Page 70 of Puck You Both

I catch myself melting inside, mid-laugh, elbow in the syrup. The napkins, the bacon I steal and Patrick pretends not to notice, Wall relaxing progressively until he's taking up the whole bench. My body's having a great time. Inside it, there's a small stunned creature taking notes.

So this is what it's like when nobody's leaving.

Somewhere amidst all of that, two booths down, a girl lifts her phone at the angle people think is subtle. It's a diner, we're three large recognizable men, and I'm currently too happy to do the math on it.

The math does itself some half hour later, when we're standing at the register, in the form of three phones going off. Mine first, then Patrick's, one buzz after another after another, in that peculiar rhythm that means trouble. I check mine first.

The photo's already got numbers on it. It's the three of us mid-napkin-war—Wall gesturing with the pen, Patrick mid-rebuttal, me laughing with my head tilted back. Underneath, the caption reads:

RIVALS BREAK BREAD?? :eyes_emoji:

The replies are split between people being normal ("charity co-chairs, calm down, they run a campaign") and fan accounts experiencing rapture. And then, forty followers strong, one reply-guy verbally squinting at the thing nobody else sees.

idk. the vibes are: dating.

I cackle, out loud, at the register, because he's right. The vibes are dating. The vibes have a chair with sight lines, and also it's a genuinely good photo, by which I mean I look hot as fuck.

Then I look up. I'm the only one laughing.

Wall has gone still.

Patrick's gone very still in the other direction. The deeper one, the one where his face stays pleasant and everything behind it goes to work. He pays, thanks the waitress, and steers us out onto the sidewalk with a hand that touches nobody.

Milwaukee's doing its gray morning thing. Patrick scans the street once and then puts his voice in its managing register.

"It's fine. Co-chairs. It's cover." A car passes. He watches it go. "It's actually perfect cover."

He's right. Strategically, it's the best possible cover. The campaign explains everything. We could eat breakfast in that diner every Sunday until the gala and the caption would stay a caption.

But I'm not looking at Patrick when the word lands.

I'm looking at Wall. Something crosses his face. Half a second, maybe less, gone before it finishes landing, and I only catch because I've made his face my second job. It's not panic. Panic I'd know. It's the look of a man who got handed the correct answer and found it was still wrong somehow.

He nods, because it's the right call and he knows it, and Patrick nods, because the plan is sound, and I stand between them on a cold sidewalk, evaluating.

Maybe he doesn't want to be cover.

Neither do I, pal. Neither do I.

Chapter 14

WALL

I'M TWENTY MINUTES into my sole night off of the week, when the Wolves group chat declares war on me with zero regard to my sacred recovery and the west coast game I’m half-watching.

I sigh and pick up that damn phone. Begrudgingly.

Becker: GENTLEMEN. Investigation. All hands on deck.

Becker: [image]

The photo loads and I sit up so fast the remote hits the floor.

It's a corkboard. A real, physical corkboard, screwed into Becker's dining room wall under a printed banner that reads WHAT’S THE AGENDA OF WALL'S DINER FAMILY. The diner photo hangs in the middle. Red yarn runs from it to a map of Milwaukee, and from the map to a printout of my hair from the tomato era, circled twice.

Somewhere in this city a print shop employee took that banner order, printed it with no questions asked, charged him, and went on with their day like civilization wasn't collapsing.

Kane: You own yarn?