“See? This is exactly why I brought you.”
The third showing is a lot with a teardown and a Gulf view. We stand in the overgrown yard and look at the water through the sea oats. Dante talks about the build cost and the lot value while I nod.
After the showings we get lunch at a café. We sit outdoors under umbrellas. Dante orders for both of us. The ordering is one of the small tyrannies of our friendship that I’ve never fought, because Dante always orders well.
“You’re doing good,” he says, over a grouper sandwich and Cajun fries.
“I’m functioning. Functioning is not what I’d call good.”
“Functioning is the step before good. Good comes later. Now eat. How is your sandwich?”
“It’s fine,” I say.
Everything is fine. Fine is the word I learned from Mickey. I hate how natural it sounds coming out of my mouth. I push the half-eaten sandwich toward Dante to finish.
“Don’t you dare push food away,” Dante says. “That’s not who you are, Benji.”
I pull the sandwich back and eat it. My phone has been off since last night. I turn it on at the table. Eleven missed calls. Twenty-two texts. I don’t read them. I see the notification count and turn the phone back off. Dante raises his eyebrows but doesn’t comment.
“Never fall in love, Dante,” I say with a sigh. “It hurts too much.”
His eyes flash up to mine. “I can see that,” he says gently. “It hurts me to see you hurting. Don’t worry about me. I love everything about my life. Why would I take the chance of getting involved with someone and screwing everything up?” He smiles. “Maybe when I’m eighty. Or maybe not even then.”
“Do you ever think about finding someone?” I ask, even though I know the answer. “Ever?”
“No. I think about work, my friends, my big family. And you, of course. That’s enough for me. More than enough really.”
“Thank you for always being here for me,” I tell him. “You know what I’d like to do this afternoon?”
“I’m terrified to hear,” he says.
“I want to go swimming.”
Dante looks up from his fries. “Swimming? Where? In the Gulf?”
“Sure. It’s ninety-five degrees. Good weather. A perfect beach day with my best friend. What could be better?”
“Where do you want to go swim?”
“Panama City Beach.”
“Benji.No.”
“Why not? The beaches are public. It’s yellow flags, the water is as calm as a lake. There’s a perfect stretch of white sand right on Front Beach Road. Clean, wide, accessible from the public access point. Beautiful clear water.”
“As in the stretch of sand directly in front of Big Tex’s Roadhouse?” Dante says slowly. “As in the stretch of sand directly below the second-floor windows of Mickey Weaver’s loft?”
“Is it? I hadn’t thought about that. Isn’t that a funny coincidence.”
“Oh my God, you’re the worst liar in the state of Florida,” Dante says.
“I’m not lying. I’m choosing a convenient beach location based on proximity to a public beach access, free parking and water conditions.”
“You’re choosing to swim in the sightline of someone who can’t come down to the beach and who you’re currently furious with.”
“No, Dante. I’m choosing to swim at a public beach. If a man happens to be able to see the beach from his window, that’s purely a coincidence of geography.”
Dante stares at me, then the corner of his mouth lifts.
