Receipt still in the pocket

The brie memory. That's what I keep calling it even though it's not brie, it's just the way she held her hand there. Palms flat on the ribs like it was nothing, like she wasn't standing three inches from me while Jules watched. I haven't texted her. The receipt is still folded in the pocket of the Thursday shorts which I haven't washed because that would mean deciding something.

I told Lou the shoulder was okay. She asked and I said "fine" without opening the message all the way. Didn't ask about the alumni thing because I already know what it is — old teammates, the ones who kept going, standing around a bar in life vests pretending the pool was the center of everything. I'd rather do Danny's southpaw for the third morning straight than stand there while someone asks what I'm doing now.

The photo doesn't leave my head either. The way I looked in it. Relaxed. Like none of this is happening. Twelve weeks of questions my body might not answer and I smiled like I was fine and now I can't stop looking at my own face, how easy I made it look. That's the part that shames me. Not the injury, not the ranking drop, not even the envelope. The smile.

Briggs doesn't know. That's still the only thing that works.