[photo by Tareq Ismail from Unsplash]

Topher

There are so many questions I want to ask, but I don't think I can actually form them into words. I'm stuck on the phrase: Healing was always just something I did. An instinct.

Leni absolutely believes she can heal arthritis.

I'm reminded of an article I once read—skim-read, if I'm honest. And only because Mum insisted. It was something to do with the science of miracles and she'd found it on the Internet. So naturally, I judged it accordingly. The point of the narrative was to emphasize that the Vatican does not confirm miracles solely on the basis of faith. They employ bona fide physicians to conduct a careful medical review of the miracle-recipient's prognosis and outcome. The conclusion of the report, simply stated, was that wondrous things happen for which there is no scientific explanation.

Leni bites into her bottom lip as she turns away from me. God only knows what my face looks like. I'm sure I owe her an explanation—and an apology. "I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to get in your car and never speak to me again," I say.

But this clearly confuses her. "Why, because you asked for my help?"

"You're initial reaction was less than exuberant."

"Well yeah. I'm not the biggest fan of hospitals."

She states this as if it should be obvious. And perhaps it should. I always feel as though I'm missing something wherein Leni is concerned.

"Can we finish this conversation while we walk?" she asks, pointing at the ocean. "I skipped lunch."

"And I promised you dinner ages ago." I gesture for her to go ahead. She pauses at the top of the stairs, lifts one foot behind her, plucking off her sandal, and then the other. Her legs are very long—and remarkably pale for someone who spends so much time on the beach.

Correction, for someone who's literally addicted to the ocean. I should ask what brand of sunscreen she uses.

Once in the sand, she heads straight for the water, wades in just shy of the point where the waves can reach her linen shorts. When she turns back to me, I nod my head in the direction of the restaurant and we walk along the shore: Leni, knee deep, me intent on keeping my shoes dry. Conversation is not an option and I get the feeling she prefers it that way.

We've nearly reached the restaurant when she decides to join me. "I can help your patient," she says, loud enough to be heard over the ocean, but not with the confidence of the resolute. "First, I need to know if..." Her teeth scrape over her bottom lip. "Did you tell her about me?"

"No. I swear to God, Leni. I haven't told a soul about you—and I never will."

"Okay. Thank you. Next question: how are you expecting this to happen—like, do you have a plan? Because I can't allow...your patient can't know about my secret."

"Right. Yes. I've ordered a sedative–which I'd have done either way. Emma hasn't been sleeping well."

Leni blinks a couple of times in rapid succession. That's the only indication she's taking in the information, internalizing it. That seems to be her process, so I leave her to it.

It's just as well. We're very nearly to the restaurant. "It's just ahead," I say, pointing. She lifts her head, finds the Crab Shack—which is a literal shack, squatting in the shadow between two towering hotels—and breathes out a laugh.

We queue at the thatch-roofed counter, place our order and grab the last available table, a high-top perched on the edge of a deck that defines the bar-area. It's a noisy crowd. It won't be easy to finish our conversation.

I pull out one of the clunky chairs, scanning the more family-friendly tables on the patio below. It doesn't look like anyone is even close to...

Sodding hell. Will is here.

His dark eyes touch on Leni and then bounce back to mine with a knowing grin. I give him a look that says, "Piss off immediately." Which, of course, he ignores.

"Topher?" Leni asks. "What's wrong?"

Did I curse aloud? I must have done. "Sorry," I say. Then I gesture to the rapidly approaching nuisance. "This is the bloke I followed to Nags Head."

"Oh."

"It's purely coincidence. I'll get rid of him as—"

"Toph!" Will is fully and unapologetically aware that he's intruding.

And so I offer up an, "All right, Will?" with very little enthusiasm as I succumb to the obligatory fist bump—although his aim is askew. His attention is firmly fixed on Leni.

He rests one arse cheek on the arm of a vacant chair and greets her with an innocent-sounding, "Hello." But his eyes are a touch too appreciative.

"This is my friend, Leni," I say, while I fight a cave-dwelling urge to insert myself between them. "She lives in Hatteras."

