Page 39 of The Man Made of Smoke

So what did happen then, Dad?

A beat of silence.

You’re clever, aren’t you, my son?

I don’t know, I thought. Am I?

Sure you are.

So why don’t you fucking figure it out for yourself?

I turned around quickly. There was such rage in the voice that I half expected to find him standing there, fists clenched at his sides. Even though the room was empty, the air seemed to throb with emotion.

Anger. Resentment. Guilt.

And I realized my own fists were clenched.

You are detached, I told myself.

You are calm.

I breathed in and out slowly for a few seconds and then relaxed my hands.

Then I went downstairs, closing the door to my father’s room behind me. In the kitchen, the fridge was humming quietly. Yesterday, it had felt wrong to cook a meal in here, as though it would be moving on with unseemly speed. But that wasn’t my fault. My father had made his decisions, hadn’t he? Left me to deal with the detritus of them and clean up the mess.

Fuck you, then, I thought.

I opened the fridge and began to gather ingredients.

And then—later—the karaoke bar again.

I wasn’t sure why I went out. Given the events of the day, and the way I was feeling, I had no desire for random socializing. And yet, when I walkedin to find Sarah sitting at a table at the back of the room with a bottle of beer in front of her, I was immediately glad to see her. I raised a hand in greeting and she waved back and beckoned me over. I got myself a beer and joined her at the table.

“Hey, stranger,” she said. “How’s tricks?”

“Strange. Tricky.”

“Well, aren’t they always?”

I glanced back toward the bar. “You’re not working tonight?”

“No.” She nodded at her drink. “But this place is like a second home to me these days. And coming here gives me an excuse to sing if I want to. It doesn’t feel right to be belting stuff out alone at home in the kitchen by myself.”

“That would be a waste of your talents, I agree.”

“Very gracious.” She tilted her head. “I thank you.”

“Except that you’re not singing.”

She picked up her bottle. “Right now, I’m drinking, and coming here gives me an excuse to do that too. I refer you back to my reasoning about doing things alone in the kitchen.”

“Got you.”

I picked up my own beer.

It was not lost on me that, whatever the status of Sarah’s relationship with Fleming, her last two answers suggested that at least they weren’t living together. It almost surprised me that I was pleased by that.

“So, you and Liam,” I said. “Whatishappening there?”

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