Page 12 of Brenna, Brat

Then the server came to take our orders. “I take it that you don’t speak Italian,” he said after she had gone off with our dinnerselections. Yes, I had stumbled over the word “vongole” as I asked for pasta with clams. “How did you learn French?”

“In college,” I said. “I went to study abroad for a year in France and I picked it up. I loved it there.”

“Would you go back?”

I nodded. “I’d really like to. I’m saving for something else right now, though. A new sewing machine,” I explained when he seemed to be waiting to hear.

“You like to sew?”

“My grandmother taught me. I make most of my own clothes,” I said, looking down at the dress I wore. “I made this.”

“Really? Shit, that’s good!”

“Do you think so?” No, he didn’t know what he was talking about. It was only that most people couldn’t even sew on a button or hem a skirt, so they were shocked that anyone could do more.

But Campbell was nodding now, as well. “It’s very cool that you know how to do that. My grandma, my dad’s mom, used to sew some stuff for us but my mom wouldn’t put it in the house.”

“It didn’t fit with the designer’s aesthetic,” I guessed, and he nodded.

“That’s exactly right. Are you trying to buy a big machine? I don’t know anything about them.”

“Not big, but with more features than what I currently have, and I want to get a new one because I used to have a refurbishedmodel…” He couldn’t have actually cared about this. “I’m saving for that and new boots, and then maybe I’ll think about a trip.”

“Well, now you won’t have to worry about buying Schönes.” He slid the bag he’d been carrying across the floor and over to my side of the table. “Size seven.”

“What?” I looked inside, and I did see a familiar logo on a big shoebox. “Are these boots for me? Why did you buy these?”

“Because someone stole yours while you were with me,” he answered. “It sucked for you and it pissed me off. I was talking to the rink manager when you ran out, and then I talked to her again after you left, but they weren’t going to do anything about it. I did instead, and there you go.”

“This brand is hard to find.”

“Yes, I know that,” he told me, and laughed. “No one around here sells them and they’re rare online, too. But I tracked them down eventually and they finally got delivered today, all the way from Austria. It took even longer because I’m not a German-speaker, or French or Italian either, if you’re wondering. I couldn’t remember the name for a while, and I figured that you’d want the same kind.” Then he mentioned, as if it was nothing, “I wasn’t thinking very clearly that day. I ended up having to go to the hospital after I left the rink.”

I stopped trying to peer into the box to check the color. “The hospital? Why?” I asked.

“I hit my head when I fell on the ice,” he answered. “Later that day, I guess I started acting weird. I went to the ER and it turned out I had a little bleed.”

“A bleed? In your head?”

“It’s all right now,” Campbell told me. “Then I was waiting until I had the boots before I saw you again, because you were pretty pissed.”

“Not at you, though,” I answered quickly. “I wasn’t mad at you, just about losing something that was important to me. They only sold them in one little store in New York, and I worked there until I could afford them. I was really proud and then when they were gone…but it didn’t relate to you.” I remembered my sister saying that I should apologize. “I can’t believe you hit your head that hard and you didn’t say anything!”

“Who knew it was so bad?” he asked rhetorically. “If I hadn’t acted loopy, I probably wouldn’t have found out, either. I just thought I had a headache.”

“Who told you that you were acting strangely?” I asked.

“A friend.”

Oh, a woman. That had been a Saturday night, so she was the real deal. Today, by the way, was Tuesday, but I was more worried about his brain. “You didn’t say anything about getting hurt when we were at the rink,” I pointed out.

“I’d done worse when I played, and that kid was crying, remember? You had bent your wrist and probably bruised your ass again, and then your stuff had been stolen. I didn’t want to complain when the situation already sucked.”

I shook my head.

“Also, I wasn’t aware that my brain was bleeding,” he acknowledged. “I would have acted on that. But I’m fine, now.”

The wine had arrived and he moved our conversation away from potentially fatal injuries as we drank it. It was very tasty, and so were the salads and the bread, and later the pasta. I ate and talked, and I realized that I was having fun. It wasn’t due to the quality of the meal, though. I was enjoying this a lot, how he laughed at things I said and the funny stories he told me, too. Like, he talked about a man in his office who had lost his car somewhere in a Detroit Metro Airport parking lot and then had spent hours walking around and looking for it.

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