Page 16 of Better Hate than Never

Slowly, I close my menu, observing Bill slide into Jamie’s side of the booth. Bill’s not short himself, so the sight of these two men over six feet crammed together is almost comical.

“What brings you here?” I ask Bill, who immediately accepts the menu Jamie’s offered him.

“Little of this, little of that.” Bill sniffs, dropping his chin so he can read the menu through the right part of his glasses. “Maureentold Fee she’d send in some flowers for the wake they’ll be having here tomorrow, and I was in the mood for shepherd’s pie, so I brought in the flowers for her, ordered carryout, and here we are.”

“Which means you’re searching the menu, why?”

Bill flips the menu page. “Browsing, in case something else strikes my fancy.”

I narrow my eyes. Maureen and the pub’s owner, Fiona—Fee, as everyone calls her—are old friends, and Maureen is a master gardener whose greenhouse bursts with blossoms that she’s always generous with. Bill’s both devoted to his wife and, especially since his retirement, about as inclined as Kate to stay still, so this story about delivering his wife’s flowers in the city for a wake at Fee’s is entirely plausible. It might even be true. It just doesn’t mean that’sallthere is to it.

Jamie clears his throat. Again.

I sigh as I set my elbows on the table and lean in. “Okay, you two. Out with it.”

Bill meets Jamie’s gaze, blinking owlishly. “Jamie? You feel like sharing any thoughts?”

Jamie’s eyes widen to saucers. “Me? This wasyouridea!”

“Well, it was easier in my head,” Bill mutters. “I prefer my battles and confrontations left squarely in literature.” Drawing in a breath, he sets a hand on my elbow, then says, “Christopher. You know I love you like a son.”

A knot forms in the pit of my stomach. I hate when he says that as much as I love it. I’ve tried to protect myself, to keep myself from getting too close to Bill and Maureen, seeing them like a second father and mother to me. Moments like this remind me that ship sailed years ago.

I was thirteen when my parents died, when my paternal grandmother came to live with me and offered about as much comfort as those needle-packed pincushions she left all over the house. SoI found comfort next door in my parents’ best friends, Maureen and Bill, in their daughters, who became even more like sisters to me—

Well, at least two of them.

I push away aggravating thoughts of Kate as quickly as they arrive, focusing on Bill.

“I know,” I tell him quietly.

“Good.” He pats my elbow once more. “Bear that in mind with what I’m about to say.” Clearing his throat, he laces his hands in front of him, elbows on the table. “What happened at Thanksgiving, as well as some further... insight”—his gaze slides to Jamie, then back my way—“has led to an epiphany.”

“Whose epiphany?”

Bill tips his head from side to side. “Mine. Maureen’s. I won’t speak for others.”

Jamie is quiet beside him, adjusting his watch so the face bisects his wrist bones.

“And what was that epiphany?” I ask, trying not to sound testy, but the fact is, I’m not used to being the one in the hot seat, waiting for insight. I run a company and my life with utmost control. I don’t do well with unknowns and anticipation.

Staring at me intently, Bill says, “Indulge me in a Socratic inquiry, Christopher.”

I rub the bridge of my nose. “You can take the professor out of the classroom—”

“But you can’t take the classroom out of the professor,” he says. “Too true. And the Socratic method of teaching served me well for many years, young man, so stay with me.”

“I’m staying.”

“Good. Now. How do you think Kate feels about how you two get along?”

I blink at him. “Feels? I think she feels that we get along terribly.”

“And why do you think that is?”

“Because we get along terribly. Because since she graced this fine earth with her presence, she’s provoked me and I gave it right back. Because unlike the rest of you, I haven’t hidden my disagreement with her choices, my concer—my disapproval, I mean—of how she lives.”

“How do you know that we see it like you do?” he asks.

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