Page 78
The third drawer sticks, and I have to jiggle it. As I do, my glasses slip down my nose, and I shove them back into place.
The drawer wiggles open to reveal folded sweaters and hoodies in neat stacks.
I push a gray hoodie aside to reach the spare charger Kain keeps in the back corner, and my fingers brush something that isn’t fabric.
My fingers trace it. Rigid. Flat. The size of a tablet but thicker. A smooth edge on one side and pages on the other.
The notebook I pull out could have been bought at any office supply store. The hoodie falls back into the drawer with a soft rustle. It has a dark blue cover, with Kain’s handwriting in black marker on the front.
Workbook
I’ve seen dozens of these before, in the office, with his guitar, or folded in half in his back pocket. This one feels different in my hands, the cover stiff and worn.
He never shoves his workbooks to the bottom of a drawer. He uses them until they fall apart.
Kain never hides anything from me, but he’s also in charge of putting away laundry. If I hadn’t needed to pack this bag, I never would have found this one.
I sit on my heels and open it on my lap.
The first several pages are filled with music notes and lines of lyrics, the same as any other notebook Kain scribbles in.
But then I turn a page, and a single word brings me up short.
Reef
Just my name, written in the same tight, angular script Kain uses for work notes, grocery lists, and the little reminders he leaves for me on the fridge.
My brow furrows. Is this the notebook Kain uses to plan my competitions?
But, no, I’ve seen his spreadsheet for those. They live in the same file on his computer as my sponsorships.
My fingers twitch. I shouldn’t read this. Kain stowed it away so I wouldn’t flip through it.
But…it has my name on it.
My hand hesitates over the page. Then I turn it, and the type of notes changes.
Instead of music or programming thoughts, it’s about…food.
I skim the page without absorbing the words, and a slow, heavy pressure squeezes my chest, making it hard to breathe.
I rise and sit on the corner of Kain’s bed, the duffel forgotten on the floor. The workbook spreads open across my knees, pages dense with his handwriting.
A two-page list is split into columns. Safe. Unsafe. What I will eat without complaint. What I won’t touch, and why.
Each item has a note.
Fries: must be thin or crinkle-cut, crispy. Cold/soggy fries are dead to him.
Mozzarella sticks: loves crunch/stretch combination, must be hot, marinara on side.
The right-hand column is longer.
Bananas: texture refusal, scent aversion.
Cooked mushrooms: can detect them even diced into the smallest size.
Gristle: one unexpected chewy piece ends meal.
