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“They’ll do most of it for us.”
He exhales, then looks at me in the mirror.
“What if they think I’m an idiot?”
“Then you’ll get along beautifully.”
His laugh is reluctant, but it counts.
We leave before Clint can change shirts again.
Outside, the air feels easier. The house had gone tight around us, all mirrors and nerves and buttons. On the steps, at least, we have gravity to blame for being careful.
By the time we reach town, the sidewalks are thick with tourists in shorts and tank tops and sandals slapping against smooth cobblestone. Cabs crawl past. Music leaks from open doors beneath rainbow flags.
“They’re going to think I’m trash, Paul.”
“They already think that about me. Renny was the socialite. They won’t judge to your face.”
“Not comforting.”
I slow at the curb and look back.
“You are Clint DeLuca. You are not trash. You command an audience just by smiling. And you definitely have the biggest dick in the group.”
His face goes serious.
“Sadly,” he says, “that helps.”
The bar is smaller than I remember. Or maybe Alby and Brad simply take up more room than most people.
They’re at a high-top near the open front, both sunburned, both tipsy, both dressed like the same resort store attacked them in different colorways. Floral shirts. White shorts. Too many bracelets.
Clint clocks them immediately.
“They look like you with twenty more years, a lot more money, and way less hair.”
The laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it.
Alby’s head snaps up. His whole face lights.
“Pauly!”
Every cell in my body tightens at the name.
Brad turns too, lifting both arms like we have returned from war instead of walking six blocks.
“There he is!”
Clint leans closer. “Pauly?”
“Do not.”
“Oh, I’m storing that.”
Alby waves us over, already loud enough for nearby tables to look.
I feel Clint stiffen beside me, then his arm brushes mine.
