Chapter Twenty-Eight
Nick lifted his head from the lumpy pillow on Leo’s saggy sofa bed. “Go away.”
“Nick, for Christ’s sake. Get out here and drink a beer with me.”
“I’m not thirsty.”
“Of course you are. You just drove straight through from California. What’s it take, seven hours?”
“Nine.”
“So, come have a drink with me.”
Nick rolled over, his back to the door.
“Do I have to come in there and drag you out by your ankles?”
He buried his face in pillow and roared. There was nothing for it, though. Leo would persist until he emerged from his self-imposed solitary confinement. He pushed himself up, punched the pillow a few times for good measure, then stalked to the door.
Leo stood on the other side, holding two frosty mugs. “God, you look like hell.”
“Blasphemer,” he grumbled, but followed his friend out to the balcony, where Leo had set a table with his finest gourmet goodies: neon cheese puffs, salted peanuts, and a pouch of beef jerky, plus an assortment of craft beers.
Nick sank into a creaky wicker chair and gazed glumly out into the night. In the distance, the campus lights twinkled.
“You’ve aged ten years, my friend.”
Nick ran a hand through his hair, which stuck up every which way, then over his jaw, scratchy with stubble. His eyes still burned from hours of headlight glare, and his head throbbed like the worst hangover.
“So, IPA or red ale?”
“Whatever.”
“Well, in my experience, IPA goes best with heartache.”
“What goes best with wounded pride?” Nick grabbed a handful of cheese puffs.
“Whiskey. Got some of that too. Shall I?”
Nick waved him off.
“So, the lady was not alone.” Leo sipped his beer and stroked his ruddy beard.
“Nope.” He upended his bottle and chugged half its contents.
“I don’t suppose you let her know you were coming.”
“Nope.” He prickled under Leo’s incredulous stare. “She told me not to call.”
“So, you thought you’d surprise her.”
“Yup.” He gulped the rest of his beer.
“Jeez, man, are you auditioning for a spaghetti western? Talk to me!”
Nick let fly a magnificent belch. “What is there to say? She chose the other guy.”
“Don’t be daft. You’ve been gone three days. How serious could it be?” Leo stood, stretched, and scratched his hairy paunch.
“You should come rowing with me, work off that gut.”
“Don’t change the subject.” Leo planted his fists on the arms of Nick’s chair, boxing him in. “Since when have you become such a quitter?”
Nick rolled his eyes.
“My God, you’re actually pouting like a little girl.” He paced the length of his third-floor balcony. “I’ll tell you what. Tomorrow evening, I’m going to pay the fair Clara a visit. Say, around five. And I’m going to ask her if she’s talked to you.” He flashed a wolfish grin. “If she says no, I’m going to tell her you’re here, pouting on my balcony. And then, my fine Greek friend, I’m going to ask her out. I’m more charming than any bald, skinny high school teacher.”
Nick clenched his fists. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would. You’d better get to work on your campaign speech, old friend.” Leo clapped his shoulder, and then left him alone on the balcony.
With a groan, he pulled his phone from his pocket and tapped his screen: Another message from Clara—Nick, please. Talk to me.
He considered pitching the phone off Leo’s balcony, watching it spin, end over end, as it sailed into the night sky.
Leo was right: he was being childish. And anyway, Eugene was his home now. There was no going back to Berkeley. He’d burned that bridge. But the thought of facing Clara again after seeing her kiss that bald guy made his stomach churn.
What an idiot he’d been, taking the job without talking to her first. He was much too old to be blinded by romantic notions of a rosy reunion. He’d actually visualized the scene all the way up the I-5. He’d knock on her door, present her with the ridiculous armload of red roses he’d bought, and tell her the whole story. Then she’d throw her arms around his neck and forgive him his trespasses.
What a pathetic moron.
Still, what’s done is done. His condo sold within twelve hours of listing, and his stuff was scheduled to arrive on Friday. And he knew Leo would make good on his promise to rat him out.
Leo stepped up behind Nick, handed him a crystal tumbler full of amber liquid, and gently squeezed his shoulders. “Fight for her.”
“What’s the point?” He sipped the whiskey. The burn slid down his throat, loosening the fist clenched around his guts. “She thinks I’m a despicable playboy.”
“And you’re going to let her keep thinking that? You’re here for the next academic year, at least, so get to work on winning her back.”
He said nothing, just took another long draw of whiskey.
Leo resumed his pacing, as if delivering a classroom lecture, hands clasped behind his back. “Here’s the crucial question: What does that guy have that she wants?”
“I don’t know.” He drained his glass, hoping the liquor would hasten sleep, or at least make Leo’s patronizing tone less grating.
“Think, man! Stability, maybe? Local connections? ’Cause it sure ain’t looks.”
“You’ve seen him?”
“At the protest. Saw the two of you through the window. Pretty cool the way you bounced her asshole landlord off your chests, like a couple of cartoon superheroes.”
Leo pulled his chair closer, sat so their knees were almost touching. “Show that woman you’re a man she can count on.”
“Why would she care at this point? She’s got a boyfriend.”
Leo clapped his big ruddy hand onto Nick’s knee. “I saw the way she looked at you. You still have a chance. Call her.”
He let out a long, rasping sigh and massaged his aching forehead. “I will. Tomorrow.”