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We sat in silence as Mizzoni appeared to read every single entry on the menu, despite having been here at least four thousand times like the rest of us. When he’d considered every option and we’d finally ordered, I sat there staring into the dark, slightly oily top of my coffee, doing my best to pretend I was alone. Mizzoni made that easy by not speaking.
Finally, he put down his own coffee cup with a thud and let out a long exhale. “You’re going to be a really good disappointed dad,” I told him, finally looking up to meet his disgruntled gaze.
“I’m not disappointed, I’m just angry.”
“Take back what I said. You got that completely backward.”
“What the hell is going on with you?”
“These are the jokes, man. All I’ve got.” I knew he wanted more, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to spill my guts right here on the table over toast.
“Not with your stupid jokes. Nothing’s changed there. With your head.” Mizzoni’s face was dark and he held my eyes with his penetrating gaze, making me feel almost pinned down. A reporter had written once that half the goals he saved were thanks to the way he looked at anyone who got close to our net.
“I’m trying a new mousse,” I said, lifting one hand to my hair, which I hadn’t bothered getting trimmed lately. I knew it looked like shit. I also knew he wasn’t asking about my hair.
He slowly shook his head back and forth, an action that became somewhat less threatening when the waitress deposited a stack of their “frooty booty” waffles in front of him, covered in whipped cream, berries, and rainbow sprinkles.
My own poached eggs on avocado toast looked naked in comparison, but I couldn’t eat all that sugar after a workout. Though it might be worth it for the spectacularly vibrant vomit it would certainly produce. “You must have a gut of steel.”
“Not important. Talk about Clara.”
Her name was like a knife in my gut. “You met her. She’s a scientist. Has a kid. Lives next door to my parents.”
“And?”
“Um...very bossy, poor driver. What else?”
“Feelings.”
“You’re really good at this deep talk stuff.”
“I’m trying. You need a friend.” Mizzoni shoved a forkful of waffles into his mouth and I let that sink in. The guy was stoic and reserved all the time. But for him, this was an enormous and uncharacteristic gesture of friendship.
My resolve started to crack a bit. I sighed, letting my shoulders relax a little. I was exhausted, though I couldn’t pinpoint exactly why.
“I’m okay, man, I promise,” I told him.
He watched me for a long moment, those dark eyes calculating. “I don’t think you are. You’re serious, which is not normal. And you’ve got a new aura. Darker. Fuzzy.”
I nearly choked on the bite I had swallowed as he said this. “Say what?”
He didn’t answer, just stared at me.
“Say what you said again. You see auras? Around people? Like colors and stuff?”
He nodded. “Always have.”
“Are you into crystals and tie dye too?”
“Don’t stereotype me. Various gifts run in my family.”
“Spooky.”
“I’m an empath.”
“You’re the grumpiest empath I’ve ever met.”
“Why do you think I’m so grumpy? I spend all day trying to stay out of other people’s issues, and it’s fucking exhausting.”
