"Don't let me down, brother."
"I won't."
He hung up.
I stood at the edge of the bank with the phone in my hand. I'd handled the call like a man about to disappoint a friend over the phone. The something I had to take care of was four yards away with a towel around her shoulders and her back to me.
I turned around.
She'd come up the bank a couple of paces toward me. She had the towel around her shoulders, and her hands tucked up inside it. The water in her hair had darkened the cotton across the front. She had the small, open look on her face she wore when she was waiting on a thing.
"Who was that?" she said.
She asked it the way she asked about my day. Curious. The voice she used when she handed me a coffee in the morning.
I crossed the bank back to her.
"Shane."
"A friend of mine. From Queens."
"What did he want?"
I let it sit a beat.
I gave her the truth.
"He runs a house out of Queens. There's a slot opening on his line. He offered it to me back in September."
She didn't move her face.
I watched it change anyway.
The small open look gave way to something slower. A woman who'd clocked a thing and was working out, fast, what to do about it.
"He offered it to you in September."
"Yeah."
"And you've been..."
"I told him to put my name in. I haven't called him back since."
"You haven't called him."
"No."
"Two months, Easton."
"No."
She looked at the water for a beat. She came back to me.
"Astrid. Listen to me."
"I am."
"I'm not going."
