He exhales like he’s smiling. “You usually save that tone for people who actually screwed up. Was the food not good?”
“Funny, asshole,” I say. My voice stays level, but there’s pressure under it now. “You didn’t think to mention Coco Boudreaux was the one running it.”
There’s a beat of silence on the line, long enough that I slow my steps without meaning to.
“…What,” Keller says.
“Don’t do that.”
“I’m not,” he says quickly. “I swear to you, I didn’t know.”
I turn the corner, my shoes striking harder than they need to. “Then tell me how it happened.”
“Michael Lynch,” Keller says. “He called this afternoon. Something blew up in Austin and he couldn’t get to the city in time. He offered the seat and asked if I wanted it.”
“So why did I end up there?”
“I couldn’t go,” Keller says. “I was already booked. And honestly, I figured it was the perfect excuse to get you out of the office. One night where you weren’t buried in numbers.”
I stop beneath a streetlight and look down at the concrete, pale and cracked beneath my shoes.
“You figured wrong,” I say.
There’s another pause. Shorter this time. “I didn’t know it was her, brother, I swear.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “I handled it.”
“I’m sure you did,” he says. “You always do.”
My phone vibrates in my ear. I flip it around and look at, never expecting to see her name on my screen.
The name interrupts me mid-step. I stop short at the curb, the rest of the street moving past like I’m no longer part of it.
“Keller,” I say. “I’ve got another call.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah, it's fine. I've got to go,” I say, because it’s the closest version of the truth I’m willing to offer. “We’ll talk later.”
I end the call and stand there for a second longer than necessary, the city moving around me like I’m not paused at all.
Then I answer.
“Coco.”
“Hi,” she says.
Her voice is steady, but there’s energy threaded through it, unresolved. I can hear movement on her end. It sounds like a door closing, then the soft scrape of something being set down.
“I just finished wrapping up,” she says. “I have too much energy left,” she says. “And not enough wine.”
I shift my weight and look down the street, the glow of open bars and lit windows stretching ahead.
“There’s a lounge on Dauphine,” she continues. “Quiet, good wine. I was thinking of grabbing a glass before I head home. Care to join me?”
She hesitates, then adds, softer, “You said earlier that if I wanted to talk, I knew how to find you. Just thought I'd try if you're not already home.”
“Yes,” I say quickly.
