Heal the Heart

17.

Beck caught me one night after my shift. He was usually the last patient to come in, as it helped Mandy man the desk alone without a long line building up. Our sessions sometimes went well after closing time and I didn't mind closing shop after everyone had left.

I was pulling down the metal shutter when I spotted him leaning against the wall. Ankles crossed. Phone in his hand, the horizontal way. Head tilted to regard me.

"Hey!" he waved and pocketed his phone, pushing himself off the wall before bracing himself with a hand against it. "Finally caught you."

"What's up?" I fidgeted with the strap of my bag across my chest.

"Nothing. I was," he cleared his throat, "I was just wondering if you'd want to have dinner together."

"Oh. Uh I...Uhm." I wanted to, but I didn't at the same time. This line I was walking was a dangerous one. I wasn't in a position to get hurt again. To jump into an asymmetric relationship where I was the only one pushing. This wasn't the first time he'd asked me. This had already been done. Twice. The first time, he casually dropped it during one of the sets and second, when he was leaving, he had asked if I was hungry and wanted to grab something together. I had shot him down both times. "I usually hit the gym right after my shift, so I don't—"

"It's fine. It's fine. Don't worry about it." He fidgeted with his hands, stuffing them in his jacket's pockets, then his jeans' pockets, and then just wrung them in front of him. "See you tomorrow then, eh? Good night."

I watched as he turned around and walked the other way. His shoulders slouched, his right leg dragging behind him. It wasn't so noticeable these days. He was making such good progress with his therapy. There was a long road ahead of him, and there were chances that he might never take the ice again. Recoveries for injuries like his were not predictable. Still, he was patient and resilient and determined and didn't shy away from showing his discomfort. He was trying. Trying to move past his trauma and overcome the obstacles that mired his path.

He deserved a win. And I needed to let go of my pain.

I cupped my hands around my mouth and yelled, "Yo, Beck! Wait up!"

~

We found a shawarma food truck not too far from the centre, and seeing the sizeable crowd hanging around it, we fell into the commoner mindset that there must be something to it.

We grabbed our orders and as I was manoeuvring a path for us to reach one of the free retractable chairs and tables, Beck tapped my shoulder and said he would be right back. I sat and searched for him among the clusters of people standing near the lampposts or sitting on the grass. I found him near the truck, talking to a man and woman, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket, occasionally pulled out to animate his words.

Always so sociable. I squinted, trying to overcome the distance between us to take in the lines of him. I ingrained into my mind's memory chip the way his jeans and varsity jacket blended into the darkness. The way his lips moved while he spoke and his eyes widened when he wanted to emphasize a sentence. The truck lights flickered, and the shadows thrown on his skin caressed the line of his neck before disappearing into his open collar. I had my sketchbook in my bag. I hadn't removed it since, and he was right there, looking every part the muse I desperately needed to get me out of my slump.

By the time he joined me, I was done with three quarters of my shawarma.

"Are you always this social?" I asked as he sat down on the chair opposite to me.

"That was just a guy I met in my Investments Theory class. Now, that lady beside him is his girlfriend, who I didn't know existed, so..." he shrugged and chomped off a huge bite of his shawarma.