Page 17 of Light Up The Night
I leave Riley's bedroom and find the living room empty, and any trace that he slept there has long since been put away. I do not find him in the kitchen, either.
I do find, however, a pale yellow sticky note adhered to the cabinet above a coffeemaker, the carafe for which holds hot coffee. "Help yourself to coffee," the note reads. "Cream in the fridge, mugs, and sugar packets in this cabinet. I'm down in the basement."
The note is unsigned, but I suppose it cannot be anything other than obvious who left it. I am not an avid coffee drinker, but as a doctor, it is a necessary part of life, at times, despite my natural preference for a nice cup of green tea. I fix myself a mug of coffee with a splash of cream, no sugar. I carry the mug with me down the steps to the basement.
Fluorescent bulbs shine a harsh, unkind, and visually offensive white light on bare concrete floor and white-washed cinderblock walls; the ceiling is no more than the underside of the floor above, with exposed wiring and pipes. Several metal poles support the load, dividing the space in half. Plastic bins and cardboard boxes line a section of wall to my right, stacked three high. Further along that same wall, a washtub stands beside an old, white metal washing machine and matching dryer, both of which are operating rather noisily.
The wall opposite the stairs is broken up by a doorway, which is partly open to reveal the unfinished guts of a bathroom; outside the doorway are stacked boxes of supplies of unknown provenance and purpose, and tools.
To the left is an extensive home gym setup—a large red metal cage with black pegs and evenly spaced holes, a rack of dumbbells, another rack akin to a bicycle stand containing black bumper plates, a cluster of kettlebells of varying sizes, an air assault bike, a rowing machine, and a treadmill.
Riley is standing inside the red cage, a barbell across his broad, wide, thick, hard shoulders, three plates on each side of the bar, which bends slightly downward under the weight of the plates. He takes a shuffling, straining step backward and then a second, the bar and plates wobbling precariously; his back muscles tense and ripple as he shifts his grip, packs his shoulders down and back. He begins descending into a squat, and his immense leg muscles flex into sharp relief. His gluteus muscles go hard as iron as he drops into the bottom of thesquat, pauses for a two-count, and then I hear him grunt through gritted teeth, straining mightily under the weight. If each of those plates is forty-five pounds, as is customary, with a standard bar weight of an additional forty-five pounds, then he is lifting 315 pounds. An impressive feat, I believe, though I know next to nothing of such things.
At the top of the movement, he lets out several harsh, gasping breaths, his whole frame swelling with each breath. He inhales again, prodigiously, and drops down slowly into another repetition, grunting on the ascent. A third repetition. A fourth, which is wobbly, slow, and incredibly strained. It does not seem likely that he will achieve a fifth repetition.
And, indeed, he manages the descent well enough, but strains and grunts as he tries to ascend—every muscle seems about to burst through his skin from the effort, and his grunt of exertion becomes a veritable shout of primal rage.
And then, improbably, through sheer force of will, I believe, he ascends. Only an inch at first. Then two. Shaking, snarling with exertion, he rises…rises…and against anything I'd have believed possible, reaches full vertical lockout. Gasping raggedly, he staggers forward, dips to allow the barbell to rest on the hooks, and moves out from beneath the bar, still gripping it with his hands. Sweat streams down his body in rivulets, following the grooves and concavities and convexities of his impressive musculature.
I have forgotten my coffee. I have forgotten everything but the sight of Riley—he is a sweaty, shirtless Adonis.
After panting for a few moments, bent over with his head hanging between his arms as he grips the bar, Riley steps back out of the cage and turns, scraping the tattered black ballcap, worn backward, off his head so he can rake his hands through his sweaty black hair.
"Fuck me!” he says, clapping a hand to his glistening, heaving chest. "Scared the shit outta me, girl."
"I apologize," I say. "It was not my intention to startle you, nor to interrupt your exercising."
"Nah," he says, panting. "All good. Sleep well, after that whole stupid fucking alarm clock fiasco?"
I nod. "Yes, I did. Thank you. And you? Did you find any rest on the couch?"
He grins, nodding. "Oh yeah, no problems." He juts his chin at me. "See you found coffee. Hope it's okay. I tend to brew it so thick you can chew it."
I take a sip and cough. "My goodness, you are not exaggerating very much, are you?" I cannot stop myself from grimacing at the monstrously bitter taste.
He chuckles. "You don't have to drink it. Not a coffee person?"
"I prefer green tea under most circumstances. Of course, I have learned to tolerate coffee as the only option during long shifts, particularly during midnights in the ER."
"The ER, huh?"
"Yes. I specialize in emergency medicine and mass casualty events. I perform best under high stress situations."
He blinks at me. "Huh. No shit?"
"Please correct me if I am mistaken, but I seem to note an element of surprise at this information," I say. "Why?"
"Uh, I mean, you just…" he trails off. "Well, if I'm honest, you seem kinda anxious, sometimes, is all."
"Ah, yes. I see your confusion." I consider what to say, how much to explain to this relative stranger.
On one hand, he has done me many kindnesses and deserves an explanation for…well…me. But then, on the other hand, he is just being kind. This does not mean I owe him anypersonal information or answers, and I certainly do not feel any obligation to explain myself to him.
"I…" I trail off and start over. "There are two distinct aspects to me—personal and professional. I am a doctor. Furthermore, I have studied, prepared, practised, and trained for emergency medicine since I was five years old. Medicine is not merely a job for me, or even a passion. It is an integral part of my personality. It is a calling. As such, when I enter a working environment, I am in control. I am aware of every aspect of my job, and I am intimately familiar with every possible risk. Control puts me at ease. My training, knowledge, and experience mean I understand my environment. In a professional setting, I am in control of my world." I pause, sighing. "Outside of the narrow scope of my profession, I do not have such granular control, and that lack frequently produces anxiety. Which means in my personal life, I am a much more anxious person."
He absorbs this in silence, then nods. "That makes sense."
I wait for the questions, but they do not come. "Are you not going to inquire further?"