"It's very nice to meet you, Leni from Hatteras," he says, proffering a hand.

She hesitates before she accepts it—and it reminds me of the day she saved my life. Except that Will doesn't merit even a hint of a smile. Which is immensely gratifying.

"Same," she says, polite but forced. Then her gaze shifts to the ocean. Longingly it seems.

Will's mouth forms a solemn line, as if he's affronted by her complete lack of interest. But then he uses the opportunity to mouth, "Just a friend?"

To which I reply with a silent, "Sod off."

"Good to see you're accepting someone's invitations," Will says, smiling—a bit wickedly. "I thought you'd gone into hibernation after your little surfing accident."

This remark draws Leni's attention.

"Did Toph tell you he went out on the shoals alone? I was supposed to give him a lesson," he adds—like the boastful twat that he is. "But I was called into work and the idiot went anyway. He nearly drowned."

Leni—who kept her face blank throughout the entirety of Will's brief account—suddenly forms an "Oh." As if she's just realized his comment requires a reaction of some sort.

It's rather adorable.

"Are you a surfer?" Will asks her.

"No." Her eyes bob to mine—her discomfort clear—and then back to Will. "Do you work at the hospital, too?" she asks.

"He's a radiologist." I catch myself, nearly grimacing. Now is not the time for Will to recall my odd reaction to my post-accident ex-ray. "We studied at Duke together," I add.

The diversion attempt does not escape Will's notice. He gives it an, "Okay, I'll play along" smirk and says, "We were housemates here for a while, but Toph kicked me out."

"Really?" Leni asks, turning to me. "In the house you live in now?"

This time her surprise is entirely genuine and a bit discomforting. I'm not proud of the person I was during those first weeks of Will's six-month invasion. Her intuitive response to my house was spot on. I had, in fact, been "vacant." And trying to fill an emotional void I'd yet to identify.

After I gave Will the boot, I dove—headlong—into surfing. And that reckless endeavor brought me Leni.

I confirm her question with a nod and she studies Will for another moment, well intense—the way one might ponder a jig-saw puzzle. Then she shifts that gaze to me and says, "Why did you kick him out?"

A better question: Why I am still friends with this inordinate knob?

"Lifestyle differences," I say.

"True," Will agrees. "But it wasn't always that way."

His blatantly suggestive tone produces the intended reaction—Leni's eyes narrow as they traverse yet again from Will to me.

"Right. Well, our food should be up shortly. Will, always a pleasure."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm going. Leni, it was great to meet you. Hope to see you again soon." Will stands, turning his attention back to me. "Tomorrow?"

"I'm working third shift," is what I say. What I actually mean is, "Do not call me, you insufferable wanker."

Will nods, well enough appeased, and walks into the restaurant.

"What happens tomorrow?" Leni asks.

"He will ask a ridiculous amount of questions about you."

"What will you tell him?"

"Very little."

Leni bobs her head to this, but her eyes are following Will. Who has just landed at the bar and is already chatting up two young—too young—women in a way that is likely meant to illustrate the "lifestyle" I abandoned.

Will has left Leni with questions I should answer straight away. Either that or I should conjure a distraction.

One miraculously arrives in the form of a waitress. "It's a good thing you work in a hospital," she says.

Oh dear God it's Jess. With our food. Jess. Is still in town?

I become immediately aware of three things: my mouth is agape, my face is flush and Leni, who appears to have observed things one and two, is now studying our waitress—who is Jess for sodding sake.

Jess hikes an expectant eyebrow as she places two sweaty glasses of beer on our table. "Oh," I say. Right. "Hello. I thought you were moving to Florida."

"Yeah, well..." She glances at Leni as she delivers twin baskets of fish and chips. "I left. But I'm back now—to nag you about your addiction to saturated fat."

"That's unfortunate," I say. "Or—erm. Perhaps a good thing? For you."

Jess gives me a look. I honestly don't know the woman well enough to interpret it. There was nothing between us, really. A period of flirtation that led to a one-off, which was planned as such and mutually-agreed-upon—as she was all set to permanently relocate.

