Pickle had chosen trust. Again.
"When?" My voice came out raw. "When did he leave Jake's?"
"Couple hours ago."
"Where did he go?"
Hog was quiet for a beat too long.
"Hog. Where is he?"
"He was walking to your hotel, Adrian."
Pickle was either on his way to my hotel or already there.
I stood outside his empty apartment, rehearsing speeches and congratulating myself for finally choosing honesty. He'd gone to find me, and I wasn't there.
"I have to go."
"Adrian—"
"I have to go."
I hung up before he could say anything else. My legs were already moving, carrying me toward the parking lot where my rental sat waiting.
I'd finally chosen the truth.
I just hadn't chosen it fast enough.
Chapter twenty-one
Pickle
Ihad a plan.
This was notable because I wasn't historically a plan guy. I was more of a "launch yourself at the situation like a human cannonball and hope the net appears" guy. My decision-making process usually involved approximately zero seconds of forethought and a lot of apologizing to furniture I'd knocked over.
This time—this one time—I had an actual, structured, grown-up plan. I'd workshopped it on the walk from Jake's, muttering to myself like a true crime podcast host doing a dramatic reenactment.
Hear him out. Don't interrupt. Don't spiral. Don't do the thing where you fill silence with ridiculous observations about whatever object is closest to your hand. Let Adrian explain, and then decide.
It was cold enough that my Crocs—my beautiful, perfect, safety-orange Crocs—were definitely a choice that past-Pickle would answer for when present-Pickle's toes fell off from frostbite.
Worth it. I looked fantastic. Some things mattered even when your entire life might be imploding.
The hotel lobby smelled like burnt coffee. Beige floor. Beige vinyl chairs huddled around a droopy ficus. A TV in the corner played local news on mute—weather map, car dealership, and a woman's mouth forming words nobody would ever hear.
I thought about how many conversations happened like that. People talking at full volume while someone else watched with the sound off.
Focus. Plan. Remember the plan.
The front desk clerk was maybe twenty-five, with dark hair yanked into a ponytail. She scrolled through her phone without looking up.
I stood at the counter and waited. Not talking. Not bouncing on my toes. Not commenting on the ficus or the specific frequency of the fluorescent light that would give someone a migraine.
It felt like wearing a straitjacket made of silence.
Thirty seconds. Forty. I counted the beige tiles behind her head. Twelve across, eight down.
