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Tean braced himself for the onslaught. The bartender was cutting up limes, and the rhythmic sound of the blade passing through the skin and hitting the cutting board kept time for the droning voices on some sports channel Jem doubtless would have recognized. A white lady in a Santaland uniform pushed a sweeper-vac down the hall, leaving a trail of tiny pieces of garbage behind her. The belt inside the sweeper-vac squeaked—or a gear squeaked, or a wheel, or something.
When Emery spoke, his voice was barely loud enough to carry across the room. “My son. Our son.”
Tean nodded.
Emery didn’t move. He didn’t have a drink. He didn’t have any food in front of him. As far as Tean could tell, he’d ducked in here to finish that call with his son, and now he was sitting there, staring at Tean. He didn’t look good—the dark circles under his eyes, the exhaustion that looked more than physical. Some kind of bad blood with Chief Cassidy, Tean knew, although the details had never been made clear. Or perhaps the events of the last few days, independent of Cassidy. Or perhaps all of it. Or something else entirely.
At some unseen signal, Emery stood. He navigated the maze of tables, his path bringing him closer to Tean—and, at the same time, closer to the exit. Then he stopped. His gaze flitted to Tean again.
In that moment, Tean wished Jem were here, to talk, to smile, to ask all the right questions. All Tean knew was that Emery looked unhappy and worn out, and that was the kind of thing Jem was good at handling.
But the moment had lasted too long, and Tean heard himself saying, “Would you like to sit down?”
For a moment, it seemed like Emery might shake his head. Then he drew out a chair. He sat back in the seat, almost a slouch. His eyes moved restlessly toward Tean and away.
“Do you want a drink? Something to eat?”
Emery shook his head.
The bartender had finished with the limes and was drying glasses now. On TV, a commercial for a hemorrhoid cream showed people doing all sorts of things without any discomfort: sitting, stretching, squats.
“Christ,” Emery said, “why not just show them taking a shit?”
A laugh—so nervous it bordered on a giggle—worked its way through Tean. A flicker of something creased Emery’s mouth.
“How many kids do you have?” Tean asked.
Emery held up two fingers. “Colt is sixteen. Evie will be five in September.” Some sort of internal deliberation must have happened because he added, “Neither one is mine biologically. We adopted Colt. Evie is John’s from a previous marriage.”
But, Tean thought, he’d said,My son. He’d caught himself. But that’s what he’d said.
Aloud, Tean said, “John-Henry doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would make that distinction.”
“Of course not,” Emery said. “Yet another piece of evidence I’m an asshole.”
Tean picked up the cider and looked at the bottle. His head throbbed.
“I am…sorry.” Emery shifted in his seat. “I’ve been out of sorts lately. So many surprises. So many things I can’t control.” It must have taken an effort, but he asked, “Do you have kids?”
Tean held up two fingers, copying Emery’s display from a moment before. “Girls. We’re fostering, but maybe…” He let that thread hang out there. “Sofia will be ten in October. Anahí is six.”
Emery nodded.
“It’s new,” Tean said. And then, because he couldn’t help himself, “We have no idea what we’re doing.”
A laugh rippled in Emery’s chest. “Good God. Join the club. You had the pleasure of hearing my son give me relationship advice; you’re clearly in good company.”
That made Tean smile. “It sounds like you’re close.”
One of Emery’s hands came up and traced the line of the table. It was a long few seconds before he said, in a different voice, “I love him very much.”
And Tean sat and wondered and tried to figure out who was sitting across from him.
“John is disappointed in me,” Emery said suddenly. He rubbed his eyes. “Again.”
Tean thought about what to say to that.
“I’m sorry,” Emery said. “You don’t want to hear about that.”
