Page 17 of Breakout Year
Her car was a hulking SUV that Akiva helped her into, arm out as she clambered up the running board, then slid into the passenger’s seat. He had to move the driver’s seat back, way back—Sue was a full foot shorter than he was, despite her dyed black hair that got higher every time she went to the salon. People expect mystery writers to have black hair, she liked to say. Akiva’s hair was the blondish side of brown, but hey, he was wearing a black kippah today so maybe that counted.
Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at the building housing her physical therapy office; he pulled up to the front to spare her the walk across hot parking lot asphalt.
Except after he’d gotten to the main entrance, she remained in the passenger seat, seat belt buckled firmly. “Thinking I might skip this one.” She held up her hand, still in its glove. “Really, I’m fine.”
The SUV was already in park. Akiva punched the button to activate the hazards, then climbed out. Went around to Sue’s side. Stood on the sidewalk and didn’t knock or insist. He was paid by the hour. He could wait as long as she wanted to, even if the PT office would be calling him any second to see where they were.
Inside the cab, Sue shifted around, then levered herself over the center console and settled in the driver’s seat like she might just take off. Akiva rapped once on the window, then held up her car keys with an explanatory jingle.
“Fine,” she called. “You win this one.”
As if getting her to actually take care of herself was a contest. “I have to park,” he said, once she was on the sidewalk.
“You think I might make a daring escape?” she asked. But when he got back from parking, she was waiting in the lobby, fanning herself with a paperback at the heat.
They elevatored up to the eighth floor together, Akiva frowning over his phone as Sue did the same over her glove.
“Didn’t think you were coming, Ms. Sue,” the receptionist said when they arrived. She went by Linda to Sue and Miss Linda to everyone else. She was somewhere north of fifty with slate-gray hair. In Akiva’s experience, she ran the paper filing system behind her like it was the Library of Congress, and everyone else fell in line accordingly.
“This one”—Sue poked a bony elbow at Akiva—“is very stubborn.”
“I’ll be here if you need me.” He pulled his laptop from its bag, then seated himself in the padded lobby chair closest to the door in case Sue decided to make a break for it mid-session. Again.
“If you keep typing like that, you’re going to end up like your mom—in here with us.”
It wasn’t the first time Miss Linda had said that during one of Sue’s appointments, or the first time she’d referred to Sue as Akiva’s mother. Obediently, Akiva elevated his wrists. He also didn’t correct her assertion, even if he and Sue didn’t exactly look alike. Family sometimes didn’t, anyway.
Emails answered, he toggled to his least favorite task—The Spreadsheet. It wasn’t a complicated document, worse for its simplicity: a ledger of how much he owed and to whom with a red-yellow-green color-code of if he was paying it back.
Mark: The palest of yellows, a loan he’d been paying back in fives and tens when he had enough to spare.
Student loans: Fluorescent yellow, a debt that had the feeling of chipping away a mountain with a dental pick.
His parents’ house: A single red square, like a traffic light stopping his life.
He pulled out his phone. Rechecked his cash app. The money from Eitan was still there, somehow, magically, a private payment with an illustrative emoji. Akiva had been expecting something weird or silly or obvious: an eggplant, no matter what Eitan had claimed this was about, or a kissy face. Instead, a calendar emoji. Because of course, a date.
Eitan had transferred him enough for Akiva to pay back Mark—to toggle that square from yellow to a bright, unquestionable green. It spared Akiva from having to pick up any end-of-month modeling gigs of the kind he didn’t loathe, but didn’t love, either. He’d wait until after his date with Eitan to give Mark the money, if only so he didn’t spend money he hadn’t technically earned yet. A lesson from baseball he’d learned once but learned well.
Along with the money, Eitan had sent a series of texts late at night.
Eitan: How about Tuesday?
Eitan: Wait, I have a game on Tuesday.
Akiva considered a variety of replies—cold to set a boundary, flirtatious because that’s what he was being paid to do—before he responded.
Akiva: You know they make schedules for this kind of thing.
Given when he’d sent those texts, Eitan should probably be asleep. Still, his reply came less than a minute later.
Eitan: Yes, and I’m sure to look at them the day of the game. How about Monday? It’s weekday Shabbat.
Akiva: …weekday Shabbat…
Eitan: You know, I get to rest. What’s your schedule like? I should have asked.
Akiva: I’m flexible
