Page 14

Grayson

My stomach is still turning with embarrassment.

Why would I think she meant sex ? Of course that’s ridiculous. It wouldn’t make any sense. Why run off at the wedding, only to barter sex in exchange for her services?

But I couldn’t stop those thoughts from flooding into my head. Couldn’t stop thinking that I would genuinely do anything she wanted. I’d get on my knees every night for Astrid, even without the incentive.

“Are you ready?”

Now, I snap out of my thoughts, raising my head to meet her gaze at the sound of her muffled voice.

I’ve been waiting for her in my car, the engine idling, the headlights pooling into the bushes out beyond the parking lot. A rabbit flits through the light, dashing into the grass, from the cover of one bush to another. The sweet early morning air is filtering in where I cracked open the sunroof, but it’s not doing anything to curb the edge of exhaustion around my eyes and mouth.

Astrid taps on the window and points up the hill, making a circular motion with her fingers, gesturing for me to hurry.

She’s wearing a pair of dark blue leggings, hiking boots, and a rain jacket, her thumbs looped into the straps of what looks like one of those backpacks you fill with water, the little tube dangling just over her left shoulder.

This morning, she looks like an REI model, like she might snap a photo for Instagram and get a million likes. Like she’s going to link to the leggings that can make your ass look amazing, then start a viral trend.

“As I’ll ever be,” I say, stepping out of the car and falling into step behind her.

In the parking lot outside the center, nearly a week ago, Astrid hadn’t seemed to register what it was that I was thinking about. Instead, she launched into what our agreement might look like—her agreeing to chat with Callie twice a week, starting next week, with the understanding that it’s not in any sort of professional capacity, that she can’t prescribe medications and that I’m not going to pay her.

And that the ultimate goal is to convince Callie to talk to her actual therapist, or at least agree to see one that she likes more. Whom she’ll be willing to talk to.

In exchange for that, I agree to let Astrid study me. Use me as a little research experiment.

I’m not a huge fan of that part—would have much preferred if her request was what I originally thought—but at this point, I’ll do anything to help the girls. With Athena crying through the night every night, and Callie already getting two letters back from the center for behavioral issues, I’m worried about what it’s going to look like when the two of them start school in September.

I realize, with a start, that their first day is likely only a week or two away.

Astrid strides ahead in front of me, legs and arms pumping as she makes her way up the incline. It’s early in the morning—earlier than I would even get up for practice—so it’s still dark out here, moths fluttering around the lamp lights. Up ahead, there’s a large wooden sign that I imagine details the trails in this park.

By the time I catch up to her, she’s already studying the sign.

“Alright,” I say, realizing I might be very under prepared, compared to her. “What are we doing here?”

“Lots of studies about the efficacy of natural exposure on mental health,” she says, running her finger down the list of trails, then checking over on the map. “Positive correlation to improved symptoms. But for this case study, we’re looking at the elite athlete specifically, so I need to observe you. Hiking every morning this week, then we’ll compare to the baselines we took yesterday.”

“I resent the tone you used when you said elite athlete .”

Astrid snorts, but still doesn’t glance over at me. “And what tone is that?”

“A sarcastic one.”

Yesterday, I sat completely still in Sloane and Cal’s kitchen while Astrid measured my vitals. I’d said she could come over to my place instead, but the look on her face told me it wasn’t up for discussion. I’d be meeting with her on her terms at her place—or, Sloane’s place, rather. Since Astrid’s staying with them.

After taking my vitals, she asked me the longest string of questions I’d ever endured in one sitting. All numbers based.

“On a scale of one to ten, how bad is your baseline anxiety?” she’d asked.

“Well…that depends. What’s one, and what’s ten?”

“One being the mildest, ten being the most severe.”

“No, like—is ten the worst I’ve ever felt in my life? Like during an anxiety attack? What is one? Like practically nothing? Is zero nothing?”

“Just answer the question, O’Connor.”

We’d just been finishing up when Callum and Sloane got home, and I didn’t miss the way Sloane’s eyes popped at the sight of me in her kitchen. She sent one of those silent, wide-eyed looks Astrid’s way, but I knew what it meant.

Sloane knew. And she probably had far more information than I did. For a wild, stupid second, I thought about asking her—hey, why did your best friend run away after a great night with me?

Athena and Callie had been watching a movie in the living room. When we walked in, a different movie auto-queued, and both girls were limp, draped over different areas of the couch. Callie was curled into a ball so tight, it was hard to tell where her limbs stopped, and her torso began.

I tried to wake her up, but she’d grumbled and started to turn away, then sleepily held her arms out. In that moment, I’d had to pause, imagining Josh there, scooping her into his arms, carrying her to bed. Sleeping, Callie was probably existing in the reality where her parents were still alive, and her dad might pick her up when she fell asleep on the couch.

Callum helped me scoop them up and carry them out to the car.

“Must be brutal,” Sloane had whispered, staring at them with soft eyes. “Plucked out of your life like that, getting carried around by strangers.”

Now, Astrid pivots, drawing me from the memory and pointing down the wide dirt trail. At the fork is one of those stacked arrow signs, pointing in different directions to indicate where to go for each trail entrance. “This way.”

I follow along behind her. “So, you need to watch me walk? What kind of data are you collecting about me walking?”

“First, I can’t tell you what I’m taking notes on. It might affect your behavior. And second, it’s more…making sure you actually do it. Spend the time in nature.”

