Page 33 of ClickBack

Jarrett

Graves finds me in the kitchen with cold sweet potatoes, a contract I don’t like, and a phone I have turned facedown so many times the decision has become embarrassing.

He takes one look at the counter. “You want a plate for the paperwork?”

“I have a plate.”

“On top of the paperwork.”

I move it and discover a piece of sweet potato mashed between the rim and the investment proposal. It improves the page. So far, that makes the sweet potato the most useful thing anybody has brought to this deal.

The building is in North Philly, retail downstairs and room for studios above it. I liked the first walk-through. A woman in one of the storefronts knew which pipes had given trouble, who had been there longest, and which owner had stopped returning calls. She had more to say about the place than the people trying to sell me a piece of it. I’ve been thinking about that ever since.

The revised terms give me more equity. They still leave every decision with the same men who wanted my face in the announcement before we agreed on a number.

Graves pulls out a stool. My phone vibrates between us.

“He’s persistent,” he says.

“He’s my agent.”

“You should meet him.”

I turn the phone over. Cam’s name fills the screen. I have ignored him through dinner, breakfast, and the stretch after Giselle left when there was no longer anybody here to pretend I was protecting from interruption.

Graves reaches for his own phone when it starts ringing. I take it out of his hand.

“Cam,” I answer.

“Wonderful. You survived.”

“I was calling you.”

“From Wendell’s phone?”

Graves holds out his hand. “Call mine,” I tell Cam. When it rings, I give Graves his phone and answer my own. He resumes his seat, pleased with how little effort this has taken.

“Talk to me,” I tell Cam.

“Philly’s moving faster. San Antonio checked in again. Toronto wants to know whether you’d stay. Virginia is trying to put together something the other side might actually take. I need you available.”

I walk out of the kitchen. Through the windows, the city looks bright and settled, entirely unaware that somebody is discussing how soon I should leave it. Nine years here. I know which turns to take without looking at the signs, where to get my car serviced, which entrance to use when I don’t want a ten-minute stop to become an hour. I have a dentist. There are people who knew me before I could grow the hair on my chin properly, and now I sign shoes for their children.

“They’re done with me?”

“They want to clear salary ahead of free agency and get younger. Moving you gives them a way to do both.”

“I heard the explanation. I asked you a question.”

Cam gives it to me without trying to make it easier. “They’re preparing to move you.”

I look away from the window. There was a time when I wanted this place because I could see so much from it. Today I would prefer a wall.

“Nobody thinks you can’t play,” he adds.

“Great.”

“Jay.”