teddy for a moment.
Hey gimpy, how you holding up? it read. From someone named “T.B.” No first name, no last name: just “T.B.” Tuberculosis. The dots hung and vibrated; Tuberculosis was typing more.
Miss you on the trails, it read next. And then an emoji of a woman with a blond ponytail on a bicycle popped up. So his dad had a female friend he rode bikes with, so what? She was probably on his training team. Teddy had gleaned that much, although he tuned out most of his dad’s tri-talk because it was so boring. But could you, like, be married and still have female friends? Was that allowed?
No, Teddy! Focus! It was now 9:16. It was a roll of the dice whether Krystal would be awake at all, but a risk he had to take. Forget Tuberculosis lady and her dumb emoji.
He pulled his green spiral notebook off his nightstand and flipped to the page on which he had written drafts of both his introductory and follow-up texts to her.
With great care, Teddy pressed each digit of Krystal’s number into the “To” line. There it was. Her number. Still holding the phone, Teddy lay back on his bed and squeezed his eyes shut. His stomach churned with anxiety, and for a moment he thought he might vomit all over his not babyish gray-and-white-striped duvet cover.
No, Teddy. NO, he reminded himself. You are doing this. The worst that could happen is that she doesn’t answer you and then who cares, you’ll never see her again anyway. Okay? He took a deep breath. Okay.
Teddy peered at his notebook, saying the words out loud as he typed them.
Hello, Krystal? It’s Teddy. From your mom’s car accident the other day? I helped with the cops?
Teddy took a deep breath and pressed the blue arrow, sending his message through the universe to what he hoped was Krystal’s phone.
He held the phone in his hand, staring at the screen for what felt like an eternity, but when he looked at his clock, finally, only three minutes had passed.
Shit. It wasn’t her. Or it was her and she didn’t care. Or it was her and she was asleep. Or, or, or.
Teddy got up to brush his teeth in the bathroom that adjoined his room, still holding the phone. He switched on the light and placed it screen up on the counter, considering it carefully as he slid the white bubbles up and down, backward and forward over his teeth. He filled his blue cup with water and swished it through his mouth, spitting out the minty freshness in defeat. He ran the water again, cleaning the sink, replaced his toothbrush and cup on the counter and still, nothing. Shit.
He scowled at himself in the mirror, shaking his head.
He turned out the light and returned to his room, turning out the light in there as well. He set his alarm for earlier than normal because now, he had to return the phone to its charger before either of his parents woke. He thought about the blond emoji. The text. He worried.
Pulling back the comforter, he climbed inside and decided to feel sorry for himself. Now he had to send another text, telling Krystal not to text back, that it wasn’t even his phone, that he was a moron who didn’t even have his own phone. It was all too embarrassing, really the worst possible outcome he had envisioned—
Ding.
Teddy’s heart leapt, and so did he, sending the phone clattering to the floor. He scrambled for it, clamping his hand around it in a death grip as he brought it back up to eye level.
I know who you are. Took you long enough. What’s up, Teddy?
Teddy closed his eyes, this time in sheer exhilaration and gratitude. Oh, the tides were turning. Yes, they were.
He snuggled farther under his comforter and wrote back.
Chapter Six
Paul
Paul sat on the couch, feeling good. Well, not good as in the good of a month ago, when both of his ankles worked, but decent. He had showered by himself, sitting down on a white plastic stool Sylvie had brought home, his cast covered in a black garbage bag and packing tape. Sylvie had still had to help him get dressed and down the stairs before she left for work, but: progress was progress.
The temperature hovered in the mid-seventies, and so Paul could wear shorts, another reason to feel good. The pajama pants he had been wearing since he fell, the ones Sylvie had cut a leg off of, were like a flag for his state of one-footed despondency.
But here he was in his army-green shorts, smelling like his wife’s expensive shampoo, clean-shaven, toes and fingernails clipped—again, Sylvie. He couldn’t believe it, but she actually seemed content lately, happy almost. The Sylvie he had met and fallen in love with so many years ago. The Sylvie who liked to have sex with him, to touch him unprompted. The Sylvie who smiled when he walked into the room instead of just getting out of his way.
Sex. They’d had it all the time before it became laden with its intended purpose: to produce a child. It had taken them over a year to get pregnant with Teddy: fertility sticks and forced sex, doctor visits with no real answers as to why it was so hard and then finally: success. And then, one afternoon after an interminable drought, and at the ripe age of forty-two, after nine years of unprotected sex with no babies to show for it, Sylvie had gotten pregnant. It was one of those stories you’d never believe unless it was, you know, true.
When they had started discussing a second child, Sylvie had been adamant about the fact that if it wasn’t going to happen naturally, then she didn’t want it to happen: period. She had no interest in injecting herself with hormones or having Paul jizz into a cup. None. And what Paul wanted, she said, well, it just didn’t matter. Because he wasn’t the one all of this hormone injecting and turkey basting would be happening to.
