Page 36 of Missed Exit

He salutes me like a soldier.

I should go back out there and . . .

Grrrrrr! He can be such an insufferable ass, I swear!

At this rate, my door is going to need new hinges before I get dinner on the table.

19

Law

Dinner Talk

She’spushingmybuttonswith this whole family dinner thing. I bought the wine, but this is a bad idea. I’m only going through with it because I want her to see that I’m not actually a bad person. I just apparently still make mistakes at thirty-two. She won’t let me explain, but if I can show her that I’m better than that . . .

But she needs a bigger reality check where Derringer is concerned. When it comes to him, she’s the one who’s making a mistake.

Opening that notebook was an invasion of her privacy, but she’s invading my professional life here. If she and I were in a different place, I’d tell her how inappropriate this is, but right now, she has fresh ammunition to fire back about my inappropriate behavior.

We’d just end up in a fight, and a fight is exactly what I’m trying to avoid. She wouldn’t believe me about him, anyway. She needs to see for herself.

If sitting down to dinner with Derringer is what it takes to make her happy, I’ll bring the wine and check my professional opinion at the door.

This isn’t a business dinner where I’m trying to get to know a musician better. I know all I need to know about this kid. Greta will know soon enough, but I won’t say I told you so.

I’ll think it, but I won’t say it.

Here goes nothing.

“You’re early,” she says, looking me up and down like she’s weighing whether or not to let me in.

“You said six. It’s five-forty-five. Fifteen minutes early is on time.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot you’re one of those people.”

Let it go, Law. Let it go.

“I brought wine.”

She takes the bottle and walks back toward her kitchen. I step inside, but instead of her laundry detergent or her shampoo or perfume, I smell my mom’s pot roast.

Or Greta’s, apparently.

When she cooked for me, I got grocery store pizza. For Derringer, she makes this?

I’m not complaining about that pizza. The night we ate that pizza is my favorite memory. Everything that came before and after that pizza, I would very much like to experience again. But if I have a shot in hell at maintaining any of that in my life, I’ve got to repair the damage I’ve done.

And her other damaged dinner guest just knocked on the door.

“Can you let him in, please?”

“Sure.”

My pleasure. Can’t think of anything I’d rather do right now.

He stands on her doorstep, holding two bottles of wine, one white and one red.

“Hey,” he says. “I wasn’t sure if your girlfriend liked red or white, so I brought both. Is that okay? She doesn’t hate wine or anything, does she?”

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