What Happens to Goodbye(35)

“You,” Heather said, her voice flat, “hung out at a tattoo shop.”
“It was a while back.” Deb smoothed her hands over her purse. “Very interesting, though. I learned a lot.”
Dave, on Deb’s other side, suddenly caught my eye and I was surprised to see him smile at me, like we were the only two in on a joke. Even more unexpectedly, I felt myself smile back.
“So, Deb,” I said. “Hypothetical situation. Your boyfriend cheats on you. Do you grant him another chance, or end things?”
Heather rolled her eyes. Riley, though, was watching us.
“Well,” Deb said after a moment. “Honestly, I’d need more details before I could say.”
“Like what?” Dave asked her.
She thought for a moment. “Length of the relationship, first. I mean, if it’s really early days, it doesn’t bode well. Better to move on.”
“Good point,” Riley said quietly. Heather looked at her, raising her eyebrows.
“Also,” Deb continued, “I’d have to consider the circumstances. Was it a fling, with someone he hardly knew, or a person he actually cared about? The first could be explained as a misstep . . . but if real emotions are involved, it’s a lot more complicated.”
“True,” I said.
“Finally, a lot would depend on his behavior. I mean, did he confess, or did I find out some other way? Is he actually sorry, or just mad he got caught?” She sighed. “Really, though? The bottom line I always ask myself is: if I look at everything I’ve had with this person, good and bad, am I better or worse off without them? If the answer is better . . . well, then, that’s the answer.”
We all just sat there, looking at her. No one said anything, and then the bell rang. “Well,” Riley said, blinking a few times. “That was . . . very informative. Thank you.”
“Sure,” Deb said, friendly as ever.
Riley and Heather both got to their feet, picking up their bags and trash, while on our side, Deb and I did the same. Only Dave stayed where he was, taking his time screwing the cap onto his water bottle. When he finally got to his feet, he looked at me.
“You never answered,” he said as Deb unzipped her purse, looking for something inside.
“What?”
“The question. Stay or go. never answered.”
I looked over at Riley, who was pulling on her backpack, smiling at something Heather had just said as she did so. “I’m not good with advice,” I said.
“Ah, come on,” he said. “That’s a cop-out. And this is a hypothetical.”
Everyone was starting toward the main entrance now, Heather and Riley ahead, with me, Dave, and Deb bringing up the rear. I shrugged, then said, “I don’t like complications. If something’s not working . . . you gotta move on.”
Dave nodded slowly, considering this. I thought he might push further, or maybe counter, but instead, he turned to Deb. “It was very nice talking to you.”
“And you, as well!” Deb said. “Thanks for the invitation.”
“That was me, actually,” I said.
Dave laughed, glancing at me, and I felt myself smile again. “See you around, Mclean.”
I nodded, and then he turned, falling in beside Riley and sliding his hands into his pockets.
People were moving all around us, en route to different buildings, as Deb and I just stood there together. Finally, she said, “He’s very nice.”
“He’s something,” I replied.
She considered this, zipping her purse shut. Then she said, “Well, everyone is.”
Everyone is something, I thought now as I stood upstairs at Luna Blu, looking across all those boxes. For some reason, this had stuck with me, simple and yet not, ever since she’d said it. It was like a puzzle, as well, two vague words with one clear one between them.
Looking closer, I saw now that one of the boxes had been opened, some packing materials loose on the floor around it. Inside, it contained stacks of plastic sheets of house and building parts. There were pieces with cutouts of doors and windows, and others printed to look like brick and wooden facades. Fronts and backs of small houses, block-like stores, and longer buildings with rows of windows that had to be offices or schools. There were dozens of sheets in the box, with the parts for a couple of structures on each one. So many pieces.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I heard Opal call out from behind me. When I turned, I saw she was signing the last of the sheets, for a heavyset guy who’d been leaning against the wall. When she was done, he took it without a thank-you, then trudged off to the stairs.
“And what is that?” I asked.

She stuck her pen behind her ear, then came over to stand beside me. “That this is an impossible amount of work, an undoable task that will, mostly likely, never be completed in a million years.”
I didn’t say anything, because she was kind of right.
“Or maybe,” she continued, reaching down into the box to pull out one sheet printed with brick house parts, “that’s just what I’m thinking.”
“At least you have a lot of help,” I told her.
She gave me a flat look. “I have a lot of people. Not the same thing.”
I watched her for a second as she turned the piece in her hand, studying it. From downstairs, I could hear the sounds of the restaurant getting ready to open: chairs scraping as they were pushed aside to be swept under, the voices of the staff laughing and chatting, the clinking of glasses being stacked behind the bar. It was as familiar to me as a song I’d been hearing my whole life, covered by various people but the basic tune the same.