Chapter 6: Drew's Truck

On Sunday morning, Joy pushed me out of her apartment with a coffee and a pair of work gloves.

"His cousin has the flu," she said. "He needs a second set of hands on a piano job, and you need to stop looking at your phone."

"I'm not looking at my phone."

"You've checked it four times since I woke up."

I had.

Stewart had not texted since the diner.

Neither had Delaney.

The silence was somehow worse than the messages.

Drew was waiting at the curb in the moving truck, with the engine running and a paper bag on the dashboard.

"Breakfast," he said, and handed it across.

It was an egg sandwich, still hot.

"Joy told you I wouldn't eat."

"Joy told me you'd say you weren't hungry." He pulled away from the curb. "I figured I'd have it ready when you changed your mind."

I ate half of it before we crossed the bridge.

The job was an upright piano on the third floor of a walk-up in Brooklyn Heights.

The owner was an old man who stood in the corner of the living room with his arms crossed and watched every strap go on.

"Go slow," he said, three separate times.

"Yes, sir," Drew said, each time.

He did not look at his watch, and he did not rush.

He walked the piano down two flights on a ramp of straps with his shoulders square and his jaw set.

I held the door, and then I held the rail, and then I held the other end when he told me to.

I was sweating through my shirt by the second landing.

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