Chapter 7: Birthday Brunch

I folded the payout sheet in half and put it in my bra.

Then I walked out through the showroom while Randall was shaking hands over a Dodge.

He didn't even look up.

He'd never once in thirteen years imagined I would take something of his.

Landry's birthday brunch had been on my calendar for a month.

Sunday, eleven o'clock, a bar on Butler Street with Edison bulbs and bottomless mimosas.

Three blocks from the Bluebird.

I'd made the reservation myself, back when I thought he was going to be my first.

"You're actually going," Gretchen said from the couch.

"I'm actually going."

"Wear something mean."

I wore jeans and the T-shirt from the lot and my hair down.

The bar's back table was full of his friends from the gym and the dealership.

There was a gold balloon shaped like a 2 and another shaped like a 3 tied to his chair.

Landry was in the middle in a pink button-down, laughing, a mimosa in his hand.

He saw me in the doorway, and the laugh died.

His friends turned.

One of the guys from the gym actually said, "Ooh."

"Darby." Landry put his glass down too carefully. "I didn't think you'd come."

"I made the reservation," I said. "I'd hate to waste it."

There was a plate of eggs Benedict in front of him, untouched, the yolk still whole.

I took the folded sheet out and laid it flat on top of his eggs.

The hollandaise soaked through the paper right where my initials were.

"Read it out loud," I said.

He didn't.

The girl next to him leaned over and read it for him.

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