Diego’s sweaty palm found my shoulder. I resisted the urge to squirm beneath his slimy skin. “I’m serious. When was the last time you took a full day off? Not working at home, not checking emails, actually took time off?”
I thought a moment, tried to remember.
“Exactly.” Diego guided me from the cardio area into the section with free weights. “You need balance, man. Work is important, but it can’t beeverything. You’re twenty-six and you’re already burned out.”
“I’m not burned out—”
“You fell asleep at our place during dinner last week.”
“That was one time—”
“Your head hit the table so hard your soup spilled. David took photos.”
I had no defense for that. They had evidence.
We worked out in relative silence—Diego doing his thing, me going through the motions and thinking about the files waiting for me at the office. Between sets, my mind wandered to Finn’s last text, something about interviewing bartender candidates today and hoping at least one of them was normal.
I was curious to know how the interviews were going but couldn’t remember when they were even supposed to start.
More than that, I just wanted to see Finn.
For once, I wanted tonotbe at the office.
“Go see him,” Diego said, reading my mind with the skill of a carnival fortune teller.
“What? Who?”
“Your bartender, Finn. Go see him when we’re done.”
“I have work—”
“Youalwayshave work. That’s my entire point.”Diego set down his weights. “Chase, I love you like a brother, but you’re going to work yourself to death and wake up at forty realizing you missed your entire life. Take a break. Go to the bar. See the guy who makes you giggle at your phone like a teenager.”
“I don’t—”
“You do. David noticed it, too. It’s cute but also pathetic.” He grabbed his towel. “I’m not saying quit your job. I’m saying takeonenight off. It’s just a few hours.”
I went back to the office after the gym and worked through the upcoming mediation file, made notes, and sent emails. By 6 p.m., my stomach was growling and my eyes were starting to cross.
I could order delivery. Eat at my desk. Keep working.
Or maybe Diego had a point. I could take an actual break.
I grabbed my keys and headed out.
The French crepe place on 7th Avenue was busy but not packed. I got a table by the window and ordered my usual—a sausage and brie crepe with caramelized onions. It arrived in ten minutes, hotand steamy and perfect. I ate slowly, watching people walk by outside.
Ybor at night was a different world than Ybor during the day. The streets came alive with music spilling out of bars, people laughing, and the unique, carefree kind of energy that Tampa specialized in. I used to be part of that energy, back in law school, back before the Morrisons’ firm and the seventy-hour weeks and the slow realization that I’d traded my life for my career.
When had that happened?
When had I become the guy who worked every weekend and fell asleep in soup?
I finished my crepe, paid, and started walking back toward my car.
Which was parked near the office.
Which was four blocks from Barbacks.
