“Chinese?”
“Sure.” An hour and a half until he’s sitting at a table, by himself. He’ll be calling me by quarter after. Texts every few minutes past then. Figuring something is wrong when I don’t answer, the gradual passage of time until it becomes a certainty.
Will he guess that I know?
“Shall I reply?” I ask. “Say I’m not coming?”
“No, fuck that.” Tasha’s resolute. “Let the bastard stew.”
She’s probably right.
I turn my phone todo not disturband set it face down, back on the table. Then push it away another inch.
Tasha holds her hand out. “Give it to me.”
I’m not certain her judgment is any better than mine. She’s drunk more, too. But I hand it over.
Tasha powers it off, then stuffs it down the side of the couch. “You get it back tomorrow, if you’re good.”
“Yes, Mom.”
We watch another film and eat takeout, and I have no idea what we watch or what I ate.
But I fall asleep on Tasha’s sofa bed, the wine helping me to a welcome oblivion.
I wake up Sunday morning with less of a hangover than I expected, stand under the shower for longenough that some of it is washed away, and hit the rest with coffee.
Tasha groans from the bedroom, clearly dying, so I bring her a cup.
“How are you up?” she asks from beneath her pillow.
“It’s a morning thing.”
“It’s disgusting, is what it is. I suppose you’re going to go anddo things?”
I smile and take a sip of coffee. “I had intended to head down to Lou’s and work on my bike ahead of this evening.”
“What time are we meeting?”
“Seven.”
“See you then.” The duvet gets pulled over her pillow, followed by a muffled, “Don’t forget your phone.”
Like I’ve been thinking of anything else.“Thank you for letting me crash.”
“Anytime.” A hand emerges and flaps at me. “Please go, before I embarrass myself and throw up while you’re still here.”
She’s cute when she’s grumpy. “Need a back rub and your hair held?”
“No, I need it to not be morning.”
On that wistful note, I see myself out, bag in hand and phone in my pocket, still switched off. I don’t have the courage to turn it on just yet.
The ride back to Tujunga is quiet, sparse Sunday morning traffic. It’s getting on for ten as I pull into Lou’s shop, having taken the long way round to avoidgoing anywhere near my apartment. Just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean Declan’s not waiting near there for me.
I spend the day working over my bike and swapping banter with Miguel. Lou comes out of his office to help, which is nice as I’m not paying him. It reminds me I owe him for the Palm Springs job, but Kurt hasn’t paid me yet. Lou understands.
Together, we lubricate the chain and check the tension, bleed the brake lines and put in fresh fluid, check the coolant levels, and a dozen other small jobs that keep my hands busy, if not my head.
