Page 74 of The Sin Eater

“And is he?”

“What?”

“A mistake?”

Laughing, I bounce my head off the back of the leather banquet. “I don’t know. Probably?”

The waiter brings us a bottle of wine. He’s both nice to look at and has excellent timing.

Roger dives back in as soon as we’ve both got a glass of the ridiculously expensive red wine he ordered. “Look, dog, you’re talking to the guy who had three women after my nutsack at the same time. They don’t come much stupider than me.”

“Sounds about right.”

“Hey now, don’t be nasty.”

I exhale, hoping the pretty waiter would return with our food so I wouldn’t have to talk any more. No luck. No options. With an I’m-doing-this-under-protest grimace, I give Roger a heavily edited version of the Ezra story.

“Let me make sure I understand you. You meet a guy who’s hot and kinda grumpy, and you buy him a bunch of coffee. You go out a couple times, you might actually be getting along, and then things go sideways, and now he’s blocked your number.”

Thank fuck the waiter shows up with our dinner. I pause to admire my steak frites—to hell with worrying about carbs—and I’m hoping Roger’s filet mignon will distract him enough to change the subject.

“So, did I hit the high points?” he says between bites.

I give him a slow blink. “More or less.”

He chews, swallows, and washes everything down with a mouthful of wine. “What are you going to do about it?”

I drag a fry through the small puddle of artisanal ketchup on my plate. “Not sure what I can do about it. He’s made his opinion clear.”

“So fuck him and find somebody else. We’ll go out clubbing tonight. There must be someplace in this Podunk town where we can find both girl and boys, if that’s what you want.”

“Nah, man, I have to work in the morning.”

“Oh yeah, that reminds me...” He attacks the last of his filet with the same vigor he gives everything. “I hear the Dawgs might need a strength coach. I know the guy who’s hiring and you should apply.”

“Roger... dude...” I focus on what’s left of my steak to keep my annoyance in check. Do I think Roger came all the way to Seattle to tell me about a job? Not really, but—

“At some point you gotta stop trying to take care of me.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“We’re grown-ups, Roger. I’ll figure it out.”

“Damon, Damon, Damon.” Roger pauses in slicing off another bite of filet mignon. “I love you like a brother, man, and I’m only going to say this once. Go after what you want, man. I know blowing out your rotator cuff fucked you up, but that doesn’t mean you gotta spend the rest of your life taking what comes. You want grumpy Ezra? Find him and tell him that. You want to do more than wander the halls of St. Nowhere—and I know you do—start applying for jobs, man. D-Clem has cred on campus, so use it.”

I lift my wineglass, fighting the impulse to dump it over Roger’s head and walk out of the place. Instead, I take a long swallow, savoring all the flavors in the complex red. What keeps me there—what keeps me from owing Roger money for dry cleaning anyway—is that he’s not wrong. In fact,go after whatyou wantisn’t all that far from what the carnival psychic told me.

Dream a little and do the things you’ve always wanted to.

“You’re not wrong.” I pour myself some more wine. “If I promise to apply for a different job, can we talk about other stuff for the rest of the night?”

His grin is filthy. “We certainly can, and in some cases, I can show you photos.”

“Great.” It’s hard to sound snarky when we’re both laughing. Being a strength coach wouldn’t be the worst thing ever, although I’m not sure I’m ready to be that close to the game. I need to find something else I can build a career around.

And for the first time in a long time, I think maybe I will.

Chapter Twenty-Five