I grinned, but I didn’t look back to meet his gaze. We were side by side, and it felt right, like old times, though I was still certain he’d come out for a serious talk. And fuck me, but I was going to beat him to the punch.

“I don’t want an apology.”

There. Take that.

“Good.” He put his beer down, coughing once. “’Cause you ain’t getting one.”

I gave him the side-eye now. “Excuse me?”

He grinned, then took another drag from his cigarette. “You heard me. This is what you reap. You don’t let your friends in, and this is what you get. They can’t know if you don’t tell them shit.”

I grunted. “Touché.” And a second grunt. “Hadley and Owen were fawning over him in the car coming over here.”

“As they will.” A sip of beer. “They don’t see it the way I see it.”

I groaned. “I hate when you bait me.”

He laughed softly. “Fine. I’ll take the bait myself. How do I see it? Well…” He was quiet a moment. “Are you using him? How invested are you?”

“You’re worried he’ll hurt me?”

“I have reason to be worried.”

Damian.

Dementia.

Early-onset dementia that was supposed to be so rare it never happened. But it did. It had happened to him.

I took Grant’s cigarette. “I don’t know what to tell you—”

He plucked it back out of my hands. I didn’t even get the chance to bring it to my mouth.

He scowled. “What the fuck? I know you, Charlie. I know you. You’re going to take a drag, then start coughing so much you’re almost puking, and you’ll run inside to the bathroom. Either way, you get out of this conversation, and I know that’s the real goal for you.” He pointed his cigarette at me before taking it to his mouth. “No smokes for you, and stop bullshitting me. Just tell me what I want to know, and we can be done with it.” His eyes flicked upward. “And you know I’m sorry for being a dumbass earlier. I get you not wanting to talk about you-know-who, but just reassure this old bastard who used to be your best friend that you are talking to someone about him?”

I was quiet.

He sighed. “Charlie.”

“I’ve mentioned the situation to Reese.”

“Forster?” he scoffed.

“Yes. Him.”

He was quiet again. “Shit. I’m trying not to be best-friend jealous here. Him? Really?”

I shrugged, my stomach settling back down. “To be honest, I didn’t say much. Just that I’m going through something stupidly tragic.”

Another beat. “It’s not stupid. It’s just tragic, plain and simple.”

Oh whoa. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t talk. I blinked back sudden tears. They’d come out of nowhere. I stuck out a blind hand for his cigarette.

He chuckled, swatting it back down. “Here. Drink this instead.” He pushed his beer into my hand, and I guzzled it.

He sat back, and the air felt lighter somehow. He finished his cigarette. “I saw Superstar’s interview. He flicked his ear.” His shoulder nudged mine.

I’d beamed when Reese did that, and I knew Grant had noticed, though no one else did. Reese made the gesture so subtle, it looked like he was flicking off some sweat or an itch. But I saw it.

“That was for you, wasn’t it? You used to do little signals all the time when we were young.”

I laughed, the beer helping with my throat. “That’s right. The good old…” I scratched my nose with my middle finger.

He laughed too. “Yeah, and this one.” He made a circle with his thumb and finger, moving another finger through the hole.

“That’s not that discreet.”

“It is when you did it behind Keith’s back.”

I groaned. “He’s such a dickhead.”

“He is a dickhead, yes.”

“How can you work there?” Scratch that. “How can you still work for him?”

He lifted a shoulder. “Patience. There’s a plan in the works.”

“Good. I support that wholeheartedly as long as it involves him getting fired in the end.”

“You know…”

Oh no. He was back to his serious voice. I shook my head, standing up. “No. No more real talk. I’ve handled what I can for the night.”

I was itching to shoot off twenty different questions to Reese—not because I was feeling uncomfortable, but because I wanted to see his responses. But I refrained, until after another beer.

Raising Grant’s beer, I finished it. “That is one thing about your fiancée, though. She’s not that perfect.”

He harrumphed. “Says you.”

I held the now-empty can out. “Her margaritas are too sugary. I need more beer.”

A laugh, then he stood with me. Taking the can, he nodded. “Then beer you will have. Come on.” He led the way. “We’re off for a refill. I need one myself.”

More than two hours later, after three more beers—don’t judge me—and one slice of pizza then I finally sent off another round of questions. I had thought long and hard about them—and by that, I mean I gave it no thought.