I was standing in my kitchen, staring into the fridge like there might be answers behind the milk, when I heard the knock. Two quick raps. Familiar. Confident.
When I opened the door, he was already grinning.
“You look like shit,” he said.
“Good to see you too,” I replied.
He stepped inside without waiting, shedding his jacket, eyes scanning the apartment in that way only old friends do—cataloging changes, noticing absences.
“You eating?” he asked.
“Thinking about it.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He grabbed a beer from the fridge like it belonged to him, then leaned against the counter, studying me over the rim.
October had done something to the city.
Everything felt quieter. Heavier. Like even laughter was cautious now.
Tony cleared his throat. “We’ve all been fucked up since September.”
I nodded once.
“And you…” He tilted his head. “You’ve been especially fucked up.”
I snorted softly. “Appreciate the diagnosis.”
“I’m serious, man.” His voice gentled. “You haven’t been the same since her.”
There it was.
Sage.
He didn’t say her name. He didn’t have to.
“She burned through your life like a wildfire,” he went on. “Fast. Hot. Destructive. And now you’re just standing there staring at the ashes.”
I looked away, jaw tightening.
“And we can’t even escape on the boat,” he added. “Dry dock. Winterizing. No harbor therapy this year.”
Silence stretched.
Then his mouth twitched.
“So I had an idea.”
That got my attention.
“What kind of idea?” I asked cautiously.
“The kind that starts with ‘business proposition’ and ends with you not losing your mind in that apartment.”
I raised a brow.
He grinned. “Come have a drink with me.”