So they had just taken it off the table. Until Sylvie had come out of the bathroom one morning, dazed, with a plastic pregnancy stick in her hand. She had shoved it at Paul, wordless. PREGNANT, it had read.
Paul had been overjoyed, but Sylvie, not so much. She had come around a bit, especially when they’d found out it was a girl, but mostly she just complained about how old she was, how tired she was. And this had irritated Paul. It was a miracle what had happened, he kept saying. Couldn’t she just appreciate the miracle?
Arguing. And lots of it.
And then, when the dust had cleared after Delilah had died, they had never found their footing as a couple again. So much so that Paul had begun to wonder if they’d ever had it in the first place. So much so that the only way to fill the gaping void of intimacy in his life—other than cheat, which he would never do, because it just seemed like too much work, even though to say he hadn’t considered it or even engaged in a meaningless flirtation with a twenty-eight-year-old woman on his training team would be a lie (but a white lie because it wasn’t like he was ever going to do anything about it)—was to first: take up the kind of exercise that took up his entire life, and second: buy everything remotely acquainted with it under the sun.
Even more arguing.
But now, something was different about Sylvie. She was nicer, and so he wanted to be nicer. Just this morning, he had cut up two of his credit cards.
“Paul!” David boomed from the front door, vibrating the walls with his thick Boston accent, as thick as the day he had left fifteen years prior.
“My man, how are ya?” he asked, clapping Paul on the shoulder before plopping down beside him.
David was like a human version of Scooby Doo—short legs, an almost comically long torso, with a tightly muscled chest and arms, and an enormous head.
“Hanging in, brother,” Paul greeted back.
David was Paul’s friend. They had met five years prior, when Paul had hired him to help with some contracting work. But then David had fallen through a roof and shattered his leg, not when he had been part of Paul’s team, thankfully. He didn’t do contracting work anymore, but he did make beautiful furniture. Sometimes, Paul sold his pieces to his clients, to fill the new spaces he renovated for them. Paul was glad he could do this for David, because David had been cut a shitty deal, long before he plummeted through that roof.
His son had died in a hit-and-run, the bastard motorist not even stopping. And he and his wife had divorced shortly thereafter, angry shells of their former selves. She was remarried now, to some pastor guy in Tallahassee.
David wore his loneliness like cologne.
“Well, ya look good,” David offered now, sitting beside Paul. “A little scrawny, but good.”
“Thanks, man. How are you?”
“I’m alive,” David offered with a wry smile. “Can I have?” he asked, motioning toward the white bowl of almonds on the coffee table. Paul nodded as he crammed an enormous fistful into his mouth. “Protein,” David mumbled. A tiny almond shard flew through the air and landed on Paul’s exposed knee.
“When you think you’ll be back walking?”
“Another month, I think.” Paul gently flicked the shard onto the floor.
“What about the bike? You must miss riding, huh?”
“I do,” agreed Paul. Sometimes he dreamed about it, the wind against his face, the pedals moving beneath his capable feet, his neck tensed. “You been swimming at all lately?”
“My leg’s been giving me trouble again. Hurts like a bitch even in the pool. I dunno,” David replied. “Change of seasons or somethin’, I guess.” He shrugged. “So ya wanna sell some shit?”
“I do. All this stuff I bought for training—I don’t use three-quarters of it,” confessed Paul. “And it’s overtaking the house, wrecking my marriage. You know.”
“Yeah, I know,” said David. “So let’s see what you’ve got. I got a friend of a friend that can unload it for you, no problem. Gonna take a cut of the profit, but really, it’s chump change.”
“Who is this guy, anyway?” asked Paul.
“Just a minor detail,” answered David, getting up to hand him his crutches. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with.” Paul stared at him. “What? Trust me.”
“What about Craigslist or something?” asked Paul. He stood up and tucked the crutches under his arms.
David dealt in shade. There was no way he was supporting himself on furniture sales and random gigs alone, especially at the excruciatingly slow rate he turned out his pieces. But Paul didn’t ask questions of his friend. Which by definition made him a terrible friend, Paul realized.
They descended into the basement, David helping Paul.
“Jesus, man, it’s like freakin’ Sports Authority in here,” said David, looking around at all the bikes and clothes and gear; the StairMaster and the rowing machine; the literal mountain of riding gloves, all still with their tags dangling from them.
“I got a little carried away,” said Paul.
“I’ll say.” David let out a whistle. “All right, let’s start with the big stuff first. What I’ll do is, I’ll take some photos on my phone, talk to my guy and see what he’s interested in.”
“That sounds like a plan,” said Paul. “Can I help you?”
“With that ankle, forget it,” said David. “Just sit there and look pretty.” He pushed the boxes surrounding the rowing machine out of the way with the toe of his sneaker.
“So how’s Sylvie doing?” David asked.
“She’s doing really well, man. It’s weird.”
“Weird?” David started snapping photos.
“Yeah, she’s been . . . nice.”
