Chapter 12: Pilates

I sat up in bed and zoomed in on the photo.

Jade in a paper hospital gown, hair in a perfect braid, lashes on.

The pink form in her hand said CONSENT FOR SURGICAL PROCEDURE.

The surgery date at the top was blank.

Underneath, she'd written a caption.

"The club that did this to me has a team of lawyers. I have you guys. Every dollar gets me closer to walking without pain."

There were twelve hundred comments.

"Praying for you, queen."

"Clubs like that should be shut down."

"Sending $20 from Ohio, it's all I have."

I called Finn.

He answered on the first ring, which meant he'd seen it.

"Somebody in Ohio sent her their last twenty dollars," he said. "Because of my floor."

"I know."

"I want to call that person and give them twenty dollars back."

"I know. Don't."

He was quiet.

"Friday's still on," he said. "I'm not letting her have Friday."

She didn't get Friday.

Or the next Friday, or the one after that.

By the last Sunday in July, Friday dinners had turned into Sunday breakfasts.

Finn's place was a narrow brownstone on Union Park, four blocks from mine.

The kitchen was mostly a stove and a table covered in squash magazines.

He'd invited me over for "a pancake summit."

"It's not a summit," Robbie said, when I came in. "It's a war. Dad lost last week."

"I didn't lose. The judges were biased."

"The judge was me."

Finn was at the stove in a T-shirt and bare feet, flipping pancakes with fierce concentration.

He'd bought oat milk.

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