Page 51 of Breakaway
"I needed that," he says.
"Me too."
"Wes."
"Yeah."
He is quiet for a long time. "Nothing. Let me get dressed. The fish place?"
"Yeah. Give me ten minutes."
We walk two blocks to the restaurant. Tile floors, ceiling fans, the outside table he picked the first year. The ceviche comes. He looks at it for a while before he eats.
"Seven-four," he says.
"That seems low."
"The acid is sharp. Last year it was rounder."
"Two years ago, you gave it an eight-one."
"That time the acid was rounder."
I look at him across the table. "Or you were in a better mood," I say.
He glares at me for a beat.
"That's not what I meant," I say, trying to repair whatever is between us.
"Okay."
"Luca, I didn't mean it like that."
"I know you didn't."
We eat. The ceiling fan turns. The server refills our water and neither of us reaches across the bread plate.
In the morning I wake before him. Six something. The light through the shutters is pale and wrong, too early. He is asleep with his mouth open and his hand curled against the pillow. His hair is flat on one side and standing on the other and his chest is leaner than the last time I saw him without a shirt. The softness over his ribs has thinned. I put my hand on his side last night and felt bone where there used to be give.
It can be hard to keep up with food and calories during the season. When Luca lived with me, I made sure he got enoughfood. I need to ask him if he has the team meal plan and if we should look into that.
I get up. Pull on shorts. Cut limes. Two glasses, two wedges, sparkling water. His on the counter where he will find it.
I sit on the balcony and watch the ocean, flat and silver. I think and wait. I think about all the little pieces Luca’s given me over the last few months about his life in Atlanta. The things he’s said and the things he hasn’t said.
He shuffles across the tile thirty minutes later. The balcony door opens.
"You're up," he says.
"Been up for a while."
He comes to the railing wearing my T-shirt, the gray one, too big on him now. The morning light catches the stubble he hasn’t shaved since he landed.
"Walk with me," I say.
"Now?"
"Before it gets hot."
