Page 55 of Slapshot Baby

"Same time tomorrow?"

My hand tightens on the door handle.

I should say no. I should tell him I need space, that this routine is becoming something neither of us can afford. That every day I spend in his apartment makes the line between friendship and everything else harder to find.

"Same time tomorrow," I say nonetheless.

I close the door behind me and lean against it in the hallway, Biscuit warm and heavy in my arms.

My heart is pounding. My hip bones still feel the ghost of his thumbs.

We're friends.

I mouth the words in the empty corridor.

Even the hallway doesn't believe me.

10

KAI

A Cardiovascular Response

Mira’s been bringing casserole to a house she no longer lives in.

She moved back to her apartment two weeks ago. The guest room at my place still smells like her shampoo.

But here she is at my parents' front door with a ceramic dish wrapped in a kitchen towel, acting like she hasn't been dropping off food every few days since she left.

"You don't have to keep feeding me," I say.

"I'm not feeding you. I'm feeding Mom's son. You happen to be that."

She brushes past me into the hallway. The kitchen is already warm and loud with the clatter of pots and the hiss of something on the stove.

Mom has three burners going. Garlic, rosemary, something with butter underneath it. The smell is heavy enough to fill the whole house and spill into the yard.

Dad is at the head of the table staring at his phone’s screen. His dark eyes lift when I walk in. He grunts once and goes back to his screen.

"Charles, put the phone away," Mom says without turning from the stove. "Dinner in ten."

Her light brown hair is pinned up, dish towel slung over her shoulder. She hums while she stirs.

He puts the phone face-down on the table. "I'm reading."

"You can read after."

I take my usual seat. At least I think it's my usual seat. Nobody corrects me, which I've learned to interpret as a win.

The kitchen hasn't changed much from what I remember before the memory gap. Same warm tiles and cluttered countertops, same framed photo of Mira and me as kids propped on the windowsill above the sink.

Mom's added a spice rack and different dish towels, but the bones are the same. This kitchen is one of the few places where the missing four years don't scream at me from every surface.

The maid—I’ve forgotten her name—serves the food while Mom and Mira sit. The first few minutes of the dinner feel normal. Dad interrogates Mira about a project deadline while Mom keeps trying to redirect ther conversation.

I eat and listen. My energy still drains faster than it should when conversations stack on top of each other. The headaches have mostly faded, but fatigue camps come right behind them.

"So how's Ava?" Mira asks, reaching for the bread basket.