Page 49 of A Friend in the Glass

“Perfect,” Sam said. “We can eat while we wait.”

“Wanna treat Devon to something nice?”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The Public House must have been moderately new. It was reasonably clean, without the patina of grime that a real dive had. No split upholstery or wobbly tables. The theme, apparently, was light bulbs. It seemed like every fucking inch of space was studded with light bulbs. Even the risers on the stairs to the mezzanine had light bulbs. Dim, sure. Nothing bright enough to break the ambience. But it looked like Thomas Edison’s wet dream, and it was loud—loud with voices, loud with glass and flatware, loud with music. When the beat dropped on the house track, Sam could feel it in his teeth.

A lot of Sam’s ill will went away, though, when he smelled beer and cheeseburgers.

They lucked into one of the tables on the mezzanine, right against the railing, which gave them an eagle-eye view of the pub’s entrance. No sign of Anson, but then, it might take him a while. Or he might change his mind. Might not come at all.

Their waiter was young, blond, and so thin that when he stretched to set a coaster in front of Sam and his shirt rode up, Sam could see his ribs. He’d wanted Sam to see, Sam figured. He had little silver hoops all the way up his right ear, and he lookedat Rufus like he was wondering whether he could push him off the mezzanine and get away with it.

Sam ordered a cheeseburger. Well, a double. With fries. They had Stella on tap, so he ordered that.

“I’ll have the same—oh, a Stella? Stella’s fine. I’ll get everything he ordered,” Rufus told the waiter while motioning to Sam.

With a little wiggle of his behind, the waiter left.

“When he comes back,” Rufus started, leaning to one side and watching the waiter go. “Switch glasses with me.”

“I think he bared his teeth before he left.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure he’s gonna spit in my beer.”

“The joys of civilization.”

When his phone buzzed, Rufus fished his cell free from his pocket. He glanced at the screen before rolling his eyes. “Another Jen Nasta, Original American Patriot, text. I can confidently say she won’t be getting my vote next year.” Rufus set his phone to one side. He didn’t say anything else as they sat and waited. Eventually, he yanked off his beanie and his shock of red hair was a little staticky. Rufus pushed aside utensils rolled up in a paper napkin, fiddled with his coaster, then suddenly blurted out, “I know you said we’d figure it out, and I know we will, because you don’t lie to me about that kind of stuff, but I can’t stop thinking about how much you don’t like it here.”

Downstairs, a glass broke, and screams—startled, excited, full of drunken hilarity—rang out. A few people looked up; not everyone. At the table next to Sam and Rufus, a man was glued to his phone. His wife was trying to kill a bottle of wine all by herself.

“I was thinking about that,” Sam said. “Not thinking, I guess. I mean—” He flattened his hands on his thighs. He focused onthe feeling of gravity. The way his body felt solid, anchored, real. “In the elevator, with those guys—” When he tried again, he had to screw his voice down against the rush of emotion. “If that had been it—” He chafed his hands against his jeans. “You matter. The rest of it—I don’t know why I’ve been such an asshole. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for a lot of things.”

“You were in the hospital,” Rufus said with a shrug. “And you’ve had unresolved acute trauma. Dr. Donna says that’s when it’s from a single specific incident that gets thrown in your face. You’ve had valid reasons to be moody.”

“Moody.” Their waiter brought their beers. When Sam ignored what was probably meant to be an irresistible smile, the blond boy scowled and flounced away. “That’s part of it, sure. And I know I’ve been—adjusting, I guess. But the medication is helping.” It was like trying to find his way through the dark, he thought. Even with all those fucking light bulbs. “I don’t know what I’m saying. I guess I’m saying, again, I’m sorry. For getting you into this. For—” He couldn’t help a wry smile. “—my unresolved acute trauma. I want to do better. I want to find a way to make this work. I love you.” And then, because it popped into his head. “Maybe I should get a job.”

Rufus pursed his lips a little, like he’d just taken a bite of something sour. But thoughtfully, he said, “I can make you a very impressive LinkedIn profile for your résumé.”

“Maybe notthatkind of job,” Sam said with a laugh. “But I don’t know. I feel like I do better—likewedo better—when we’re doing something. It’s been a long time since I’ve had some structure to my life. After the Army, I was sick of structure, and then, when I wasn’t so angry, there wasn’t any reason for it. But now there’s you. Maybe I’d feel a little more settled here if I—” He felt like he was at the end of his words, so he gave anotherof those crooked smiles and said, “If I wasn’t sitting in the apartment all day.”

Rufus reached under the table and gave Sam’s thigh a squeeze. “If I’m not allowed to rot in bed all day, neither are you. I think you’re probably onto something about structure.”

Before Sam could reply, movement at the door caught his eye. Anson stood there in his yuppie uniform: button-up, trousers, polished oxfords. He’d added a wool overcoat that, Sam was willing to bet, had cost somewhere in the four figures. It was kind of reassuring to know that, even when the rest of the world got fucked, Anson was always going to be a tool.

“God, look at him,” Sam said. “He’s trying to figure out which group is the pop-up whatever the fuck you told him about.”

“It’s a networking event for sales executives,” Rufus said heavy-handedly, but from the corner of his eye, Sam saw Rufus quickly wiping his face with the back of his hand. “Give your pal a wave. It’s your face on Devon’s profile, after all.”

When Anson scanned the crowd again, Sam held up a hand. Anson must have spotted the gesture because he glanced up. Then he stared up at them. He gave another look around, clearly starting to tumble to what was going on as he shrank down inside his coat. Then, shooting furtive glances in every direction, he started toward the stairs.

At their table, he did a final, disappointed check—as though a group of white, bro-y guys might jump out and surprise him—and then said, “There isn’t any pop-up networking event, is there?”

“Sorry,” Sam said. “Grab a seat.”

Anson pulled a free chair over and dropped into it. “What the hell was that earlier? I was trying to talk to you, and you threw my phone!”

“Did I?” Rufus asked, hand to his chest in mock-confusion. “You must have me confused with another redheaded punk with no ass.”

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