Handholds Before Breakfast

Saturday mornings at Hearthline Climbing Cooperative began with chalk dust, bass from a playlist, and Ravi Bhandari calling grocery quantities from the mezzanine as if breakfast service were a municipal emergency.

For four months, Kendrick Farlow had arrived at eight, climbed alone, and pretended not to watch Marlon Reyes coach from the far side of the room. Marlon made every small victory matter. A nervous adult beginner reached a blue hold; Marlon threw both hands overhead and called, “That’s it—use the wall, not your panic!”

The climber laughed, reset, and finished the route. Marlon celebrated as though he had been handed excellent news.

Kendrick told himself it was professional admiration. He admired competent coaching, competent bodies, competent people who remembered names and injuries without turning either into a public announcement. At thirty-eight, after years of transit hearings and emergency filings, he was well practiced at noticing good things from a safe distance. You could call that avoidance; Kendrick called it scheduling.

The Route-and-Refuel card had been Ravi’s idea—or Ravi’s ambush, depending on which side of the clipboard a person occupied. Six Saturdays. Six paired climbing sessions. Six breakfast shifts for the cooperative’s members. Kendrick had signed up because Ravi had said, “We need someone who can read a recipe without beginning a labor dispute.”

“I do not begin labor disputes,” Kendrick had replied.

Ravi had looked him over. “That is exactly what a man who begins labor disputes would say.”

On the first Saturday, two members canceled before nine. Ravi studied his list, then turned with suspicious speed.

“Team reshuffle,” he announced. “Kendrick, you’re with Marlon.”

Marlon’s face opened into a grin. “Excellent.”

Kendrick had not agreed that this was excellent. He had, however, learned that arguing with Ravi only extended the experience.

Marlon tipped his head toward the route card sticking from Kendrick’s tote. “Are those notes?”

“Route observations.”

“May I?”

“Only if you promise to refrain from editorial comment.”

“That is a dangerous condition, Professor.”

Kendrick handed it over before considering the implications. Marlon read the compact writing in the margins: hold angles, likely foot slips, an irritated correction to the wall’s printed grade.

“‘Right heel releases on the third pull if you rush the turn,’” Marlon read. “Beautiful. We are absolutely keeping you, Professor.”

“It is relevant information.”

“It is artful relevant information.”

The nickname should have annoyed him. Instead, it lodged somewhere inconvenient.

At the wall, Marlon asked, “Do you want beta, encouragement, or quiet?”

“Quiet.”

“Quiet it is. You lead; I’ll be nearby.”

He was. Nearby, never crowding. When Kendrick finished a careful blue route without aggravating his knee, Marlon clapped once and met him at the mat.

“You saw the hold shift before your knee had to compensate,” Marlon said. “Smart climbing.”

“Most people call it cautious.”

“Most people are wrong often. I don’t recommend copying them.”

Their breakfast assignment involved mushrooms, spinach, and a skillet large enough to feed a commuter platform. Kendrick chopped while Marlon moved through the cooperative kitchen with cheerful purpose.

“In exchange,” Marlon said, “you supervise the mushrooms, Professor. I hear attorneys appreciate a pan with rules.”

“Attorneys.”

“Please forgive me. The soup ladle is distressed.”

Then he set a mug beside Kendrick’s cutting board. Earl Grey, plain.

Kendrick looked from the tea to Marlon. “How did you know?”

“Wednesday night. You told Saul that honey makes Earl Grey taste like hotel-lobby soap.” Marlon shrugged, entirely too casual about it. “I keep useful facts.”

“That was a throwaway comment.”

“No.” Marlon turned the mushrooms with a wooden spoon. “It was specific and funny. Those go in storage.”

Ravi passed behind them carrying a crate of eggs. “You two are disgustingly efficient.”

“We have known each other for forty minutes,” Kendrick said.

Ravi’s mouth bent in a private little amusement. “Sure.”

At ten-thirty, Kendrick checked his phone and found no emergency waiting for him. Still, he said, “I need to go.”

Marlon did not ask why. “Of course. Thanks for being my partner.”

Kendrick slid the stamped card into his pocket.

“I’ll see you next Saturday?” Marlon asked.

“That is the program’s structure.”

Marlon laughed—bright, easy, devastatingly pleased. “I’ll take that as yes, Professor.”

Outside, Chicago was loud and gray, buses coughing past the corner. Kendrick walked toward the train with the ridiculous awareness that someone at Hearthline knew how he took his tea, knew when to give him quiet, knew that he noticed the details.