“That is weird,” said David. He looked over at him. “What gives?”
“I don’t know,” said Paul. “And you know, the anniversary of Delilah’s death was a few weeks ago—”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Ya know, I thought it might be,” said David. “I should have reached out. I’m a putz.”
“It’s okay, really,” said Paul. “But, like, she commemorated it. For the first time.”
“Whoa,” said David.
“Yeah, she pulled out this candle, it’s a Jewish thing or something, it’s called a Yahrzeit candle?”
“Say what now?”
“It’s an anniversary candle you light to remember the dead,” said Paul.
“Does it smell?” asked David.
“What?”
“I dunno, like perfumy or whatever.”
“No. It doesn’t smell like anything. It’s just a way to honor people who’ve died. And so she lit it, and Teddy said a prayer, and we all stood around and remembered Delilah together and it was nice.”
David started to clear space around a stationary bike.
“No, I’m keeping that one. The other one, by the far wall, you can sell that one,” said Paul.
“Well, that’s a big fucking deal, the candle,” said David, walking toward it, his broad back to Paul, the red and white stripes of his polo shirt stretched to capacity. “She hasn’t so much as mentioned Delilah’s name in years, right?”
“No,” said Paul.
“What gives?”
“I haven’t asked.”
“Probably smart,” said David, snapping away. “Whenever I tried to talk to my wife about Jeremy, she would usually end up taking a swing at me. Said it was all my fault that he was crossing the street, she wished I had died instead.” His back was still to Paul, but his posture, it was slumped now. He had stopped taking photos, the basement silent.
“You don’t believe that, do you, David?”
“I dunno. The kid refused to let me pick him up from basketball practice. Like, straight-out refused. Said it was embarrassing, he was eleven. What was I supposed to do?”
“You did what he asked you to do,” said Paul.
If David had been the kind of person who hugged, and Paul’s crutches had not been lying on the floor, Paul would have. But he wasn’t, and they were. So.
“I guess.” David turned around. His eyes were wet. “All right, is this it?”
“Sadly, no,” said Paul. “There’s more in the garage.”
“Shit, man, you kidding me? How much you spend on all this?”
“Too much. Sylvie wants to kill me.”
“Filling the void, huh?” asked David knowingly.
“Yeah.”
“So where’s the rest of it?” asked David.
“The garage. Here, there’s a door to the outside; we don’t have to go back up the stairs,” said Paul. “Hand me my crutches?”
They went through the door and into the blazing sun, squinting against its merciless glare.
“How’s Teddy?” asked David, as Paul pushed the button that slid the doors up.
“Good Christ, more bikes!” yelled David. He gave Paul a look. “You cut up your credit cards, bro?”
“Just this morning.” That was not entirely true—Paul still had one and a secret debit card to a secret checking account—but all in due time.
“Teddy’s good,” said Paul, as David took more photos. “I think he has a girlfriend.”
“Get out,” said David.
“Yeah, he’s been using my phone to text her; he thinks I don’t know.”
“Sexy stuff?”
“Oh God no, come on,” said Paul. “Totally benign, tween shit. But still, it’s good
for him.” Paul leaned on his crutches, watching David. His ankle began to throb insistently.
“Get him a phone already,” said David. “You can buy yourself fifty bikes, but you can’t get your teenager a cell phone? Come on.”
“Technically, he’s not a teenager yet. But you’re right. It’s Sylvie; she’s the one so opposed to it.”
“Well, maybe she won’t be anymore, what with her new attitude and all. And the money coming in from your liquidation sale.” David turned around. “You don’t look so good, Paul. You okay?”
“Yeah, fine, just— I should have taken my Motrin, but I’m trying to wean myself off. My ankle is killing me.”
“Wean yourself off?” asked David. “You broke your ankle, not your nail. Come on, I’ll help you inside.”
The doors slid shut behind them as David helped Paul up the deck stairs and into the house.
“There’s no reason for you to be in pain, man,” said David, as he settled Paul onto the couch. He dug into one of his pockets and came out with a small white pill. “Don’t tell me you didn’t get any of these from your doctor?”
“Not interested, but thank you,” he said to David’s hand, avoiding his gaze.
“Seriously, your doctor didn’t give you any? You’re supposed to take Motrin for a broken freaking bone? No way. Here. Just in case of an emergency.” David placed it on the coffee table.
“Okay, thanks.” Paul rubbed his eyes, hoping to erase the judgment out of them in the process, before looking up at David.
David had a problem with these pills, but he had told Paul he’d stopped with them. Now, here one was in his pocket.
“You got it. And if you need more, you need to demand them from your doctor. Jesus, the way the world works now, it’s like, want a gun? Here’s a gun. But if you broke your freaking ankle and it hurts, too bad. Am I right?”
“Yeah,” Paul mumbled. He was very tired suddenly.
“Okay, be good.” David clapped Paul’s shoulder again, his signature hello and goodbye, and walked toward the door.