Page 160 of Smoke and Glitter

"I have a preference."

"That means you've decided."

Sam angles the phone toward the darker sample. "I like this one."

"Then why are you asking me?"

His attention lifts from the wood to the screen. "Because I want to know which one will look best with you sitting at it with your laptop."

He says it so casually that I almost miss what it costs him.

I look at both samples again. "The lighter one."

His eyebrows pull together.

"You hate my answer."

"I don't hate it."

Sam laughs and props the phone against something so he can stand both samples upright. "Tell me why."

So I do, and he listens.

We spend another twenty minutes arguing about wood, stools and a light fixture so ugly I become offended that anyone involved in the project allowed it through the door. When we hang up, I realize I have seen almost every unfinished part of Smoke.

Sam didn't need help. He wanted me in it. That starts happening everywhere.

Over the next few weeks, I get photographs with almost no context: Bex behind the bar holding a clipboard and looking furious. A section of original trim Sam found under newer molding. Dinner on his kitchen counter with a message admitting he remembered to eat before midnight. Another dinner arrives well after midnight with an admission that he did not.

He tells me when Bex takes over Sundays and then, after several days, finally admits she runs them better than he does.

One morning, I get to my desk and find a message Sam sent while Chicago was still asleep.

Sam: Couldn't sleep. Wanted to talk to you, but it's morning there and the middle of the night here. Call me when you can.

I call immediately.

He answers with his voice rough from exhaustion. I tuck the phone between my shoulder and ear while closing my office door. "What kept you up?"

Sam is quiet long enough that I can hear him moving around on the other end. "Smoke. Vibes. You. Pick one."

"I have time for all three."

He laughs, tired and rough. I sit down and pull one knee beneath me. "Tell me about Smoke."

He does, but the business isn't really the problem. The permits are irritating, the timeline has moved, and one contractor is making him homicidal, but after a few minutes Sam goes quiet again.

When he speaks, his voice loses the edge it had while talking about construction. "I just miss you."

My hand stills on the desk. "I miss you too, Sam."

"The apartment feels weird without you."

"That is because I'm not there correcting everything you've done wrong with it."

"Your shoes are still under my bed."

I smile despite myself. "You could move them."