Chapter 118

“Fuck.”

“Reed.”

“Sorry, Mama.” She wasn’t too exhausted to scold her adult son.

I picked it up, this gargantuan tangle of slats and cordage, and tried to rehang it, reaching overhead, coming up too short. “I can’t even see the bracket things.”

Devon and my father came to my aid. My brother pulled over a chair, one without wheels, from the corner and reinstalled the pricy shade in a matter of seconds.

“You need to chill,” he said.

He was right.

The space smelled like new carpeting and leather, at least until everyone else piled in, at which point it smelled like coffee and cigarettes. Someone involved was a heavy smoker. Mick Albert was there, as well as Cloud-ia, and just about everyone else on planet Earth that could fit in a conference room. Only one person really talked—mostly to me—and I wasn’t even certain who he was.