“Did you hear me, about Juliette?”
“I heard you.” A pause. “You nervous about seeing her?”
I scowl. If Beck wasn’t driving, I’d shove him. “Fuck off.”
“Was she nervous about seeing you?” His voice has lost its teasing edge. He’s serious.
“Stunned, I think. I hadn’t told her I was coming.”
“Had you guys talked since Paris?”
“Not a word.”
“Were you?—”
“Can we stop talking about it? Please?”
“Sure. It’s not like you ever hung a banner that saidSaylor Scott’s Inspirationfor the entire fucking club to see. I’ll respect your privacy.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, it all worked out for you, didn’t it?”
I’m taken aback by the note of bitterness in my voice, and I think Beck hears it too.
“It didn’t all just work out, Berger. It took a lot of work to get there, to figure things out. But I love her, so I fought for us.”
“I didn’t fight,” I admit. “That’s why it didn’t work out. And I’m reminded of that every time I think about her and every time I look at her now, and that fucking pisses me off.”
“Does she know that?”
I shake my head. “She’s moved on. She—there’s no point.”
A pause.
“You’re meeting with Wagner while you’re back?”
“Yeah.”
“If you mention you’d recover better here, he’d?—”
“No.” I startle myself with the swiftness and surety of my reply.
If we’d had this conversation before I left for Boston, I might have given a different answer. But I knew then that I didn’t have to go. If I’m being entirely honest, part of mewantedto see Claire again, as much as I was dreading it. And now that I have, I feel compelled to stay in Boston for as long as I committed to.
“I’ve got a routine there,” I add. “I like the doctors. And once I’m cleared for some activity, the Siege facilities will be perfect to work out in. They’re private and brand-new.”
“All right,” Beck says. “It’s your decision, Berger.”
I appreciate him choosing not to mention that those are flimsy excuses.
Or pointing out that dinner with Juliette didn’t make the list of reasons to return.
The following morning, I climb behind the wheel of my newest Audi and drive to Tannfeld. Driving, like just about everything, is a lot easier without the sling. Not that I let it stop me. The only times I hired a professional driver since my injury were returning from the hospital and going to the airport last month.
It’s not just the lack of a sling. The country roads are wide open, and I allow the speedometer to drift higher than the speed limit. The hit of adrenaline improves my mood…up until I park in my grandfather’s driveway.
I’m expecting the surprised scowl that spreads across Opa’s wrinkled face when he opens the door.
“What are you doing here, boy?”
