"Okay."
"Not tonight."
"I understand."
He moved toward the door. I watched him cross the carpet.
At the door, he stopped. His hand rested on the handle.
"The counter-doc," he said without turning around. "If I say yes. You'd be doing it for me, or for you?"
I considered lying. Considered the answer that would sound better—selfless and noble.
"Both," I said instead. "Because it's the right thing, and because I want a chance to be someone you can trust again. And because I can't live with the version of myself who let this happen." I paused. "I don't know how to separate those things."
"That's honest."
"It's the least I owe you."
He opened the door. The hallway light spilled in.
"I'll let you know," he said. "About the counter-doc."
"Take whatever time you need."
He stepped across the threshold.
I didn't follow.
Every instinct screamed to go after him—to say something else, something better, something that would fix this.
I stayed where I was as the door closed with a soft click, standing in the silence Pickle left behind.
Then I crossed to the desk, opened the laptop, and typed an email to Lenny.
Chapter twenty-three
Pickle
Istood on the sidewalk outside Adrian's hotel and made a choice.
Not Jake and Evan. They'd want to fix it—Evan with spreadsheets and Jake with volcanic rage and a probable fistfight in a parking lot. They'd mean well. They'd love me hard, but I'd spend the whole night managing their feelings about my feelings, and I didn't have it in me.
Hog.
I needed Hog.
I pulled out my phone. My thumb hovered over his name for three seconds—long enough to second-guess, but not long enough to talk myself out of it.
Pickle:you up?
Three dots appeared immediately.
Hog:Always. You good?
I stared at the question. The automatic lie was right there—yeah, man, just restless—but my fingers typed something else.
Pickle:can I come over
