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“What are you talking about?” Trey asked, not tempering his voice a bit.

“Let’s just talk after the meeting, and then we’ll present. Is that all right, KQ?” I asked. She eyed me.

“No,” she said. “Talk now.”

“Swoosh!” Trey yelled. “Anyway, it was fucking awesome. She had the finest honeys the Honey Pot has to offer lined up for body shots before Pey even got back from the bar! Top twenty nights at the Honey Pot, hands down.” He slapped the table. “I think I really have a knack for this training thing, boss.”

Cal and I looked at each other like we had rehearsed it.

“Trey, I think you might be misremembering things. You did have a few drinks,” I said.

“What are you two implying?” KQ asked, picking up on our heavy hands.

“Ma’am—I mean, I’m sorry, I mean KQ—I don’t want to speak out of turn, but—”

“Oh, for Darkness’ sake. Just talk, you little rodent.”

“Trey spent most of the night passed out in the booth,” I interrupted. “Cal and I had to put him in a taxi before we could even try to sell anything.” I shrugged. “I’m sorry, Trey, I just can’t lie for you. Not this time.”

Trey opened and closed his mouth like a fish.

“Pey actually made the sales, and got five of the strip—five of the ladies—to give up names of folks on Earth who might want to make a deal,” Cal said. “It was actually . . . It was really impressive. I’m grateful I got to see him work.” She smiled at me in that sweet way she had smiled the day we first met, and I was relieved by the comfort of feeling nothing.

“It was no big deal.”

“That’s bullshit,” Trey said, shaking his head. “That’s not at all what happened. I was there. This dipshit went home early, and Cal and I tore the place up all night! I watched her fingerbang two strippers, y’all. It was the bomb.”

KQ looked at Cal and then back at Trey. I could see the wheels in her brain turning as she tried to imagine this little church mouse knuckles-deep.

“Trey, remember the Christmas party?” I asked gently. I watched as everybody in the room recalled Trey vomiting into a lampshade and then wearing it around his neck “because the doctor said I can’t chew on my own junk anymore!” I watched as the women in the room remembered his liquor-soaked breath as he leaned in and said, “I can still chew on your junk, though.”

There was a collective sigh.

“Trey, you know you can’t get that kind of hammered on work time,” KQ said, putting her feet back on the floor.

“I didn’t—I don’t—”

“He was harmless, truly. Just peacefully asleep,” Cal said. I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. It was the perfect addition. Trey would rather be the office drunk than harmless.

“Okay, well, that’s about all I need to know about that. Trey, dock your time. We can’t be paying you for getting drunk. Pey, good work. Follow those leads and see what we get. Squeaks—well, I’m glad you got to see some good salesmanship. Maybe you can learn something, if your brain isn’t as dense as your sweater.”

I didn’t look at Cal, but I wanted to. Maybe we really could be friends after all. Whatever that meant here.

“Okay,” KQ said. “Who’s next?”





MICKEY





RUTH LAY ON MICKEY’S bed, swiping through her phone. It had been two weeks since that soccer practice, and the smell of Ruth’s hair had become a part of Mickey’s pillows. Candy apples and baby powder. It was everywhere. Mickey begged her mom to find the shampoo Ruth used, but none of the ones she bought came close.

“Why do you have to leave me?” Ruth whined, throwing her phone onto the pillow next to her and rolling onto her stomach, her chin in her hands.

“I don’t want to,” Mickey answered, pulling shorts from her drawer.

“Not those,” Ruth said, wrinkling her nose.

“Why not?” Mickey asked. Ruth snorted.

“Come on, Mick,” she said.

Mickey threw them back into the drawer.

“What am I supposed to do for the next six weeks?” Ruth asked, picking at Mickey’s quilt.

“Hang out with your cooler friends.”

“You know they’re all out of town.”

It had been only two weeks, but Mickey’s whole life was different. She had a best friend. She’d never had a best friend before. Mickey opened her drawer of shirts and began rifling through them, throwing options into her open suitcase. She was positive she would wake up one morning and everything she’d gained would be lost, just like that.

“Oh, come on, Mick. You know you’re my favorite. Other girls are so fake. They’re boring.”

“I wish I didn’t have to go,” Mickey said. She loved going to her family’s New Hampshire house. She looked forward to it all year. But here she was, saying she wished she could stay home and meaning it.

Silas walked past her door and caught her eye.

“Your mom is going to be so happy to see you’re packing,” he said, pausing in the doorway. He had a beer in his hand.

“Go away, Dad.”