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“Do you expect me to drink that?”
“My dad and I always drink Pabst on the screened-in porch during the first snow of the year.”
I open the door wider and he slips past me, small and solid and sweet-smelling. “It’s not snowing.”
He sticks his finger in his mouth and holds it up to test the air like a shitty weather station. “Give it a few more minutes. If there’s one thing Iowa boys know, it’s corn. And football. But also snow.” Dropping his backpack, he carries the beer away through the house.
“You can’t be serious,” I say, when I realize where he’s going. “It’s freezing out there.”
“Put on a coat. Or stay here, whichever.”
“I thought you were here to apologize,” I grumble, grabbing my jacket and following him downstairs. Sure enough, the spare bedroom window is standing open. Leaning on the sill, I stick my head out and find him sitting on the fire escape like an episode ofFriends.
He’s climbed to the outside of the safety railing, his legs dangling over the edge. When he sees me, he smiles and waves. “Come on out.”
“They put railings in place for a reason,” I fret as I swing my leg over the windowsill.
“To dare me to climb them.” He grips a beer can between his knees and pops the tab, quickly holding it out over the alley below as foam gushes down his fingers. I lean against the railing, feeling the cold metal warm up under my touch. When he nudges the box of beer toward me, I shake my head. “Can I ask you a shitty question?” he says.
“Only if I can ask you one in return.”
“Deal.” He holds his beer out to me. “Drink first.”
Sighing, I grab the chilly can and take a swig. It’s terrible in that way which makes you want more. Shuddering and pulling a face, I sip one more time and hand it back.
“Do you work all the time because you’re scared you’ll miss something again?”
I stare at him. “What?”
“I read up on the Victor Lang case this afternoon.” He speaks lightly, his voice neutral, but it’s hard to breathe knowing he’s heard the entire story and all the horrific and mostly true things people have said about me.
“I told you not to.”
Finishing the can, he leans out and drops it into the top of the dumpster in the alley below us. “I don’t work for you anymore, do I?”
“So what do you think? Either I knew the whole time and let it happen, or I was so profoundly stupid that my ignorance caused as much suffering as my corruption could have.”
I expect him to protest politely—no, of course not—but Jonah just sits there silently, watching his feet swing in the empty air. “I bet you were always a workaholic, but now you feel like if you take even a second off, you’ll miss something and someone else will get hurt.”
“Or maybe I’m busy being corrupt. Collecting bribes.”
He barks a loud, unexpected laugh. “I think corrupt people say smarter shit than ‘maybe I’m busy being corrupt’.” Shaking his head, he pops open his second beer. “I wouldn’t say it’s ignorant to trust that your boss isn’t a total fucking monster.”
“A lawyer that trusts isn’t worth very much.”
“And that’s why I could never be a lawyer. Your turn.” He tips his head back and wraps his arm around the safety rail, looking up at me.
“When are you going to tell your parents you quit law school?”
“The day before I’m supposed to graduate.”
When I don’t answer, he smiles weakly. “I’m kidding.”
“Are you?”
The smile fades, collapsing around the edges. “I feel so fucking stupid. Twenty-four with a degree and this is the mess I’m in? I keep putting off telling them, hoping I’ll find some alternative that will make the news easier to take.”
“What do you want to do?”
