five minutes three times a week as if it were a business appointment. But he thought about Caroline a lot. If the truth were known, almost constantly. Little things would bring memories rushing back. He'd look out from his balcony and see a fir tree flourishing in the park and he'd remember a trip to Vermont; it was snowing, and they went cross-country skiing through miles of perfect firs. From his perch above Manhattan, Jack would smell the exquisite mix of minty fir needles and newly cut wood and fresh Vermont air. And he would see Caroline in her ludicrously bright orange parka, slithering along the dirty white paths of the forest.
He'd watch TV and see a pregnant woman on a mindless sitcom and he'd remember how Caroline cried when she told him she was pregnant and, when he went to hug her, how she'd waved her hands, a totally feminine gesture, embarrassed at her tears, which were brought on by a combination of bliss and fear and raging hormones. Then he'd remember all their promises to each other, how they'd love and honor and always be kind to each other. How they'd be friends, not just lovers. He'd kept all the promises he'd ever made to her, he thought. Except for the most important one, the one about keeping her safe and happy forever.
Jack had played the scene in Charlottesville over many times in his head. What if he hadn't barged in on them? What if he'd done it differently? What if he'd managed to overcome the brutal blow to the head and talk to the killer? What if he hadn't let Caroline talk him out of having a TV monitor – maybe they'd have a face for the killer. What if…
It was the last 'what if' that usually stopped Jack cold. Especially as it was the same one that had haunted him ever since he'd seen his mother die.
What if he'd been killed instead of her?
What if…
'You ready to boogie, Jack?'
Jack looked up, his regretful reverie over. Kid stood in the entryway, on the edge of the living room, looking in at him.
'How'd you get in?'
'The key,' Kid said. 'From when I cleaned out the office. I drove here, so I just parked in the garage and came up.'
'You have a car?'
'Borrowed a friend's,' Kid said. 'I'm running around all day today and it's a lot cheaper than cabs.' He dug into his pocket, pulled the small, squat elevator key out, and held it in his palm. 'Where do you want me to put it?'
'It's Mattie's,' Jack told him. 'Put it on the little table there so I'll remember to give it back to her.'
Kid nodded, placed it on the side table in the hallway. 'You're looking pretty serious today.'
'I'm feeling pretty serious today.'
'Thinking too much is bad for you, Jack.'
'It depends what it is you're thinking, doesn't it?'
'Oh, right. Sorry. I guess you were sittin in here just thinking your happy thoughts.'
'I'm paying you to be my physical trainer, not a psychiatrist.'
'Sometimes they go hand in hand.'
'But not this time,' Jack told him.
'Okay.' Kid shrugged, sloughing off any acknowledgment of Jack's self-pity. 'Then let's get physical.'
– '-'-'OVER THE NEXT month, Jack learned that his pain was inextricably tied to his improvement. And Kid was right. He'd begun to enjoy it in a strange and elusive way. As excruciating as it was, he could feel it bringing him slowly, inch by inch, closer to life.
Kid came, without fail, five days a week. Seven o'clock every morning, and they spent an hour together, sometimes two, Kid pushing Jack as hard as he would let himself be pushed. And then he'd give Jack another hour's worth of work to do on his own, a specific plan to do every afternoon. More exercises. More pushing. More pain. Sometimes, when he had the time, Kid even came back in the afternoon to oversee the second session. And often he'd show up on the weekend, occasionally cajoling Jack into an extra workout.
While they worked together, they talked. Gradually, Kid let his reserves down, began to open up and fill Jack in on his past. He also began to let Jack into his present. Jack, in turn, realized how much he'd missed the regular human contact he'd grown accustomed to at the restaurant, how much he'd missed having a daily dialogue with someone. The relationship they'd had years ago began to establish itself again. Kid began to rely on Jack to act as the father he'd lost at such a young age. And Jack began to think of Kid the way he had when Kid was a teenager – as his own son.
The ice was broken ten days into the training session.
'Come on. Push yourself!' Kid was exhorting him. Jack was curling two-pound weights, which felt as if they were two hundred pounds. 'Does it hurt?' Kid asked.
'Christ, yes.'
'Good, it's supposed to hurt. It's not your injury – it's surprise. Now give me more!'
'Eleven…' Jack breathed. And, arms trembling, eyes closed in concentration, he slowly forced his body to repeat the exercise one more time. 'Twelve…' And then all the air swept out of him. His arms dropped to his sides and the weights dangled until Kid swooped them up. Jack sat for a minute, breathing heavily, then Kid handed him a bottle of water, which Jack raised gratefully to his lips then took a long swig.
'You can't be afraid to fail,' Kid said. 'It's the paradox of training. You have to embrace failure. You have to work until you do fail. If you don't fail, you don't get strong.'
Jack, exhausted, nodded. He got it. He didn't like it, but he sure as hell got it.
The cell phone hanging from Kid's neck emitted a birdlike chirp of a ring.
'Excuse me,' Kid said, then spoke quietly into the phone. Jack heard only Kid's end of the conversation. 'Hey… Yeah, that's why I left the message… I'm really, really sorry… I know, but I got a management seminar at four, then I promised to fill in for Kim at the Saddle… Yeah, Friday, I promise… I promise… You're the best. Bye- bye.'
He hung up, turned back to Jack. 'All right, let's do the last set.'
'Management seminar?' Jack asked.
Kid nodded, almost sheepishly. 'I'm getting my MBA.'
'You're shitting me.'
'For real.'
'Why didn't you tell me? And do they know you left most of your brains on the football field?'
Kid shrugged. 'It's NYU – I'm on a minority scholarship for slow white quarterbacks who couldn't hit the side of a barn. And that's why I didn't tell you.'
'What are you going to do with it?'
'I've got an idea.' Before Jack could get out a word, Kid said, 'Yes, I'll talk to you about it. But when I'm ready. When I've got the thing really planned out.'
'But there is a thing?'
'I think so,' Kid said. 'I really do think so. Now stop stalling.'
Jack did twelve more reps of light curls. He didn't pause at eight this time, didn't need the break, just gritted his teeth and kept going.
'You're my idol, Jack. That was very impressive.'
Jack accepted the compliment with a quick nod. It took him a few seconds to gather himself before he could speak. 'How are you paying for it? For grad school?'
'By the hour.' Kid tapped his cell phone. 'I'm back to personal training and that's why I hate bailing on a client. But she lives in Park Slope, way the hell out, and it's the Entertainer's birthday – and you do not disappoint her, believe me.'
'Who the hell is the Entertainer?'
Kid breathed out a little laugh and said matter-of-factly, 'She's a member of the Team.'
'Okay. Let's keep going. What the hell is the Team?'
'Sorry. It's kind of a joke. They're the women I go out with.'
'Plural?'
Kid nodded. 'These days, it seems like it.'
'At the same time?'
'I don't seem to be too good at the one-on-one thing. At least, well…' He shook his head. Something he wasn't
