“Will you be able to keep working there after you’ve passed the bar and are officially a lawyer?” I ask.
She shrugs again. “Maybe?” But before I can ask for clarification, she turns the question around on me. “What about you? How are things? I know you had some poems published in a few literary journals. Are you still writing? How’s work going?”
Blinking, my cheeks heat in a reflexive reaction to receiving attention for my writing. I should be used to it by now. I’ve taken creative writing classes constantly for most of the last decade, but it’s different when you’re talking about writing with other writers versus talking about writing with the driven law student with the prestigious internship who wants to fight for immigration reform and human rights. Somehow writing poetry and working in a library seems … small in comparison.
Evan jumps in and answers for me. “She submitted a collection to a chapbook competition that comes with publishing as a prize, so we’re waiting to hear back on that.”
“That sounds exciting,” Elena says, smiling. “What’s a chapbook?”
Fighting back a giggle that’s part nerves, part genuine amusement, I wipe my mouth with my napkin and answer her question. “It’s what they call a short volume of poetry by one author. It’s actually a reference to the style of binding used for small booklets. But like Evan said, the winner gets a publishing contract and a cash prize. It would be exciting to win, but tons of people enter these things, so my chances are slim. I’m still sending poems to other literary publications, though. I have a calendar where I track everything.”
Daniel’s eyes widen in his face. “That sounds kind of intense.”
I shrug and sip my drink, looking down. “It’s not that bad. Once the system’s in place, it’s just a matter of keeping up. Since Evan still has tons of homework, I have plenty of time in the evening to work on it. Plus, all that unfettered thinking time while I drive to and from work … I use my voice recorder app a lot to capture thoughts when they come to me and refine them later when I get home.”
“That sounds like way more fun than listening to the audio version of law textbooks like I do when I’m driving around,” Elena says wryly.
Laughing, I glance at her. “I agree. I’d much rather write poetry than listen to law textbooks. And the library gig is going well. I’m starting to find my footing there. It’s a small community network, so you get to know the patrons pretty quickly, at least the regulars. And my coworkers are nice.”
We spend the rest of the evening catching up, swapping stories about coworkers, professors, students, and life in a way that doesn’t work as well on video chats or on social media. And Evan was right. In a lot of ways, it’s like no time has passed. I’m glad we’re here.
CHAPTER SIX
Chris
Grumpy and achy, I stand in the cramped aisle of the tiny plane and reach in the overhead bin for my carry-on with my good arm. The strap from the sling digs into the side of my neck, rubbing the skin raw, and I can’t fucking wait to see Megan, get her alone, and get this damn sling off. I don’t need it, but the therapist recommended using it while traveling as a reminder not to overuse my right arm with its bum shoulder and also as a visual cue to let others know that I’m injured.
Because broadcasting my weaknesses is my favorite thing to do. Ha.
I’ve been up since early this morning, even though I caught an evening flight to Spokane, and it’s been a long day. I spent the early morning packing and getting ready to leave, wishing I could’ve gone with Megan when she came to Spokane days ago, missing her more than I have a right to considering it’s only been two fucking days. Once that was done, I spent the day with my coaches and therapists in endless meetings and sessions to review my progress and discuss whether I’ll be in playing shape in time for the postseason.
I was hoping the answer on my progress would be a resounding, “Yes, of course. Progress is good. A few more weeks, and you’ll be ready to go.”
But the reality is that it’s still a matter of time and guesswork. I’m under strict orders to maintain my stretching drills, but to take it easy on the weight for now. I apparently went too hard, too fast, and now the inflammation is back, so it’s an ice, heat, anti-inflammatory rotation plus gentle stretching and rest for at least the next few days while I’m here.
Which, on the one hand, is easier to do while traveling. But on the other, it pisses me off because I want to be better by now.
And apparently this setback is at least partly my own stupid fault, and that doesn’t make me any happier. Neither does sitting in a seat on the tiniest airplane in the commercial fleet for the last hour, but at least it means I’m minutes away from seeing Megan.
As much as I want to lower my good shoulder and plow through the people blocking my way, I’m aware that’s not acceptable behavior, and so I keep a tight rein on my irritation and wait patiently for the doors to open and people to slowly make their way off the plane.
Once free of the jetway, I lengthen my stride, maneuvering around everyone and making a beeline for the exit from the secure area. And come to a sudden stop once I make it out.
Because there’s Megan, radiant with happiness, holding a sign with my name on it, as though I wouldn’t recognize her.
A smile—the first genuine smile
