Page 145 of For Real

“Hell no, but feel free to do it again. Whenever you like.”

I gave him a slightly wry look. “How about the next time we argue, you just make me sleep on the sofa like a normal person?”

“How about we don’t argue?”

“Oh darling, all couples argue. It’s how you handle it that matters.” He didn’t seem entirely reassured, so I went on. “We’ll figure it out.”

He snuck his hand into mine. “Okay. But I can’t imagine ever wanting you to sleep on the sofa.”

I nearly said, Give it time. But love held my tongue.

After all, what harm did it do to believe him?

“What did you bring home?” I asked instead.

“Oh, um, mostly it’s his medals and crap I made for him.” His eyes skittered shyly away from mine. “Uh…I could…I could show you, if you want?”

“Of course I do.”

We sat on the floor together so that Toby could gather up everything that had fallen and put it carefully back into the box. Sometimes he would pause over something or other to explain it to me, letting me hold, for a little while, these treasured pieces of his life he had once shared with someone else he loved.

12

Toby

It’s a couple of days before I find the courage to go back to Greasy Joe’s. I’m expecting it to be carnage, like it was the last time I wasn’t there, but I arrive in the middle of the afternoon lull and it’s pretty quiet. I can even smell baking coming from the kitchen. It can’t be Hairy, because he’s in the caff itself, with his foot up on one of the chairs, so it’s probably Luigi.

There’s a few regulars around and Ruby hovering by the big kettle. And Greasy Joe, who’s chatting to Hairy. He’s wearing an honest-to-God apron, and holding an actual motherfucking coffeepot.

Holy shit. I’m dead.

I’ve never seen him do that…like, ever.

When I sidle over, he turns death-ray eyes on me.

“Um.” My voice has reached the sort of pitch usually only registered by dogs. I cough. “Can I have a word?”

He huffs out this gale-force sigh and makes a show of checking a nonexistent watch. “What the fuck day do you call this?”

“The wrong day, but—”

“Then get in the fucking kitchen, and we’ll hear no more about it.”

I think of Granddad. And Laurie. And me. I think about me. And what I want. What I deserve. I’ve got down from canine to castrato as I force the words out. “My granddad’s dead. I’m entitled to unpaid compassionate leave…so…so…I’m taking it.”

Greasy Joe inflates like a puffer fish. He’s already a big man, so it’s fucking awful. “If you don’t do your fucking job, there won’t be a fucking job for you to do.”

There.

Everything I’ve been scared of. And actually, it’s not so bad. All that’s happening is I’m losing a shitty job. And Laurie’s right. I can get another one.

Or…I can try to get a different job. One that isn’t shitty. Or I can be Laurie’s live-in cabana boy. Or whatever. The point is…the point is…the future is terrifying because it’s full of stuff, not because it’s empty.1

I dig my nails into my palms. What I mean to say is something dignified and professional about accepting those terms and consequently tendering my resignation. What comes out of my mouth is, “Oh, go fuck yourself.”

I’m in the process of sweeping out of there, not that I’m a natural-born sweeper, when the applause starts. I spin round, and the whole caff is clapping for me. Greasy Joe too.

He comes after me, and I think he’s going to punch me in the face or something, but he just claps me on the shoulder—nearly dislocating it. “Take your fucking leave, son. You’ll always have a job here.”

---