His hand is still in mine on the pillow. His breathing slows.
I pull out. I lie beside him. The ceiling fan turns above us. His hand opens and closes once beside his hip.
"I meant what I said," I tell the ceiling.
"I know you did."
"All of it."
"I heard you."
"Hearing isn't the same as answering."
The fan turns. The ocean is steady through the door. He does not answer.
The spreadsheet is on my phone on the nightstand. The ceviche has no score. Some meals don't get rated. Some nights don't fit inside a column.
?
Chapter 20: Wes
THEN
The water is flat this morning. I shoot three frames from the balcony anyway. The camera finds the horizon. The horizon gives me nothing. Some mornings are like that.
Inside, Luca is on the couch with his laptop. The spreadsheet is open. He has been adjusting the weighted formula for fifteen minutes, muttering about a conditional override in a voice he does not realize I can hear through the open door.
"You can't add overrides without a vote," I call from the railing.
"The vote is me. I vote yes."
"That's a monarchy."
"A monarchy with a better spreadsheet." He glances up. "Your coffee is cold. I can see the steam not happening from here."
I bring the coffee inside. His hair is still damp from the shower, pushed up on one side. My gray T-shirt sits loosely on his shoulders. Saturday morning in this apartment.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
Chapin
In town for Velasquez. Got your renewal extension papers. Mind if I swing by? Fifteen out.
I text back.Come up.
"Kyle's coming by," I say. "Fifteen minutes. He's got paperwork."
Luca looks up. "Cool. Tell him the Tempest's power play is an embarrassment and someone should answer for it."
"You tell him."
"Maybe I will." He goes back to the spreadsheet.
The buzzer goes. I open the front door. Kyle occupies the hallway, holding a manila folder, plus coffee from a place in Brickell.
"Wes." He grips my hand. "Thanks. I was going to mail them but since I was right here."
"Come in."
