Page 38

“I think everyone has become too comfortable with telling me what’s good for me.”

“Do I do that?”

I shoot him a look.

He lifts both hands. “Fine. Today I’ll keep my opinions up my ass.”

“Today I might actually need them. The bar is dying, the apartments are falling apart, and there’s too little income to pay for any of it. And if Renny’s conveniently timed son decides to press, I may need to sell all of it.”

Don’s mouth opens. For once, nothing comes out.

I almost enjoy that.

Then he says, quietly, “That bad?”

“I don’t know. Reggie talks like he’s rearranging furniture in a house on fire. I’m not great at sussing out what’s true.”

I walk to the refrigerator, open it, and stare inside for no reason. Sparkling water. Box of leftovers from lunch. Yogurt.

“Renny left me with one hell of a mess,” I say. “And now everyone keeps telling me maybe it would be healthy to just walk away.”

“I’m not.”

“No,” I say. “And you brought snacks.”

“Because I’m a true friend.”

Don picks up an éclair and takes a bite.

“Listen to me,” he says around pastry.

“That’s disgusting.”

“It’s delicious.” He swallows. “Jessica may be right in some cosmic, enlightened, burn-your-baggage, start-a-pottery-studio way.”

“I already had the studio.”

“But she’s wrong about timing.” Don points the remaining half éclair at me. “Don’t let go in surrender. Especially not because someone else is tired of dealing with it.”

“I don’t think she’s tired of me.”

“Good. Then she’ll survive being ignored.”

I look back at the broken vase. The pieces catch the kitchen light.

“It was ugly,” I say.

“Extremely ugly.”

Another laugh. Brief and necessary.

“I don’t want to become small.”

The sentence surprises both of us.

“If I fight,” I continue, “I become the older man with the lawyers and the money, keeping things from someone who may have been kept from enough already.”

“And if you don’t?”