Page 92 of Rules to Love By

Marcus watched him as he tidied up a pile of forms and made notes on his pad of lined paper. Once he’d put the last period in place, he tore the pages from the pad and added them to the folder, every motion economical and precise. As controlled as Marcus was so not. “What do you think I should do?” he blurted as Schiffer tapped the pile neatly one last time and set it on the open file folder spread out over Kreed’s scarred desk.

Schiffer glanced up at him. “Do? There’s nothing to do until after we talk to the police, and then we’ll evaluate and decide what comes next.”

“No, I mean about the diner.”

“Oh.” Schiffer gently closed the folder, picked up his pen and capped the delicate fountain tip before setting it back on top of the folder just so. “Understand I am uniquely—” He paused, considering, then went on in a much more thoughtful tone. “—underqualified to give you that kind of advice, Marcus.”

“No, no, of course. I know. I just…” Marcus huffed and shoved his chair away from the desk as he stood. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Sit,” Schiffer told him, still as if he were treading particularly thin ice, but was determined.

Marcus sat.

As he leaned forward, Schiffer laced his fingers together on top of the pen and folder. “I want to tell you a story.” But then, instead, he asked a question. “Do you know what I did before I was a lawyer?”

Marcus blinked at him and shook his head. A clump of hair plopped over his eyes, and he shoved it aside.

“I danced.”

“Oh! Like, ballet?” Trying to imagine the prim man in ballet tights seemed absurd. “Or go-go?” He clamped his mouth shut. Because if ballet-Schiffer was hard to imagine, go-go-Schiffer was even worse.

At least he laughed. “Ballet.”

“Right. Of course.” Marcus frowned. “That’s a long way from law school.”

“Indeed it is.”

“What happened?” He should have balked at asking, but Schiffer had brought it up, so obviously, it was a story he wanted to tell. Right?

“An injury.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. It wasn’t a particularly terrible one. In fact, with the right management, I could have been a fine ballet dancer. A soloist, even, though likely not a principal.”

“So…”

“So. The problem was all me. I was doing well. I had a good job, good reviews, the eye of the artistic director. Then I hurt myself, and I freaked out. I let all the what-ifs get into my head. I was my own worst enemy, and I tanked my whole career all by myself. Because I was afraid.”

Marcus waited, but Schiffer didn’t seem to have anything else to say.

“So becoming a lawyer was easier than going back to dancing?” Marcus finally asked. “Because that doesn’t exactly seem, like, you know, true. What with all the school, and exams and all.”

“Taking on a whole new career as far from what I’d been doing as I could get felt safer at the time than trying to get back into shape and failing.” He shrugged. “I didn’t say this was going to be a logical story.”

“But it has a point.”

“It does. Understand, I don’t regret being a lawyer. I am a pretty good one.” He winked, and Marcus relaxed slightly. “But I do have one what-if left that circles my brain every now and then. And it’s one I’ll never be able to answer, and sometimes, that does make me sad.”

“What if you’d rehabilitated and gone back to work in the ballet.”

Schiffer nodded.

“So you think I should open—”

Schiffer held up a hand to stop him. “I think you should imagine, at the very least, how you might feel some time from now if you never re-open your aunt’s diner. How you will feel if you do. And remember that if you decide not to, nothing you do in the future will allow you to go back and make a different decision. Once it’s gone, it’s gone.”

“Like dancing for you.”

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