Page 43 of Keep

“Forty-eight days of being discreet. Not hiding, not—I’m not asking you to lie to anyone. Just—” Hank searched for the words. “Not making it easy for someone to make it into a story.”

“And then?”

“And then I’d very much like to take you out for dinner somewhere that people will see us.”

Chad looked up. Hank was watching him with that careful optimism—the same look he’d had last night pulling the CVS bag from the drawer. Hopeful. A man who’d spent a long time believing hope was not available to him and was still not convinced it was.

“You have to be straight with me,” Chad said. “About everything. I don’t care how awkward the timing is, I don’t care if it’s a bad moment. If there’s something I need to know, you tell me. That’s a rule.”

“Agreed,” Hank said. No hesitation.

“And I want to meet this Frannie person. Eventually. I want to know there are people in your life who actually know what’s going on.”

“She would love you,” Hank said, with a warmth that suggested he’d already imagined the introduction.

“And your ex-wife.”

“Shelby would absolutely love you. Possibly more than she loves me.”

“That checks out.” He set his mug on the coffee table. “Okay.”

Hank looked at him. “Okay?”

“Forty-eight days of being careful. And then dinner somewhere public.” He raised a finger. “But I want to be clear that I’m not agreeing because I’m afraid of the complication. I’m agreeing because I think you’re worth forty-eight days of patience, which is not something I’ve historically had in large quantities, so you should feel—” he gestured vaguely “—appropriately honored.”

Hank’s face crinkled comically with consideration, and then he laughed—a real laugh, surprised out of him. Deep and sudden. The laugh lived in his beard for a second after his mouth closed. “I feel appropriately honored,” he said.

“Good.” Chad picked up his mug again. “Now. You said you were from Georgia.”

“I did.”

“Are you going to cook me breakfast or not?

Hank cooked eggs the way Chad imagined he did most things—thoughtfully, without rushing, with a seriousness of attention disproportionate to the task, and entirely charming. He’d found an onion and a bell pepper in the refrigerator and diced them with a focus that suggested the knife work mattered, and now a cast iron pan was on the stove doing something fragrant with butter.

Chad sat on the counter. Hank had looked like he might say something about it and then decided against it. Second cup of coffee. Quiet for a while.

“Scrambled or over easy?” Hank asked.

“Scrambled.”

“Good. I’ve never successfully managed over easy.”

“Your Senate bio leaves that out.”

“My Senate bio leaves out a great deal.” Hank cracked eggs into the pan with one hand—a small trick he didn’t know he was doing. “I should warn you that I have very strong opinions about scrambled eggs.”

“Tell me your scrambled egg opinions.”

“Low heat. You have to be patient. People rush scrambled eggs and then they’re rubbery and terrible and nobody says anything because it’s rude.” He tilted the pan, working the eggs with a wooden spoon. “My mother made them this way. Low and slow. Same with grits.”

“Do you have grits?”

“Not at the moment. No. This is a grits-deficient apartment, which is a situation I should rectify.”

Chad smiled into his coffee. “What else would she make?”

Hank considered this while he stirred. “Biscuits. Real biscuits, not the tube kind. Sausage gravy. Sliced tomatoes from the garden in summer—she’d just put them on a plate with salt and black pepper, and they were better than anything you could order in a restaurant.” He was quiet for a moment. “She died fourteen years ago. My father, too. Car accident.”