“You look straight at him and you say exactly that. Because the bullet doesn’t give him permission to erase you. The chair doesn’t give him permission. Nothing gives anyone permission to make the person they love invisible. Not the fact that he took it for you. Especially not that. Because if he took a bullet for you and then spends the rest of his life pretending you’re not there, what was the bullet for?”
“Okay, I’ll talk to him,” I say. “On the next trip. Face to face. Not on the phone.”
Dante nods, squeezes my shoulder once and releases. He picks up his laptop and opens it. Dante knows when to stop.
“Now,” he says. “Let’s figure out the lantern wedding before you burn the state of Florida down. I need to talk to you about contingency plans because I did some research and the fire risk of two hundred sky lanterns over a garden reception is genuinely terrifying.”
“How terrifying?”
“A single sky lantern reaches an internal temperature of three hundred degrees. Two hundred of them over a garden with live oaks and dried palm fronds is not a wedding, Benji. It’s an insurance claim. The fire marshal will shut it down before the first dance ends and the bride will be standing on a dance floor watching firefighters hose down her reception while the photographer captures the whole thing for posterity.”
“Seriously?”
“I’m just telling you the physics. The physics suggest a pivot to LED lanterns on fishing line, which give you the same floating glow, the same visual, the same gasp from the guests, with zero chance of a structure fire. Or, and hear me out, a drone light show. I know a vendor. Forty drones programmed to the first-dance song. The guests look up and the sky is full of light and nobody’s homeowner’s insurance gets canceled.”
“The bride wants real flame,” I say.
“No, she wants a moment. Give her a better moment. That’s what you do. You take what people think they want and you give them what they actually want and they thank you for it. The lanterns are the idea. The moment is the product. Deliver the product.”
“What would I do without you?”
“Finish eating and go home to rest,” Dante says. “You have a conversation to think about and a wedding to plan. You can’t do either of those things running on Thai food and bad feelings.”
I hug him at the door. He holds on for an extra second.
The drive home is ten minutes. My apartment smells like the sealed-up version of my life. I drop my bag by the door, open the balcony door to let the night air in, and check my phone.
Mickey:Sorry I missed your call. PT ran late. Steve says my left calf is showing voluntary contraction now. Not just twitches. Actual movement. Small but real. I moved my foot today, Benji. Half an inch. Steve measured it.
I stare at the screen. His foot moved. The foot I held in my hands and pressed cream into while he watched.
I call him. He picks up on the first ring.
“Half an inch,” I say. “Mickey! That’s incredible!”
“Yeah, can you believe it? Half an inch. Steve made me do it three times to confirm. Same result every time.”
“I’m so proud of you. You know that, right?”
“I do. How’s Miami? Did you get home okay?”
“I stopped at Dante’s first. He ate half the taffy before I could get it out of the bag. I’m home now.”
“The loft is too quiet without you,” he says.
“You live above a bar with a jukebox and a man who talks to his smoker at five in the morning. Nothing about your life is quiet, Mickey.”
“It’s quiet where it matters.”
I close my eyes. He’s not going to say more than that.
“Goodnight, Mickey. Call me tomorrow.”
“I will. Goodnight, Benji.”
His foot moved half an inch.
Chapter 38: Mickey