It was attentive. Professional, perhaps.

It was not personal.

By the time his train arrived, Kendrick did not believe himself.

À suivre.

Kendrick did not recognize the exact moment Marlon Reyes fell for him. This was not because Marlon concealed it; it was because Kendrick had built an entire adult life around mislabeling personal devotion as competency.

On Wednesday evening, Kendrick found Marlon’s yellow resistance band looped over a bench outside the training alcove. The clip bore M.R. in blue marker; naturally it did. Marlon labeled protein containers, spare tape, even the charger beside the sound system. Kendrick had heard him mention a client whose repaired knee protested during lateral-band work, so he carried the band home with a note tucked around it.

For the client with the knee: would placing the band above the knees, using a shorter step, and keeping one hand on a rail reduce the inward collapse when fatigue starts? A physical therapist should have final say. —K.F.

At Saturday’s check-in, Kendrick passed it across the desk. Marlon read the note once, then again. His lively face went still in a way Kendrick could not interpret.

“You remembered that?”

“You said it during open gym.”

“Eight days ago.”

“You label your equipment. It seemed reasonable to return it.” Kendrick considered the note. “The adjustment seemed potentially useful.”

Marlon pressed the paper flat against the desk with exaggerated care. “Professor, that is absurdly considerate.”

“It is rubber and an index card.”

“It is you remembering something I cared about.” Marlon looked at him with a softness that should have triggered some warning system. “Thank you.”

Kendrick cleared his throat. “You are welcome.”

By nine, a laminated route plan waited beside Kendrick’s card. The title read PROFESSOR’S NO-NONSENSE CIRCUIT.

“You made me a program?”

“I made you options,” Marlon corrected. “Slab traverse, low-step technical work, controlled downclimbs. No surprise drops. No dynos unless you specifically request them—which you will not, because you called them bad-faith proposals from gravity.”

“They are.”

“I know.” Marlon’s grin arrived in full. “That is why I remembered.”

“If my knee objects?”

“We stop. You do not earn a prize for making pain into a character trait.”

“That is a deeply personal accusation.”

“At work, perhaps. Here, I want you to enjoy yourself.”

The routes were good—annoyingly good. Marlon had chosen holds that rewarded careful feet and patience, then stayed close enough to offer a suggestion without turning every move into a lesson. When Kendrick completed the traverse without a complaint from his knee, Marlon celebrated with a quiet clap and an expression of such straightforward delight that Kendrick had to look at the wall again.

At breakfast, Marlon conducted what he called data gathering.

“Soft eggs or fried?”

“Soft.”

“Potatoes with onions?”

“Yes.”

“Cheddar?”

“Yes, in quantities that respect the cheese.”

“Excellent. Tea is already handled.”

Ravi lifted a crate of tomatoes onto the counter. “Do you offer this intake process to everyone?”

“Only people who answer breakfast questions like they’re drafting municipal regulations.”

At the counter, two regulars handed Ravi folded bills. He wrote their names beside dates on his grocery clipboard, then flipped it face-down when Kendrick approached. Kendrick assumed some disagreement over pancake portions had become unnecessarily formal.

He went to the pantry for napkins and stopped short at Marlon’s voice.

“Professor is brilliant, funny, and definitely not interested,” Marlon said. “I can recognize a boundary when I see one. I’m going to be useful without making my feelings his problem.”

Ravi made a low sound of disbelief. “A heroic commitment to suffering.”

“It is not suffering. He lets me call him Professor.”

“That is not the victory you think it is.”

Kendrick stepped back before either man saw him.

The conclusion should have settled him. Marlon was kind because Marlon was kind; attentive because attention was part of his work, his nature, his whole maddeningly capable operation. It had nothing to do with Kendrick specifically.

When he returned, Marlon set a plate beside his mug—soft eggs, onion potatoes, cheddar scattered over both.

“You are exceptionally good at this,” Kendrick said.

“At breakfast?”

“At making people feel considered.”

Marlon’s face gentled. “That one matters to me, Professor.”

Ravi stamped Kendrick’s card with unnecessary force.

Four Saturdays remained. That was simply the structure of the card—nothing else.

Continuará.

By the third Saturday, their Route-and-Refuel card carried two purple stamps and a small oil mark along one edge. Marlon called it character. Kendrick called it contamination.

“Professor, you litigate for public transit. You should respect a document that has seen service.”

“I respect documents that remain legible.”