“I haven’t enjoyed lunch this much in months.”
He sighed and put his phone away.
“She might come Sunday, assuming we’re still doing Harborside.”
The pub lunch.
I had forgotten about it entirely. Caleb had suggested it after Noah’s memory episode—a few hours somewhere outside the apartment and workshop, with a game on the televisions and enough familiar people around him to make the crowd less threatening.
“I’ll ask Noah,” I said. “It could be too loud.”
“I can reserve the small room,” Caleb offered. “The manager owes me.”
“For what?”
“I helped him move a freezer.”
Owen frowned. “That cannot possibly be worth a private room.”
“You didn’t see the stairs.”
“If Noah gets tired, we leave,” I said.
Caleb shrugged. “No one’s proposing we chain him to the bar.”
The idea appealed to me more than I expected.
Not only for Noah.
For myself.
A table with friends. Chosen noise. Food I had not cooked. A few hours in which no one needed me to make a decision that might determine the rest of our lives.
I checked the clock.
Noon.
Noah would probably sleep for another hour.
Then I remembered Felicity’s call.
She had confirmed the appointment at the settlement office for the following morning but refused to tell me the final amount over the phone. Noah had already been informed, she said.
He had not looked relieved after speaking to her.
He had looked stunned.
I decided I would ask when he woke.
Work swallowed the rest of the afternoon. A winch motor failed its load test. A delivery arrived with half the requested parts and twice the requested invoice. By three, I had accumulated enough reasons to swear at three separate companies.
I went upstairs.
The television murmured to an empty living room. Noah’s new walking pole stood against the wall where I had left it.
“Noah?”
“In the bedroom.”
