2 Chapter 2

“We’re ordering lunch,” she said, giving me a perky smile. She was dressed in a fitted little blue dress straight out of the Breakfast at Tiffany’s movie. Or book. Whichever of the two comes to your mind first. “You know,” Jordan added, “for Bianca’s promotion.”

Bianca. I used to love that Disney movie! The Rescuers. Remember, that little girl stuck in the Devil’s bayou? And wasn’t Eva Gabor the voice for Bianca? Oh, she was so elegant. I was captivated by her voice, as a kid.

“Derek?”

“Sorry, no,” I blurted out. “I’m, uh, fasting—intermittently.” Very fad excuse. I was pretty proud of myself.

“Oh…okay.” Jordan laughed. She was always laughing for no reason. In the nineteen century they would have bled her. “Well, we might go for drinks later, too, so…”

Drinks. Nah. These days, I like to drink my booze alone. In the dark.

Jordan hesitated in my door. I could smell her slightly musky vanilla perfume and the scent brought back a memory…Aunt Fran.

Oh my God, what would Aunt Fran think of me now? She’d beat me senseless with a pastry roll. She’d shout in my face, “What are you doing! Call him now! Forgive him everything, you little hypocritical whining and weak man!”

“I think,” Jordan said, glancing back at the hallway and then focusing her somewhat serious eyes on my face, which at that moment I imagined looked like a pale mask of complete and abject indifference. “That maybe, um, John would like it if you were there tonight.” She smiled and put her hands together, near her mouth. “I think he really, really, likes you. Just saying!” She left, her beautiful long brown ponytail swinging.

John. Which one was he again?

On my desk, my phone vibrated. Boone’s handsome face was lighting up on my screen. Ever since I left his brother, Boone calls me once or twice a day. You know, like you’d call your teenage kid if you were on vacation and had left him home alone or maybe the way you’d call your grandma after she’d set her living room on fire a few times.

“Yes,” I answered in a drawn voice.

“I’m coming over for dinner tonight, okay?”

I had a rusty head of lettuce in my fridge and a case of Smithwicks beers. We’d be all right.

“We’ll order some Thai or something.” Boone sighed. “I gotta talk to you. It’s important.”

“Okay, bring your gun, you know, just in case.”

“Red.” He blew out a sharp breath. I’ve been testing his patience lately.

I know, I’m testing yours, too, Bump. But I’m doing the best I can here.

“What time do you get off there at the stupid job you weren’t meant to take?” Boone asked. He hates me working at a bank again.

“Be at my place around six.” I frowned, realizing that maybe it was time I told him how much I appreciated his attention and good will. The guy is a cop and a father to two young kids, and here I am lately, taking up all this space in his life. “I’ll listen to you this time, okay, Boone.” My voice sounded different.

I was feeling something. A shadow of something. But something, nonetheless.

“You will?” There was genuine surprise in his voice. “You’ll let me talk some sense into that thick Irish skull of yours?”

The corners of my mouth rose. I was actually attempting a smile. “Yes,” I whispered. “You can try.”

So later Boone came over to my apartment on Fifth Avenue. No, Bump, not theFifth Avenue. MyFifth Avenue is in a working-class neighborhood in Montreal. I wonder why we call it a “working class” neighborhood. Is it just a nice way to say working poor? Or hardworking, overtaxed, and underpaid?

Back to Boone.

We were sitting on two plastic garden chairs on my back porch, facing a little yard full of weeds and dirt that I’ve purposelyneglected because fixing it up and planting a garden would actually mean I intend to stay here. And I don’t, as I told you. Both of us need to remember that.

“We had our noodles and two beers.” Boone looked up from the beer bottle he’d been twirling in his big hands. He was in a plain blue T-shirt and black jeans, looking so good and safe. “So, can we talk now?”

“Yes.” I stared straight at him, sitting up stiffly in my chair, hands on my knees, acting like a man flying on a plane for the first time, eyes riveted to the airline employee about to explain how the oxygen mask works.

Boone watched me for a second and then set his bottle down on the dusty ground. “Look, I feel like in the last three months, I’ve said everything I could, you know, in my brother’s defence.”

That was true. He’d said plenty.