“If you tell me to do it, Astrid, I will.”

The look she shoots me is surprisingly heated, and I hold it until she glances away, a blush blossoming over her cheeks. Everything about this situation between us is confusing to me, and I have the wild urge to ask her again, point blank, why she left that night.

“Here,” she says, gesturing to a little wooden sign, nestled just within the underbrush. “This is the start of our loop.”

“Great,” I say, already swatting at phantom bites along my legs, the cool itch of the morning air giving rise to something heavier, humid. “I feel my anxiety going away already.”

***

I condition for an hour every morning before practice. There are physical therapists and personal trainers at the arena who design perfectly curated regimens for me. In my home, there’s a gym with a treadmill and weights. Objectively, I’m a very athletic guy.

So why am I heaving in air, desperately trying to bring oxygen to my deprived lungs, actually feeling the ache of my red blood cells?

Ahead of me, Astrid plows ahead like this is the easiest hike she’s ever been on, despite the fact that we’ve been climbing at a solid incline for the past five minutes, with no end in sight. Maybe the problem is that my body is used to the dry, frigid air of the rink. My lungs are used to receiving the oxygen from beer commercials, straight from the mountains, a refreshing sound effect with each breath.

They are not used to sucking in what feels like mouthfuls of sauna-air, moist and thick, so phlegm rises in the back of my throat, sticky and stubbornly remaining each time I swallow. When I look around, it’s like I can practically see the moisture rising from the dirt, evaporating into the air as the sun inches higher in the sky, cooking Astrid and me in this park.

“ Grayson .”

I come to an abrupt stop to keep myself from completely bowling into Astrid, who has turned around and has her arms crossed, her gaze sweeping up and down a body. It makes a shiver run the length of my spine. I wonder if she notices.

“What?” I realize I’m wheezing.

“Why are you breathing like that?” she asks, quirking an eyebrow. It’s infuriating that she’s barely broken a sweat, breathing easily. Surely, California couldn’t have prepared her for a hike like this.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re rattling out your last breaths. Aren’t you supposed to be an elite athlete ?”

“I am an elite athlete. My specialization is not hiking.”

For a second, I imagine trying to do this trek in my full hockey gear, and I can practically feel what it would be like to lose consciousness, body shutting down due to the unfairness of it.

Astrid lets out a dry laugh, shrugs, and turns, nestling the mouthpiece of her Camelback between her lips. I’m staring because I’m thirsty—that’s all.

“Didn’t you bring any water?” she asks, dropping the piece from her mouth.

I shrug, trying to seem nonchalant about it. But no, I did not bring water. I didn’t even think about bringing water—that’s how little I was used to doing outdoorsy things. If I was at the rink, practicing, I’d never had to worry about water supply.

“Here,” Astrid says with a sigh, flipping the mouthpiece up to me. When I meet her eyes, I can feel the juvenile blush that’s spreading over my cheeks. How stupid. We’re both adults.

Adults that have kissed, I remind myself. This will not be the first time I’ve had her saliva in my mouth.

As though she can hear my thoughts, Astrid reaches up and pinches the mouthpiece between her fingers, using the sleeve of her jacket to wipe it off. I follow the movement, and when she’s done, I take a look at her face.

She’s blushing, too.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I lean into her space and take a drink. The water is cold, and I imagine her preparing, filling it the night before and putting it in the freezer. I picture her standing in the kitchen at Callum and Sloane’s, checking this one thing off her to-do list. Just like how she was at the wedding. Orderly, prepared.

Stopping myself from sucking the thing completely dry, I pull back and drop the mouthpiece, heaving in a deep breath. Suddenly, the air doesn’t feel quite so offensive, and the sun overhead is cheery, rather than overbearing.

With a startling clarity, I realize the view around us has changed.

We’re no longer surrounded by foliage, boxed in by trees on every side. Instead, we’re at the top of a small hill, Milwaukee sprawling out around us. It’s not high enough to see very far, but I can make out the gentle rolling smoke from a factory, see cars moving along the streets below.

A quiet little view of the city.

“Wow,” I breathe, and Astrid lets out another dry laugh, scribbling something down on her little notepad. I turn to her, unable to keep the laugh from bubbling out of me. “Wait, did you just quote me saying wow ?”

“No,” she laughs, then seems to remember to look stern. “I did not quote you. Remember, I’m not going to tell you what I’m recording. But tell me, on a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your anxiety in this moment?”

I scratch the back of my head. “I don’t know. I’m not really thinking about it.”

“Well, can you? Just give me a number.”

The words are there, but I can’t tell her, If I think about it, the anxiety is going to remember me, and it’s going to come back.

So I just say, “Three. What’s yours?”

“My what?”

“Anxiety level.”

Her eyebrows rise again. “I’m the one asking the questions.”

My laugh is a little harsher than I mean it to be. “At least you’re getting your answers.”

I hadn’t meant to bring it up again, to point to this thing hanging between us.

To keep her from having to respond, I turn back to the view, taking it all in. Maybe if I could stay like this, up on this little hill, staring down at the world around me made small, my situation might not seem so dire.

Like this, I’m reminded that I’m just one person, and I’m doing my best. For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of a gentle breeze rolling past us, rifling through the leaves. The crunch of Astrid’s boots as she shifts her weight.

Then, she breaks the spell, leaning side to side to crack her back and turning to me with an unreadable expression.

“Ready to head back down?”