Page 120 of Let It Breathe
Clay swallowed. “It was a long time ago.”
“Not really.”
“Things are different now.”
Eric shook his head. “No. You’re still the same guy you always were, but you’ve muzzled yourself now. You spend half your time trying not to offend anyone, and the other half trying to make up for past offenses, but otherwise you’re still the same. So is Reese, you know. And that’s not such a bad thing.”
Clay shook his head and met Eric’s eyes again. “Thanks, Freud.”
“I’m serious. I don’t know what happened with Reese or how you’re going to fix it, but I do know you’ve got to get over this pansy-ass thing you’ve been doing.”
“Pansy-ass?”
“That’s the most important part of the guy code,” Eric said, his tone softer now. “The need to tell your friend when he’s being a pansy-ass.”
“I appreciate it.”
The weird thing was, he did.
Chapter 18
Clay knew he should stick close to the vineyard. Eric had already told him the fire marshal wanted to ask him some questions as soon as possible.
But here he was parked on a barstool at Finnigan’s, nursing a Coke and picking at a plate of French fries as he replayed the conversation with Eric.
He wasn’t sure which was more upsetting—the fact that he was a suspect in an arson investigation or the fact that his best friend knew he’d slept with his ex.
He took another sip of his Coke and picked up the ketchup, pouring a healthy dollop of it on the side of his plate. He traced a French fry through it and was just about to shove it in his mouth when he heard a familiar voice.
“Clay!”
He turned to see Patrick ambling in, his shirtsleeves rolled to display the misspelled tattoos.
“Hey, Patrick. Good to see you.”
His sponsor raise a hand in greeting. “Whatcha doing?”
“Getting wasted on Coca-Cola and French fries, how about you?”
Patrick glanced at Clay’s glass, looking visibly relieved. “That’s just Coke?”
“Want a taste?”
“No, no—I trust you.”
“Okay.” It’d be just his luck if Patrick kept tabs on him so he’d know if Clay came within ten feet of a bar. “Have a seat.”
Patrick eased himself onto the stool and folded his hands on the bar. Clay tried not to stare at the tattoos.
Your stronger than you think you are.
Strength threw sobriety.
“So how have things been going, Clay?”
“Okay,” Clay said. “I’ve been better.”
“You want to talk about it?”
