Chapter 11
Raine slipped out of the office about forty-five minutes later, jacket back on, crisp and fashionable. He’d brought out all the cups, not only his own, and Annie whisked by to grab them. He was also smiling, a small private sort of smile, not an ironic glint or a performance. Almost wistful, Don thought. Almost painful, but in a way that made his lips quirk up: a thought that would be kept close even if the edges cut.
“Here,” he said. “I made you another one. To take to your meeting.”
Raine smiled more, and the gold flecks danced in his eyes, though they seemed a tiny bit pensive. Not sad, but contemplative. Melancholy in the rainforests, through the waltz of color. “Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Hey,” Don said. “We’re sort of…we’re friends, right? I mean, you’ve just organized my whole life.”
“Yes,” Raine said. “Yes, we’re sort of friends.” When he stepped out the door, summer sun fell across his hair, his shoulders, his back, like a cloak of gold.