Would You Rather

36 - WYR: let yourself have it or go and hide

FIDAN

 At nine in the morning, Finley Shaw will be giving a presentation in the Hull Event Center, a kilometer, not a block, away from my hotel.

Data Collection Methods and Analysis for 11,000 Severe Brain Injury Cases: New Trends and Further Use for Case-Based Care.

Or at least I hope she will be there.

It takes quite a lot of my own guts to walk with utter confidence into a conference on something that I literally don't know the first thing about. I didn't know neuroscience was a word in English until about eight hours ago when I was googling this event.

If I were giving a presentation today it would be: Showing up to Your Fuck Buddy's Undergrad-Defining Keynote Presentation to Make Sure They're Okay: A Grey Area.

Luckily, I'm scary looking, lanky like slenderman to fit in with all these other rather strange looking science guys. So, with a three piece suit, and the guts of a man who's fistfought guys with fifty kilos on him, I waltz right into a science conference completely unscathed.

Darius and Bronson are on their phones in the back of the hall when I enter and I decide, fuck it. Might as well sit with them if I'm already doing something so mind-bogglingly stupid.

"Good morning, boys." I settle into the chair to Bronson's left at the end of the aisle. He's wearing a slightly wrinkly and sort of off-white collared shirt. It's yellowed, but not in the way that makes me think it's on purpose, more like it's been washed too much in iron-heavy water. Darius is in a suit coat, but it's tight on his shoulders and when I look down at his hands, tapping at his phone, the sleeves are too short.

"...Koskinen?" Bronson seems like he's unsure on how to greet me.

I snort, "you can call me Fidan, if you want. But yes, Koskinen is part of my name. Did you guys see Finley last night?"

They shake their heads.

"Fuck." I press my hands against the tops of my legs. That's not good.

"Was she not with you?"

"No. I thought she was with you guys." I chew on the corner of my lip. This conversation has gone very quickly from me trying to intimidate I-love-you Bronson to where the fuck was she.

"No... she hasn't stayed with us either night." Darius is eyeing me like I smell. I know I don't but there's a tip in his nose that's very distinct. "What are you doing here?"

And now I don't want to tell them that I'm worried about her because they're going to think I'm irresponsible and just let her walk off into the Murder Capital of Canada in the middle of the damn night completely unsupervised. "I told her I'd come... 'cuz I can't play right now."

"Injured?" Darius checks.

"Herniated disc in my neck." I tap the base of my skull. "Out until my legs stop going numb."

"Yikes." Darius turns back to the front of the room. "But you don't know where she was last night?"

"No, I have no idea. I really thought she was going to walk back to yours."

"And we really thought that she was getting fucked by some guy with a slipped disc." Bronson mutters. "Why are you here? Why did she want you here? You don't even know the first thing about any of this. It's, like, real actual science."

I raise my eyebrows, "oh, jeez. You're wildly unfamiliar with hockey if you think I don't know anything about brain injuries."

"I'm talking about the science, Fidan, not the first-hand experience." He first-names me, giving me so much side eye I could probably measure it in kilograms like the damn roaches.