I chuckled. “Benji made you that drink last night. Give him credit. He’s a fucking bad-ass bartender,even if he’s . . . unique.”
“Fair.” Chase took a bite of his crepe. “What made you open a bar?”
I told him about my miserable job, then about Mark and his crazy ideas. I told him about finding Rod, how he'd left his fancy restaurant, and about the absolute terror of opening night and thinking we’d failed.
When I ran out of words, it was a surprise how much had happened in such a short time—and how much we’d accomplished.
“It’s only been a couple of weeks,” I said. “Sometimes I can’t believe we’re still open. Other times it feels like we’ve been doing this forever.”
“You love it though.”
“I do, even when it’s chaos—probablybecauseit’s chaos. It’s mine, you know? Ours. Mark and I built this from nothing.”
“That’s incredible, Finn. Really.” Chase reached across the table and took my hand. “You should be proud.”
“I am. And I’m terrified. And excited. And exhausted. And a dozen other things I’ll realize in a week or month or year.”
We kept talking—about everything and nothing.
The Lightning’s chances at the playoffs.
WhetherHorny Rivalswas good televisionor just gay soft porn with a network budget.
Our worst jobs (his: telemarketing in college; mine: a stint at a chain restaurant that shall not be named).
Favorite movies.
Least favorite foods.
And a dozen other things.
But I kept thinking about one moment, that singular instant when Chase’s walls had cracked and something painful had flickered across his face.
There was more there. More story. More hurt. I could feel it.
I wanted to ask, to go back to that moment, to dig deeper and understand this man and what he’d been through, but he wasn’t ready to share it yet.
And that was okay.
I was mid-sentence—something about Benji’s pink hair being a legitimate business decision—when I glimpsed the clock on the wall.
10:04 a.m.
“Shit,” I said.
“What?”
“It’s after ten. I’m so sorry. You said you had work to do. Some mediation—”
“It’s tomorrow.” Chase followed my gaze to the clock. “But yeah, I should—” He sighed, looking reluctant. “I should get to the office. I’ve gota ton of prep work and files to review . . . the usual.”
“I’m sorry for keeping you.”
“Don’t be.” He reached across the table and took my hand. “I’m glad you stayed. This was—this is the best Sunday morning I’ve had in forever.”
“Even with the war crime breath?”
“Even with that.”
