Page 105 of Best Served Cold

He laughs and lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “I don’t know. It was kind of jarring, hearing from her. Last I heard she was pregnant and marrying some old rich guy. A producer.”

“The one she dumped you for?” I say. “Harsh.”

“Yeah. Hearing from her put me in a funk, I guess.” He gives me a knowing look. “You’re in a weird state too.”

“Yeah.” I tap my fingers against my arm. “It’s this thing with Soph. She hasn’t gotten back to me all afternoon.” I swear. “I sound like one of our kids.”

“Let’s sit for a minute.” He nods to the couch in the corner of the room. We carry over the leftover pizzas and a couple of seltzers and settle into it, facing the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking a parking lot. Like I said, the unit was relatively cheap, and relatively cheap places usually don’t come with views.

We shoot the breeze about everything but Lilah and Sophie for a while, eating some of the cold pizza. I ask if he’s still been texting with Hannah, and he gives me anoh, pleaselook. “If Lilah was a tornado, that woman’s a hurricane.”

Maybe we’re both avoiding going home, knowing there’s nothing much to greet us there—unless Lilah really did send him a flaming bag of shit. Travis is like me. He doesn’t even have a goldfish, let alone a cat to sit by the fishbowl. He likes his space, but I can tell the solitary nature of his existence gets to him sometimes, just like it does with me. My friend and I live parallel existences, intersecting plenty, but always returning to the baseline. The empty apartment. The feeling of missing something that isn’t there and maybe never has been. The tug towardsomething more. He has a sister he keeps in touch with, but she lives in New York City and doesn’t visit much. His dad, who was already sixty when he was born, passed away years ago; his mom is on her third husband and living in Europe.

Eventually, Travis forces me to circle back to the topic of my family. And I rehash all the crap they pulled this past week.

“Look, man,” he says. “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going for it. You’re better off without them. Your dad and Jonah only bring you down. You don’t need that.”

I nod, because he’s right. My feelings about my father have always been complicated, but up until recently, there was still a part of me that hadn’t let go. I felt it loosening its grip at the coffee shop last week, and it felt fantastic. I tell him as much.

“That’s right,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. “We’ve gotthis, man. We’ve made something great here. Better even than Bad Magic.” His mouth purses to one side. “They suck anyway. Have you heard their latest single?”

Have I heard it?

Of course I have. I follow their every success and failure. I’m only human. Besides, their lead singer, David, was my childhoodbest friend.Wasbeing the operative word in that sentence. He took it personally when I couldn’t come on tour with them. He acted like it was a choice, not a decision that had been ripped from me. We’ve talked a few times since, but it’s been years since the last time we exchanged a word. He hasn’t looked back, only forward, and who could blame him?

I smile ruefully. “You know it was fucking good.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “We’re better. But I’m glad no one outside of this area knows it. Being on tour sucks. And the music should be just about the music, not about what’s popular or what other people want, you know? We’ve got everything we need.”

I can tell he means it—or has convinced himself he does—but it’s not true for me anymore.

He gives me the amused look of a man who knows me well. “I like her. Now,she’sgood for you.”

I smile at him. “Thanks, man. I’d like to be good for her too.”

“You will.” He hesitates before adding, “Have you told her what Jonah did?”

I think about my deal with Sophie—a past for a past. But maybe that’s unfair. She might need me to show her the ultimate trust before she can do the same. “Not yet,” I say. “Maybe it’s about that time.”

He grins at me. “Youdohave it bad. Just don’t start writing pop music. I can’t take it if you become a pop music guy.”

This makes me laugh, because the songs I’ve been writing recently could probably be classified that way. “I have a couple of new ones for our next practice. They’re gonna make people want to dance.”

Hopefully, they’ll makeherdance.

The thought plants an idea in my head. “You said the show at the Peel is on my birthday.”

“It is, and you said you wouldn’t do it. I believe the words ‘over my dead body’ were used.”

“I’ve changed my mind. If Bixby is down, let’s tell them we’re in.”

“Oh, the mercurial artistic temperament. Let me guess. You want to see Sophie in leg warmers?”

I roll my eyes. “Seems fun. That’s all.”

It also seems like a banner opportunity to give her a real prom experience, though I’m definitely not admitting that yet.

“Yeah, right,” he says with a laugh. “But I do want to see Bixby in fluorescents. I’ll see if the Peel still has room for us.”

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