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“I will.”

“You won’t.”

“I might.”

“You won’t, but I appreciate the fiction.”

I let her hug me this time. Briefly. Then I get in my car and drive to The Man Cave instead of home.

The Man Cave was once the place in Riverside. Leather nights, drag brunches, benefit shows, the Christmas underwear auction Renny claimed was for charity and I claimed was an excuse for respectable ogling.

Now, at opening, it looks tired before the night has even asked anything of it.

I hate noticing that. I hate that I now own it.

Maybe.

“Hi, Paul. Here to sign-off on payroll?”

Landy is behind the bar, stacking clean glasses into neat rows. He’s barely old enough to be there, but carries the emotional weight of a midlife crisis waiting to happen. He started here two years ago as a barback and somehow became one of Renny’s little projects.

Renny adored his project boys.

“Hello, Landy.”

His smile softens. “Sorry if that was abrupt.”

“It’s all right.”

He looks like he might come around the bar to hug me, then thinks better of it. He adjusts a glass that doesn’t need adjusting. “We all miss him, you know.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“You want anything?”

“No.”

“Water?”

“No, thank you.”

“Soda?”

“Landy.”

“Sorry.”

He nods toward the middle of the bar. “Don’s already here.”

Of course he is.

Don sits two stools down from the service well, aggressively thin, with one long leg hooked over the other and a sweating vodka soda in front of him even though he claims he only drinks after sunset. Dark hair brushes the back of his collar, a hint of the mullet he had when we were both too young to know better.

He gives me one slow scan and sighs.

“Oh, honey. You went to the lawyer dressed like a country club inductee.”

“It’s a respectful polo.”