Page 47 of Smoke and Glitter

Standing outside Vibes now, I know I'm never going to tell him. Not after this. There is no way to explain that choice without making it sound like I gave something up for a man who doesn't think I belong anywhere near the decisions that make up his life.

My phone rings before I can go much farther with that.

I take the work call from a coffee shop a few blocks away and spend the next ten minutes talking a label executive out of moving an announcement that will blow up in her face if she rushes it. By the time we hang up, she agrees with me and thanks me for my patience.

Being useful is rarely complicated when somebody actually wants the help.

When I get home, the envelope is still in my bag. I take it out and read all three pages again.

Nothing has changed. The filing is still unfinished. The lender is still going to care, and Pilsen is still sitting there waiting for somebody whose financing doesn't come with a dead company attached to it.

Sam could lose the place because there is one conversation he refuses to have.

I leave the envelope on my coffee table for two days. Sam doesn't call or text, and I sure as hell don't reach out either.

The third morning, I put it back in my bag.

He can be angry with me. The filing is still unfinished, and the pages are still good. I can't make myself let him lose Pilsen just because he hurt me.

The front door of Vibes is propped open for a delivery, and someone is wheeling boxes toward the storeroom when I walk in. Nobody pays much attention to me.

I leave the envelope on the back bar beside the register where I know he'll find it and walk back out.

A few days later, I go back because I left my scarf there. That's what I tell myself on the walk over.

What I actually want is five minutes with Sam. Long enough to stand in front of him and figure out whether our last conversation was one bad moment or the beginning of the end of whatever we've been doing.

I've also decided I can accomplish this without mentioning what we need to talk about, which is the kind of strategy I would reject on sight if someone at work brought it to me.

The front door is unlocked.

Inside, the chairs are still upside down on the tables, and only half the lights are on. A radio plays somewhere in the back beneath the sounds of opening prep.

I make it halfway down the bar before I hear my name.

My body stops before the rest of me catches up.

"...she's fine. She's been busy."

Sam.

I stay where I am. From behind the wall, Bex lets out a sound that needs no translation.

"Sam."

"She's got a client on fire."

"Autumn hasn't been in since you two had whatever happened, and you've been unbearable ever since. Try again."

Something knocks against a crate.

Sam's answer comes after it.

"We had a thing."

Bex repeats it flatly. "A thing."

"It's fine. It's handled."