"The food is not the event. The food is the food."
"In this house the food is the event," Kevin says. "Grant, back me up."
"I'm not involved," Grant says from the couch. "I've been here for twenty minutes doing nothing and I intend to continue."
We eat at Kevin's table because I told him three years ago that adults eat at tables and he bought a table to shut me up. The table is too small for four people. Our elbows touch.
"Good game last night," Austin says.
"Thanks."
"You've been playing different this year," Kevin says. "Looser. More…I don't know. You're taking more chances."
"I'm thirty-six. I'm not going to get faster. Might as well get smarter."
"That's not what I mean." He picks up a spring roll and points it at me. "You're playing like you don't care what happens."
"I care what happens. I want the team to win."
"You're playing like you don't care what happens to you. That's different."
I take a bite of pad Thai. "It's a good season. I'm having fun."
"How's Luca?" Kevin asks. Casual. Not casual.
"He's good. Atlanta's good for him."
"You talk much?"
"We talk."
"How much is 'we talk'?"
"Kevin."
"I'm asking." He holds both hands up. "I'm asking because I care about you."
"We talk," I say. "We talk on the phone. He texts me. I text him. It's the season. We're in different cities. It's what it is."
"Is it what you want it to be?" Kevin asks.
"It's what it is."
He nods. Goes back to his food. The table is quiet for a few seconds and then Austin starts talking about the boat engine and Kevin tells him nobody cares about the boat engine.
Grant clears the plates. Kevin puts on a game. Austin falls asleep on the couch inside of twelve minutes, which is a personal best.
At the door, Kevin grips my shoulder. "You'd tell me if something was wrong, right?"
"Yeah."
"You'd tell me before it got bad?"
"Yeah, Kevin."
"Okay." He lets go. "Good night, Wes."
I drive home with the windows cracked. October in Miami is still warm, the air off the water carrying salt and exhaust. At a red light on Brickell I look out the window and there's a new place on the corner. Small, brick front, a chalkboard menu in the window. Cuban. The light turns green and I drive past it and for a half-second I am reaching for my phone to text him the address before I remember the text would arrive in a different city and the meal would never happen.
