Page 8 of Broken Grump

My mouth flies open.Addie and Nick Cordain?He was such a perv back in the day, and I can’t picture the two of them together. And, if I’m being honest, the idea of it makes me jealous—even after all of these years.

P.P.S Sorry for all of the puke. Please feel free to invoice me for all of your car washes.

Lionel suddenly laughs. “She was always such a sweet girl.”

I don’t respond as I close the card and put it on the seat next to me.

“You know,” he then opines as he shifts lanes, “I always thought the two of you would end up together.”

I gulp. “Who? Me and Addie?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.”

Sure, there was that one night around eight or so years ago after my graduation party. But I think we both barely remember that.It’s not like I occasionally reminisce about what her naked body looked like in the reflection of the moonlight . . .

We soon pull up to a somewhat dilapidated building, and I scoot out.

“It should only be an hour or so,” I announce.

In response, Lionel tips his cap off his head. “See you then.”

“Indeed.” After hearing his reply, I close the door of the car.

I stand on the curb and watch him pull away, but then I head on inside to the dreary and moldy-smelling office.

“I’d like to speak with Errol Rawlings,” I demand of the young girl who is smacking bubble gum behind the front desk.

“Do you have an appointment with Mr. Rawlings?” she asks unenthusiastically.

“Wha—no. No, I don’t. But it’s very important for me to speak with him. Right now.”

She rolls her eyes, but picks up the phone and starts clicking buttons.

“Mr. Rawlings?” Her hand covers the speaker part before she asks me, “What’s your name again.”

As I often do when I’m nervous, I’m scratching the back of my neck. But I answer her.

“Hayden Cohen.”

“A Mr. Hayden Cohen is here to see you.”

On the other side of the line, I can only hear mumbling.

“Fine,” she finally says. “You can go back there.”

“Thank you.”

***

Before entering, I straighten out my suit coat. Then, I finally knock on the door. “Mr. Rawlings? Hayden, Hayden Cohen here.”

“Yeah, yeah. Come in,” his nasal voice responds.

When I open the door, I find a man with his legs up on his desk.

“Hayden Cohen,” I repeat while reaching for a handshake, which transfers some kind of cookie or chip dust onto mine.

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