Page 60 of The Clinch
His mother asks about my schedule the way people do when they’ve already filed you under “ongoing.” Long shifts, night rotations, whether I’m getting enough sleep. Her tone is light, but she listens closely, like details matter because I matter.
His father asks about NYU—what drew me to medicine, whether I’ve thought about specialties. He waits for my answers instead of preparing his next point.
No one interrogates.
No one tries to be delicate.
No one tests the ring.
At one point Leo’s mother reaches across to pass me the bread. Her fingers brush the band as the basket transfers from her hand to mine. She pauses—half a second, no expression—then keeps talking about the crust.
Leo eats like he always does—controlled, efficient, not rushed. He answers his father’s questions about training in short sentences.
His father asks about the October defense, then the travel around it. Leo answers the way he has all evening, in short, even lines that give nothing away.
Then his father says, “And after that?”
Leo looks up. “After the fight?”
“Further out than that,” his father clarifies, his tone easy.
Leo sets his fork down with more care than the motion requires. “We’ll see.” The answer is even. His face isn’t.
“You don’t need to solve it over dinner,” his father adds quickly.
His mother reaches for the wine bottle and tops off the glasses, and the moment folds back into the meal.
When Leo shifts, his knee brushes mine under the table. The contact is brief, but brief doesn’t mean harmless.
At the end of the meal, plates are cleared. Espresso appears. Dessert is mentioned but not immediately produced. The table loosens in that post-dinner way, conversation drifting without effort.
Fire Island comes up the way weather does. Not as a plan to be made, but as a continuation.
“We’ll head out two weeks after the Fourth,” his father says, reaching for the sugar bowl. “Stay a few weeks with the Russos. Same as always.”
Leo makes an amused sound, looking at his mother. “And now that Nate finally locked it down, Mama Carver and Mama Russo are going to start planning the nursery.”
His mother laughs. “We’ll try to restrain ourselves,” she says, clearly lying. “Eden and Nate will be out there a couple of days with us before they head back to the city. Janice and I will have time to figure out a plan.”
“I can already hear it.” Leo laughs.
No one looks at me. No one asks where I’ll be sleeping. Which means, in this house, the answer was assigned before anyone thought to ask me.
Fire Island. Leo’s room. The space beside him. Everyone acting like the details are already settled.
I take a sip of my espresso. It’s too hot, but I don’t set it down.
The ring catches me again, exactly where Leo put it yesterday. Where, apparently, it’s going to stay.
14
BREAKING FORM (LEO)
IgrabMeditationsoff the shelf, the same copy I’ve dragged through training camps and airports, and take the far end of the couch, opening to a well-worn page.
I read a paragraph. Then realize I haven’t absorbed a word. My mind keeps landing on her. The way she moves through my apartment like she’s always known where everything is.
Behind me, water runs. Plates clink. The domestic sounds of her in my space.
