Page 75 of Unmanageable

“Thank you, Scottie-girl,” I say, taking the cone with extreme, exaggerated caution, wrapping both hands around the paper sleeve as if I’m holding a fragile, prehistoric egg. “See? The tide is turning. The river is flowing again.”

“If you say the word ‘tide’ one more time tonight, I’m going to throw myself into a literal river,” she mutters.

We start walking again, drifting away from the bright, sterile commercial strip and heading down into one of those brick-lined alleys where the city actually feels like a city instead of a tech campus. The streetlights here are older, casting long, dramatic shadows against the exposed brick.

The wind is howling between the high stone walls, carrying the deep rumble of traffic from three blocks over, but down here, it’s just the two of us and the sound of our shoes on the pavement.

From about fifty yards down the alley, a low, golden light spills out of a basement stairwell, accompanied by a sound that instantly changes the atmosphere.

“Look at that,” I say, nodding toward the small wooden sign hanging over the stairs.

Scottie stops, squinting down into the stairwell. “Cash, it’s a basement jazz club. We have a 9:00 AM ice slot tomorrow. You need to be a wall, or a mountain, or whatever the hell else Yuri called you, not a hungover jazz enthusiast.”

“The ice slot is an illusion created by the mind, Sharky,” I say, using my best, most deadpan Yuri tone as I take the last bite of the waffle cone and toss the napkin into a nearby trash can.

I reach out, my fingers wrapping around the smooth, cold leather of her sleeve, tugging her gently toward the stairs. “Come on. Just one drink. To celebrate the survival. And to apologize for the fact that I almost made you watch me cry over mint chocolate chip.”

She hesitates for half a second, her gaze flicking between the dark entrance and my face, but then she lets out a small, defeated sigh that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

“Fine. One drink.”

The air inside is warm, thick with the smell of spilled bourbon. It’s the kind of place that hasn’t changed its decor since the late sixties, and honestly, it’s perfect.

There are maybe twenty people in the whole room, scattered across small round tables covered in red velvet cloth.

We find a small booth in the back corner, the leather torn in the center but comfortable enough that we sink three inches into the cushion when we sit down.

A waiter in a crisp white apron appears out of the shadows. “What can I get you folks?”

“Two old fashioneds,” I say before Scottie can order her usual sparkling water. “And whatever you have that involves melted cheese. I’ve had a very emotional day.”

The waiter pauses, looking down at his small green notepad, then looks up at the two of us. He gives a slow, knowing nod that instantly sets off my internal radar.

“We got a special tonight for couples,” the old man says, leaning in a little closer, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “Ribeye crostini, baked brie with fig jam, chocolate truffles. Usually eighty bucks, but if you’re celebrating an anniversary… or something official… management takes care of the whole spread. Standard policy for the neighborhood sweethearts.”

I feel Scottie’s entire posture go rigid next to me.

“Oh, Frank,” I say, reading the small silver name tag pinned to his apron. I reach across the small table, grabbing Scottie’s hand in both of mine, squeezing her fingers tightly before she can protest. “You don’t know what those words mean to us. We aren’t celebrating an anniversary, but we did just get engaged. Two hours ago. On the bridge.”

Scottie lets out a choked gasp that sounds exactly like a woman who has just been overwhelmed by a romantic proposal. Her eyes are wide, staring at me with an expression that is fifty percent pure, homicidal rage and fifty percent absolute, dark amusement.

But she is a professional. She knows how to pivot.

She lets out a shaky breath, her shoulders doing that rhythmic hitching thing again—only this time, she forces a dry, hacking sob out of her throat. She reaches up with her free hand, dabbing at the corner of her dry eye with her index finger, her performance bordering on Oscar-worthy.

“He surprised me so much, Frank,” she whimpers, leaning her head against my shoulder. “I didn’t think he could be so emotional. I’m just… I’m so overwhelmed.”

“Ah, the quiet ones always got the biggest hearts,” Frank says, his own eyes watering as he slaps his notepad against his thigh. “Say no more, folks. The tasting menu is on the house. I’ll bring the bubbles out right away.”

He scurries off into the amber shadows toward the kitchen, looking like a man on a mission from God.

The second his white apron disappears behind the curtain, Scottie pulls her head off my shoulder and hits my bicep with a closed fist.

“You are a psychopath,” she whispers fiercely, leaning in until her face is inches from mine. “We are not engaged. We are not even dating.”

“Did you see his face? We made his night. We gave him a narrative. Besides, you played along beautifully, Sharky. That little sob? Impressive.”

“I’m going to kill you in your sleep,” she mutters, though she’s struggling to suppress a smile.