I set the phone on the counter.
The box was still open on the counter, and the note was in my hand. I read it again.
He talked about you all the time.
On a normal morning, I would have turned music on by now. Most of the time it would be Fleetwood Mac. Once in a while, Steely Dan or Elton John. Disco was for company.
I let the condo remain quiet.
I didn't think about trying to contact Pratt. He had none of the background. I hadn't actually avoided talking about Bryan. The right opening never appeared. Now it felt like I'd have to shove a damn mountain through a keyhole if I wanted to get him up to speed.
As I lay back on the couch, a weight settled over me. It wasn't sharp, no pain in my gut. It tied concrete blocks to my ankles, making it impossible to move.
Half an hour later, I fell asleep.
When I woke, it was already late afternoon, pushing toward evening. I thought about Bryan on the floor of his room listening to that self-titled record—dark hair falling across his forehead, with those near-black eyes fixed on the ceiling, completely absorbed.
I thought about the diner meal: scrambled eggs, wheat toast, and two hours of nothing that turned out to matter.
Call me this week. Yeah, definitely.
I'd spent the last two years in Chicago moving fast enough to not allow the memories to catch up. I was good at it.
I stayed on the couch while the room darkened around me. I hadn't been this still since Boston.
It was worse than I'd thought it would be.
Bryan was gone. I'd had two weeks, and I didn't call. A single gunshot had taken the steadiest person in my life, and I still hadn't found my footing without him.
I needed to move again.
I stood and walked to the kitchen and back. Then I looked out the window. Finally, I turned around. The condo felt smaller.
The box was still on the counter. I knew I should put it away. That would be a reasonable step. I could find a shelf in the closet where it could sit while I figured out what to do with it.
Grabbing my phone, I scrolled to Nora and called. She knew some of the context.
She answered over bar noise: voices stacking on each other and glasses clinking. Carver's was humming at full post-workday volume.
Nora nearly shouted into the phone. "Sully, what's this about?"
I tried to piece together a coherent story, but what came out wasn't that.
"I didn't call him back." It came out rougher than I meant it to. "Two weeks he was trying to reach me, and I kept thinking—there's more time. There's always more time."
"The friend in Boston?"
"I was so angry at him. For a while, I was just furious. I know that's insane." My voice cracked on the last word. "And then his mom sent me his records and a note saying he talked about me all the time, and I don't—" I stopped. "Things with Pratt are—"
I didn't finish that sentence either.
A pause on Nora's end. I heard her speaking to the room: "Tomasz. I need you to cover." There was a brief exchange I couldn't make out. Then back to me, with the bar noise pushed to the background.
"Hey, I've got you. Stay with me."
"I'm fine." That was so wrong I nearly laughed.
"I know you are. Can you get to my place?"
