Page 181 of Saving Forever with the Hockey Captain

"He was."

A little boy inside the bookstore raises his hand so enthusiastically that he nearly falls over. The reader calls on him anyway, and whatever answer he gives sends the entire room into laughter. I find myself smiling with them. "I used to think I'd retire somewhere quiet," I say.

Annette looks at me. "And now?"

I glance toward the lake at the end of the street, then back at the bookstore window where children are laughing over a story neither of us can hear. "I think I've already found somewhere quiet."

She doesn't answer immediately. Two young girls race past us, each carrying a paper bag from the bakery. One of them trips on the sidewalk, catches herself, and bursts into giggles before her sister pulls her back to her feet.

Annette watches them disappear around the corner. "I don't think quiet means silence; I think it means peace."

The word settles over me more heavily than I expect. Peace. Not isolation. Not escape. Peace.

Annette starts walking again, and I fall into step beside her. She points toward a weathered white house overlooking the water. "If I ever build a home, I want a front porch just like that."

"So, you can grow peonies?"

She smiles. "Probably."

"I still won't know what they look like."

"I'll teach you."

The words are offered so casually that I don't think she realizes what she has said. I'll teach you. Not someone will. Not you should learn.

She has unconsciously included herself in a future that hasn't happened yet. The thought stays with me as we continue toward the lake.

I don't say anything. Neither does she. The silence between us has become one of my favorite conversations.

***

By the time we return to the rehab center, the afternoon appointments are already arriving. The waiting room is fuller than when we left, and the easy quiet of our walk disappears beneath ringing phones, rolling equipment carts, and therapists greeting their next patients.

Annette pauses near the entrance to the therapy wing. “I need to finish your progress notes before my next appointment.”

“I should let you work.”

“That would be unusually considerate.”

“I’m capable of personal growth.”

“So, your chart keeps claiming.” She smiles as she heads toward the desk at the edge of the gym. I retrieve my jacket and therapy folder from the locker, then stop when I notice my water bottle still sitting beside the treatment table. Annette has already opened my chart. Her attention moves between the measurements from this morning and the notes on her screen, but the pleased expression she wore earlier has faded.

Not completely. Just enough for me to notice. I collect the bottle and walk toward her. “Everything okay?”

Her head lifts quickly. “Of course.”

It is the same automatic answer I gave her during the first weeks of recovery, back when fine meant almost anything except fine. I glance at the chart. “Did the numbers change while we were gone?”

“No. They’re excellent.”

“That sounded dangerously close to praise.”

“You’ve earned it.” She closes the folder, though not before I glimpse a line near the bottom of the page. Projected discharge schedule.

The words register, but Annette’s expression holds my attention more than the chart does. “You went quiet.”

“It’s been a long day.”