by Rick Riordan
"Yes."
"You’re telling me now you’re going to shut out the possibility? You’re so sure it wouldn’t work?"
"Yes," I lied. "I’m sure."
She stared at me, looking for chinks in the armor. I didn’t let her find any. Slowly, the tightness in her shoulder muscles relaxed.
“All of that," she said softly, "just for you to leave me again."
She waited for a response. It was hard, it was very hard, but I let her have the final word.
Then she turned and walked out of the gazebo, down to her mother’s empty black Cadillac. It was much too big, much too formal a car for her, I thought. But as she drove off, she looked as if she were learning to be at home behind the wheel.
I took my suit coat off, then walked down to the corner of Austin Highway and Eisenhower, letting the sun turn me into a walking water fountain while I waited for the bus. There was a vendor on the corner selling fresh fruit next to black velvet paintings of Aztec Warriors and Bleeding Jesuses. I guess I looked like I needed something. He smiled crookedly and handed me a free slice of watermelon. I thanked him for not giving me one of the paintings instead.
"Hey, vato," someone said behind me.
I turned and saw Ralph leaning out the window of his maroon Lincoln and grinning like a fiend.
"You lose your wheels, man?"
I shrugged. “More like I lost Jess’s. They’re denying me visiting rights to the VW."
Ralph laughed and showed me a bottle of Herradura Anejo and a six-pack of Big Red.
“You still need friends like these?" he asked.
"Only more than anything," I told him, and I got in the car.
