Page 23 of Walking Wounded

5

Hal wants to meet at an Italian place on M Street; he texts the address and Luke has just been shown to a table and had a wine suggested to him when Hal slides in across from him.

“Some kinda red,” Hal tells the waiter, and his good-boy smile dampens the effect of waving the man away.

Luke chuckles. “I always wished I could do that.”

“You just need to practice.”

“And not be such a miserable little shit all the time?” Luke guesses. “I can work on the shit part, but there’s nothing I can do about the little.”

“Ugh,” Hal says. “Stop doing that.”

“Stop doing what?”

“Selling yourself short.”

“No pun intended, huh? Just trying to be a realist.”

“Well, stop.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t like it,” Hal says, sternly, in a voice that hassecurity agentstamped all over it.

Luke smiles. “So what’s good to eat here?”

“Just about everything.” Hal doesn’t look at his menu. Instead says, “So what did you do all day?”

Earlier, he left the Maddox townhouse in a fuzzy headspace, not sure which member of the household was most dangerous. (He was still leaning toward Tara, because something about the tilt of her smirk made him think there was more to her punk rock defection than simple rebellion.) He found a coffee shop – Georgetown Grind – and found a tiny table wedged in at the window where he could sip his latte and pull out his tablet. He typed a quick email to Linda:

No real info yet. Maddox is going to be slow to get into any of the juicy details. This could take a while.

He didn’t said anything about the old photo from the mantle yet, because he wasn’t sure how it figured into any of it – if it even did. He also didn’t share the insults hurled at Matt. Maybe it was stupid, but it felt like a betrayal to put the old man’s vulnerability down into type.

Linda emailed him back right away:

Take all the time you need. I want a good story – the best story – and not the fastest.

When his need for nicotine began to outweigh the craving for caffeine, he trashed the rest of his latte and hit the sidewalk, smoking and walking, unhurried, earning dark looks from posh daytime shoppers who thought smoking was the most disgusting thing a human could do in public.

He lives in New York. Heknowsit isn’t the most disgusting thing.

He walked all day, sightseeing. Peered down into the dark water of the canal and watched his wavering reflection. Window-shopped for clothes he could never afford.

Now, his feet are sore and throbbing; he has blisters on the backs of his heels. His lungs feel unsteady, like he needs another smoke, though that’s the whole problem, really, isn’t it? He’s physically tired in a way he normally isn’t, sore in a good way, and not in the desk-exhausted, slumping way that he is back home, after a day typing and researching.

“Just walked around a little,” he says. “Appreciating your city.”

Hal’s smile turns warm. Or maybe that’s just the dim light. Luke’s imagination. “It’s pretty great, isn’t it? I mean, it’s a major city, but it feels spread out. Lots of room. Like you can breathe.”

“I haven’t breathed right in years.”

“Your own fault for smoking.” Fond, but a little worried, too. “You ever thought about moving down here?”

Unexpected. Luke swallows. “No, why would I?”

Hal shrugs, glances away. “No reason, I just…I mean, you don’t look – and you don’t sound like…” He trails off.

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