Page 56 of Not in Love

“Just tired is all.” Historically, Eli had been the one who got around. Girlfriends, friends, people he barely knew. Dates, relationships, hookups. Hark . . . even before Minami, his sex life had been more circumspect. They hadn’t discussed it much after, because there was little to talk about.

“Right. Nothing to do with Dr. Rue Siebert, then?”

Sometimes Hark was insufferable. “Nothing at all,” Eli lied. “Did you like . . . ?”

“Emily.”

“Did you like Emily?”

“She’s pretty fantastic. Gave me her number,” Hark said quietly.

A beat. “Are you going to use it?”

He didn’t reply, but they both knew the answer.

The last transcript of a three-part witness deposition was dropped on Eli’s desk that Friday night. “In case you’re in search of some light bedtime reading,” Minami told him.

When he looked up, her smile was mischievous.

“Is it . . . ?”

She nodded. “The lawyers are still combing through it. They refuse to commit on whether the depo gives us reason enough to send a notice of default and acceleration, but they have no doubt that something weird is going on. At the very least, we’ll be able to go to court and ask for more discovery.”

“Thank fuck.”

“I know. Let’s get dinner. To celebrate,” Minami offered. “Just the two of us, no Sul or Hark. I’m tired of my stupid husband and your stupid husband getting in the way of our affair.”

Eli checked his watch and got to his feet. “Can’t. Meeting Dave.”

“Right, I forgot. We’re still on for tomorrow, though? All four of us.”

“Sure.” He gathered his stuff, and couldn’t help chuckling when she began chanting, “He was a skater boy, he said, ‘See you later, boy.’ ”

“C’mon.”

“His friends weren’t good enough for him.”

“It’s for a noble cause.”

“Now he’s a hockey star, driving off in his car.”

“You’re the worst,” he told her lovingly as he slipped out of the room.

The face of Dave Lenchantin was smile-wrinkled and sun-weathered—somewhat surprising, for a man who’d lived two-thirds of his life inside an ice rink. He immediately spotted Eli, and quickly wrapped up a conversation to weave through the crowd and greet him.

The yearly fundraiser was an informal occasion, not unlike the carnival Eli’s middle school had organized when the district refused to allocate funds for graphing calculators. There were bake sales, crafts stations, portrait artists, temporary tattoos, ring tossing, and even a dunk tank—in which, Eli was amused to see, sat a terrified Alec, Dave’s partner. The event was a great moneymaker for the charity initiatives sponsored by the rink. “Dr. Killgore,” Dave said, reaching up to hug Eli. They’d first met when Eli was in his early teens, but the man had never been less than half a foot shorter than him.

“I never did get that doctorate, Coach.” Being reminded of that part of his life never got easier. “I’ll take mister, though.”

“I ain’t calling you mister, Killgore. Not after that time you bent down to pick up a cracker, threw out your back, and sat out three games.”

“Lies.”

“Hell no.”

“It was an Oreo.”

“Well, I hope it was worth your dignity.” Dave smiled, genuinely happy. “Thank you for the generous donation, Killgore.”

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