Page 155 of The Clinch
And the worst part is that for one blinding second, losing balance feels a lot like relief.
37
BACK TO THE CORNER (LIZ)
At five this morning, I woke planning to squeeze in a few sprints in Domino Park before heading into the city. The second I looked outside, I dropped back into bed. The sky over the East River was dark as bruised steel, rain hammering the windows with what looked like a personal grudge.
Now it’s after seven, and the rain is still coming hard. I lie still, listening to it beat against the glass in dense, relentless sheets, turning the city mean. Even from bed, I can feel the pressure of it pressing inward.
I push back the covers and sit up. The other side of the bed is already empty, the sheets cool. Leo must have left hours ago.
Camp has shifted him into that stripped down, disciplined version of himself who belongs to the morning before anyone else gets to claim part of it. I can picture the sequence without seeing it. Shower. Coffee. Training gear. Keys. The silent, efficient movement of a man who has built his life around eliminating wasted motion.
Even absent, he feels physical to me this way. Too solid. Too exact. A man who can leave a room and still somehow sets its rhythm.
I pull on the T-shirt that ended up on the floor last night, and the memory of how fast he got it off me is enough to wake the rest of me up too.
The kitchen lights are on. Coffee is waiting, a mug I’ve apparently started thinking of as mine next to the pot. Beside it sits a container of overnight oats, a banana, and a yellow Post-it stuck to the counter in Leo’s blunt, clipped handwriting.
Eat.
Car downstairs at 8.
—L
My breakfast. My ride. My morning. Already decided.
The more unsettling part is how quickly my body unclenches when I read it.
The note goes back on the counter, and I pour myself the coffee. The smell rises rich and dark, familiar now in a way that should probably concern me. I take a sip and walk toward the windows, holding my mug.
Below, the city is fighting the storm. Yellow cabs slice through standing water. People hunch under umbrellas that are too small. The awning over the building entrance bows under the weight of the weather.
The walk to the subway would be disgusting. The platform would be worse.
And then I would get to school damp and irritated and have to pretend I was thriving while my mascara tried to escape down my face.
The car is practical. Thoughtful.
I take another sip, then check my phone. There’s a text from Leo, sent fifteen minutes ago.
LEO
Try to stay dry
Have a great second day
A thought rushes through.
You don’t have to keep doing this.
Instead, I send back a simpleThank you, lock the screen, and set it down.
It’s pouring. I don’t need to prove I’m a grown woman by suffering through the subway in this weather.
But the unease doesn’t go away.
I finish the oatmeal he left out for me, make the bed, shower, get dressed.
