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"I can tell." She shrugs, then invites me to a strip-poker game at someone named Mr. Leisure's house.

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On the phone with Dad.

"When will you be down here?" he asks.

"In two days," I say. "I'll call."

"Yes. Okay."

"Has the money been transferred?" I ask.

"Yes. It has."

Pause. "Are you okay?" I ask.

Pause. "Yes, yes. I'm just... distracted."

"Don't be. You need to focus," I say.

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"Yes, yes. Of course."

"Someone will let you know when I'm there."

A long pause.

"Hello?" I ask.

"I-I don't know," he says, breathing in.

"You're unraveling," I warn. "Don't," I warn.

"We really don't need to see each other while you're here," he says. "I mean, do we?"

"No. Not really," I say. "Only if you want." Pause. "Are there any parties you want to show me off at?"

"Hey-" he snaps.

"Watch it," I warn.

It takes him forty-three seconds to compose himself.

"I'm glad you'll be here," he finally says.

Pause. I let it resonate. "Are you?"

"Yes."

"I'm glad I'll be there too."

"Really?" He breathes in, trembling.

"Anything to help the cause," I say.

"Are you being sarcastic?"

"No." Pause. "You figure it out." I sigh. "Do you even really care?" Pause. "If there's anything you need..." He trails off.

"Don't you trust me?" I ask.

It takes a long time for him to say, "I think I do."

I'm smiling to myself. "I'll be in touch."

"Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

4

I meet Damien for drinks at the Independent, not far from the club he and I are supposed to open a month from now in TriBeCa. Damien's smoking a cigar and nursing a Stoli Kafya, which personally I find disgusting. He's wearing a Gucci tie. I want to make this quick. Bittersweet folk rock plays in the background.

"Did you see this?" Damien asks as I swing up onto a stool.

"What?" I ask.

He slides a copy of today's New York Post across the bar, open to "Page Six." Gossip about the women Victor Johnson has been involved with since Chloe Byrnes' unfortunate death in a Paris hotel room. Peta Wilson. A Spice Girl. Alyssa Milano. Garcelle Beauvais. Carmen Electra. Another Spice Girl.

"For mature audiences only, right?" Damien says, nudging me, arching his eyebrows up.

There's a little hug between the two of us, not much else.

I relax, order a Coke, which causes Damien to shake his head and mutter "Oh, man" too aggressively.

"I guess you know why I'm here," I say.

"Victor, Victor, Victor," Damien sighs, shaking his head.

I pause, confused. "So... you do know?"

"I forgive you entirely," he says, acting casual. "Come on, you know that."

"I just want out, man," I say. "I'm older. I've got school."

"How is law school?" Damien asks. "I mean, this isn't a rumor, right? You're really doing this?"

"Yeah." I laugh. "I am." I sip my Coke. "It's a lot of work but..."

He studies me. "Yeah? But?"

"But I'm adapting," I finally answer.

"That's great," Damien says.

"Is it?" I ask seriously. "I mean, really. Is it?"

"Victor," Damien starts, grasping my forearm.

"Yeah, man?" I gulp, but I'm really not afraid of him.

"I am constantly thinking about human happiness," he admits.

"Whoa."

"Yeah," he says, tenderly sipping his vodka. "Whoa."

"Is everything going to be cool?" I ask. "I'm really not leaving you in a lurch?"

Damien shrugs. "It'll be cool. Japanese investors. Things will work out."

I smile, showing my appreciation. But I'm still very cool about the situation, so I move on to other topics. "How's Lauren?" I ask.

"Ooh-ouch," Damien says.

"No, no, man," I say. "I'm just asking."

Damien hits me lightly on the shoulder. "I know, man. I'm just goofing off. I'm just playing around." pqdm.com