She folds her empty serving tray against her body and says, "You folks have everything you need?"

This is actually something I've seen Jess do before—literally wielding the thing like a protective shield. I feel compelled to apologize. But I suppose I'm only at fault for reacting badly to an awkward situation?

"I think we're good, Jess. Thank you."

"Sure thing," she says and departs. Seeming to take it in her stride?

I certainly hope that's the case.

Leni contemplates Jess's retreat as if she's come upon another puzzle. But surely she's not so innocent she can't fit the pieces together: Jess's obvious familiarity coupled with my flustered response. And all of this after Will...

I frantically scan the bar. He's left, thank God. And there's no chance Will would have done if he'd witnessed that humiliating exchange.

"The food looks great," Leni says.

With feigned enthusiasm?

"The fish is tolerable," I say. "But I really come for the chips."

"The what?" She looks down at her basket and immediately, her eyes register comprehension. "Oh, the fries."

"Right. Sorry."

"Don't apologize. I love the way you talk. With that accent and the way you look, you must have been the exact opposite of me in college."

What is this? "Are you saying you think I'm attractive?" I ask, smiling. Elated.

"I'm saying any woman would think so." Leni makes a sweeping gesture, but her eyes are focused on something.

I glance over my shoulder. Jess is delivering drinks to a neighboring table. Leni has definitely made the connection.

Should I offer up some explanation? This hardly feels like the appropriate...

"What was your lifestyle like when you lived with Will?" she asks.

Apparently it is time. I pick up my sweating glass and take a generous gulp of Dutch Courage. "In a word, aggravating. Will is a bit of a lad. He liked to...entertain. I did not."

"But it wasn't always that way—according to Will."

"He isn't the most credible source of information," I say. And I have to laugh at the expression that comes to her face: the pout of a child who is not getting her way. "All right, then. During the first weeks of our experimental living arrangement, I was not vehemently opposed to Will's lifestyle choices. But it grew tiresome rather quickly."

"So. The people you entertained..." She gestures vaguely. At Jess, no doubt. "Was it ever anything serious?"

"No," I say—emphatically. "Remember what I said about my mum's prophecy and the proverbial monkey? Dating seriously is something...was something I avoided like the plague."

Leni picks up a chunk of battered fish. Her cheeks are pink. Does that mean she noticed my correction? I'd very much like to spell it out for her—to remind her of what I said about my happiness being a recent development. The change is you, Leni.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I'm being..." She sighs and shakes her head.

For Heaven's sake, what? Is she merely being curious, or is she trying to stake a claim? I honestly have no idea.

Well then I bloody-well will spell it out. "That's the positive takeaway," I say. "From living with Will, I mean. I know without a doubt now that I'm ready for a serious relationship. I want to settle down."

Leni focuses on the piece of fish in her fingers and then drops it into the basket. The blush has drained from her face—as has any hint of emotion. She is every bit as closed off as she was the day we met.

That is, until Jess comes back to ask, with a bit of an attitude, if Leni needs a takeaway box for her untouched food.

She nods without making eye contact. But when Jess walks away, Leni stares after her, looking completely forlorn.

Then she turns back to me and says, "I can't make you any promises, but I want to meet her."

"Her?" I ask. "Meaning..."

"Emma, your patient."

"Oh. Right." Complete mental whiplash. "I'd nearly forgotten."

I'd absolutely forgotten, to be honest—caught up as I'd been in Will's bollocks and Jess's surprise return.

Now more than ever I regret making the suggestion. For Leni to heal Emma's broken hip? Good Lord. Is it too late to say I've changed my mind?

Wait, what was the phrase she'd used? "You're asking for my kind of help?" And the look on her face. It'd been something akin to smug satisfaction. Then the sincerity of her confession. "My mother had arthritis in her hands. Until I was five."

I can hardly be sitting here thinking I want to settle down with Leni while she's under the impression I believe she can perform miracles.

"Can we go to the hospital now?" she asks.

"Absolutely."