“I made rules. No hotel bars. No after-parties. In bed by one.”
“And?”
“I stuck to them. The crew owes me on the bet.”
She laughs. “I’m impressed.”
“Keep being—” I say, then stop because I’m not here to sell myself to her. I rub my hands on my jeans and say the thing I’ve been wanting to say since Phoenix. “Teach me normal.”
She blinks like she didn’t expect that string of words from me. “Normal how?”
“Like whatever you do when a day isn’t burning through you. Breakfast. Walks. Not talking to cops. Not fighting in hallways. Sleeping because you can. Telling myself no and not hating it. The boring stuff that turns into not making the same mistakes.”
She looks me over like she’s measuring a shelf. “You think you can do normal?”
“I don’t want to be a man who only knows how to be loud.”
She smiles. “I’d be happy to. We start tomorrow. Breakfast before ten. Shoes by the door. Phone face down.”
“Copy,” I say, ridiculous with relief.
“You’ll mess up. You’ll also get better.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
She goes back to the table and flips a proof to show me a minor tweak in the type. I lean in and look because that’s normal too, I think.
My hands stop buzzing. My jaw stops clenching. I didn’t think I’d get to feel that this year. Or ever.
But Lou thinks I can do this, so I can. I will.
25
LOU
Quincy callsat seven with a voice that says this is not a drill. Mike Halligan is suing Salem.
Assault, damages, the whole circus. A blog runs a blurry clip and a headline that uses my name as a slur. Quincy freaks out because that’s his job. He sends twelve texts in three minutes:no statements, don’t feed it, get to the hotel conference room, legal at nine.
I put on jeans and a black tee and tie my hair up. Salem is already by the door when I step into the hall, hoodie, cap, hands tight. He sees my face and shakes his head once. “Should’ve kept walking.”
“You didn’t start it.”
He doesn’t argue. We ride the elevator down with two tourists who don’t recognize us, which feels like a favor. In the conference room, Quincy paces between the coffee and a pile of folders. His tie is loose and his eyes are red. Counsel sets up a laptop and lays out a simple game plan on a legal pad. Not the internet’s version. The actual one.
“Municipal court, quick calendar,” the attorney says. “He filed a complaint and a civil claim. The city’s consolidating the disorderly conduct piece with a status hearing this afternoon. There’s a video. There are witnesses. We will ask for a finding that you did not initiate, and we’ll agree to community service for the decorum violation. Halligan will get a fine for starting it if we do this right. We do not want a sideshow.”
Quincy rubs his forehead. “Public image is a problem.”
“Public image is inevitable,” the attorney says.
“Lou,” counsel says, turning to me. “If you’re willing, I want you to make a short statement to the court. Two points only. One, Mr. Turner has adopted self-management rules on the road—no bars, no after-parties, in bed by one—and to your knowledge, he followed them in Phoenix and San Diego. Two, you now know him as someone who walks away from trouble unless trouble follows him down the hall. Do not speculate. Do not repeat insults. Keep it clean.”
“I can do that,” I say.
Quincy looks skeptical. “Putting her up invites questions.”
“It also anchors a narrative in a woman, which, let’s face it, makes him sound more reasonable,” counsel says. “The clip is thirty seconds of noise. We need context. We have security. We have the venue log. We have the prior information about his rules thanks to the crew who were betting against him. And we have her.”
