Chapter 2

Miriam returned and pressed a pint of something cold and vaguely damp into his hand. “Buddy, I’ve seen you in court. It’s a whole different ball game than you when you’re with your friends.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Trust me. You’ll be fine. You’re transparent to us because we know you. And we knew you back when you were just a dumb history major who danced on tables after too much tequila.”

He couldn’t help but laugh at that, even as he blushed up to the tips of his ears. “How much tequila is it going to take for you all to forget that ever happened?”

Tony clapped him on the back. “Not all the tequila in Mexico, my friend. There are pictures to prove it. You were a pretty good dancer back in the day, I have to admit. That tie choking off your rhythm or do you still have moves?”

Brandon’s unoccupied hand instinctively went to his tie, loosening it. “I never had moves, dude. And even if I did,” he added, holding up his beer to forestall the objections he could see coming on both of their faces, “they surgically remove your moves in law school. It’s a requirement. They have to make room for tort law somehow.” He put his hands to his chest in an affectation of innocence. “I don’t make the rules.”

“Aw, come on,” Greg objected, a hint of pink coming into his cheeks. “You were great. Everyone loved to see you dance, dude. You could’ve put yourself through law school that way if you’d wanted to.”

“Not anymore. Lawyers don’t dance, Greg. We plod from case to case and occasionally watch baseball alone in our condos. Or we would. If we had televisions.” He grimaced and took a sip of his beer. It really was good stuff, he had to admit. Miriam hadn’t failed him yet.

“You haven’t bought a new one yet?” Tony blurted. “Dude, it’s been six weeks. What the hell do you do with yourself in there without a TV?” Greg reached around Brandon to smack Tony on the back of his head. “Ow! It was a legitimate question!”

“I work,” Brandon explained. “I mean, what else is there, right? Being with him…” He trailed off and collected himself while Greg put a hand on his back. Oddly enough, that simple gesture helped. “It’s like, he was the one. Without him around, it’s almost like there’s no…there’s no color in the world. The condo’s just gray, the office is gray, and everything is gray.” He held up his glass. “This beer is the first thing I think I’ve really tasted since he moved out.”

“Hope it’s a good one,” Miriam cracked.

“It is,” he assured her. “It’s awesome. Where did you say it was from again?”

“Upstate New York. Syracuse, I think.” She launched into a mini-lecture about the brewery and the beer, and Brandon relaxed into it, grateful for the change of subject. He knew that his friends wanted to support him. He appreciated it, he did. They’d practically dragged him back out into the world kicking and screaming tonight, after all, but they weren’t just his friends. They were close with Adrian, too, and the last thing he wanted was to make his friends uncomfortable.

The second to last thing he wanted was for word to get back to Adrian.

Still, he supposed it was good to be out and talking to non-work people again. Other friends started to trickle in slowly—Abe, with his dark eyes and wicked sense of humor; Clay, with his perfect hair; Tommy, who towered over the entire bar and never seemed to notice. Marketta was there, too, dressed better than anyone else in the place and knowing it. Petra made it, too, blood red nails standing out against the dark oak bar. It almost seemed like someone had organized a party for him, a “still single” party or something.

He tried not to think like that. That way lay bitterness.

Instead he let himself go and tried to have a good time. These were his friends. The game played in the background, and he’d missed six weeks of the season—more than that, he’d have to admit, because he’d taken on some out-of-state clients in the weeks leading up to the split. It didn’t feel at all bad to sit back and just enjoy some baseball for a little while, second-guess the ump and quibble with Greg over whether or not the first baseman had his foot on the bag when the runner made it ninety feet.

He let himself relax still further when, after another couple of beers and the best French dip sandwich in Boston, his crowd succeeded to the dartboard. They didn’t play for money, they never had, but they could still enjoy throwing a few rounds at the wall. After a few rounds he found that he wasn’t forcing the smiles quite as hard, the laughter didn’t sound quite so canned. He even won a round or two, which earned him free pints that he probably didn’t need but consumed anyway because he hadn’t been raised in a barn, damn it.