Luke’s pulse knocks in his ears. “I don’t sound like what?”
“Like…”
The waiter returns with two glasses brimming with red wine, and a basket of breadsticks. “I’ll be right back to get your order.”
Hal reaches into the basket and pulls out a breadstick. Takes a massive bite.
“I don’t sound like what?” Luke presses.
Hal shakes his head. Swallows with difficulty and reaches for his wine.
“Dude…”
“You don’t sound happy,” he says on a gasp, as he chokes the wine down. He sets the glass aside and sighs, deeply. Starts plucking the rest of the breadstick into little bits that he piles on the appetizer plate. “You just…the last few times we’ve talked. You sound miserable.”
Luke opens his mouth and can say nothing.
Hal lifts his eyes, and the security agent, the predawn jogger, the confident, well-paid man he’s seemed up ‘til now is gone, replaced by the uncertain, too-big-too-fast kid Luke grew up with. “I’m sorry. I’m out of line, yeah. But I’m worried about you. You didn’t sound good. And then you got here, and you–”
“I look like shit,” he guesses.
“No! No, that’s not what I meant at all.” And he looks – eyes wide, gaze frantic – like he’s telling the truth. As absurd as that strikes Luke.
He sighs. “It’s nice of you to worry, but–”
“I do worry,” Hal interrupts. “I worry a lot, actually. You’re all by yourself up there, and I know how you get.”
He lifts his brows.
“You know how you get too. And I’ve been thinking…” His face colors; Luke can see that even in the low light. “There’s plenty of open space down here. The air’s better. A little better, anyway. And there’s plenty to do; there’s still a night life, if…if that’s something you’re into now. I mean, that was never your thing, really, but I know it’s been a while, and things may have…”
“Hal.”
“The point is.” His head lifts. “I thought maybe you could try to find a place down here. Writers can work from anywhere, and it might be nice to…”
“Nice to what?”
“I dunno. Live in the same neighborhood again. Like the old days.”
There are no less than a thousand things Luke wants to say in response. He wasn’t the one who moved away; he wasn’t the one who panicked after The Incident, needed “space,” had to clear his head. He wasn’t the one who joined the army and almost got his ass blown up by an IED in the armpit of the world.
You were the one who put that distance between us, he wants to say.Longsto say. The old bitterness tastes like copper, like blood on the back of his tongue.
Instead, he says, quietly, “I’m happy in New York. Thanks.”
Hal runs his hands through his hair, down the back of his neck. An old habit, one since childhood, though now it stretches his shirt across massive shoulders and pectorals, and brings out frown lines between his eyebrows.
“So I guess we should order, huh?” Luke says.
“Yeah. We should.”
~*~
Hal says he’s buying, no matter how much Luke protests, so they both order the veal parmesan and a second glass of wine.
The house red blend has just started to paint a certain glassy sheen across Hal’s eyes when Luke says, “So, seriously, what’s up with Will Maddox?”
“How far did you get with him today?” Hal asks.