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He looks up, business as usual, and gives a curt nod.
I act like nothing has changed since Thursday. Which, I suppose, it hasn’t.
“Surprised you showed up,” he says gruffly. He does nearly everything gruffly, except write airtight contracts. That’s why I like him. He’s straightforward in life and diligent in business.
“Because I’m usually such a no-show,” I deadpan.
He clears his throat, a reminder that I bailed in advance yesterday.
Yeah, I’m not going there. I nod to the running path, which at seven a.m. is already teeming with weekend warriors. “I stretched at home. Let’s do this, old man,” I say.
He rolls his eyes. “Fuck you.”
It’s an easy target, but I take it. When your buddy is eight years older than you, you can always rib him for being old.
The trash talk covers up my guilt and so does the exercise.
The morning air is cool, the light catching the edges of buildings, creating a golden glow. We weave through the stream of joggers, hitting a brisk pace quickly.
“So, how was your Friday night?” Tate asks. Since I didn’t run yesterday, it was inevitable he’d ask. Still sucks though. “Better than it’s been over the last couple of years?”
The twisting? It’s a fucking knife right now in my gut.
Tate was there for me when things with Marilyn went south—there in exactly the way I needed, giving me a focus as his workout partner, finding triathlons that raised money for causes from cancer to children’s hospitals, and developing a training schedule for running, biking, and swimming.
Suited his needs too. He’s become addicted to our races. He’d joined our local running club a few months after his daughter’s death, and he’d once told me running was his therapy.
“I have no complaints,” I say, then shift the topic. “Except that you’re a fucking turtle this morning.”
I peel ahead, running faster, needing distance. Maybe in a few more days it’ll be easier, this…lying by omission.
But Tate’s resilient. He hates losing. So he pounds the pavement relentlessly until he catches up. When he does, I make sure I take the reins of the conversation. “What about you? How’s Liz doing with the new hires?”
He talks about his wife’s projects at her company as we go.
This is freedom for me, outpacing other runners as we push further and further out of our comfort zones. My heart races as I outrun the recent years of heartache, maybe even the other night of pleasure too. My lungs burn and my quads scream, but with each passing mile, the unease in me lessens, like I’ve burned off the emotions.
Soon enough, we slow down, nearing the end of our run.
“Big week ahead,” Tate says, his breath coming fast as we veer to an exit on the path. “The paperwork is all done. I’m seriously fucking proud of this deal.”
I clap his shoulder, proud of him too. “You should be,” I say, slowing to a light jog. “You made it all happen.”
A rare smile shifts his lips. The man is stoic so much of the time, rarely letting an emotion through. I understand why. He’s been through hell and doesn’t want to feel pain like that again.
We slow to a walk and head to our usual coffee cart, just off the running path. “Thanks for taking a chance on this old cop,” Tate says, earnestly.
I laugh. “Easiest decision ever.”
“No, I mean it,” he says, sounding more vulnerable. “You were my first client. You took a big chance. I want to do right by you, Finn.”
Ah, hell.
The knife goes deeper, digs farther. “You have, man. You have,” I say, focusing only on this deal.
I don’t want to linger on Friday night, and why I invited Tate’s daughter over. Or why I didn’t cancel before she arrived. I don’t even have a “heat of the moment” excuse. My night with Jules was one hundred percent premeditated.
I know why I invited her, why I didn’t cancel—because I wanted her.
