Page 140

“Three weeks, Becks.”

“And then?”

“Then you keep looking until you find something and move.”

“If I find something.”

“When. If. Whatever.” He tries to look like he doesn’t care, but his shrug isn’t fooling me.

“You don’t sound very convincing.”

“I’m trying to be supportive.”

“Fine. Halloween.”

“Fine.” The corner of his mouth lifts, just barely. He grabs his keys from the counter. “Good. Then after practice, we’re getting the rest of your shit out of your car.”

I freeze.

He stops at the door and watches me. “What?”

“Nothing.” More like a lot of very heavy somethings.

His eyes narrow.

“Have a good practice, Ken.”

“Thanks, Baby Becks.”

The door closes behind him before I have to explain that most of my life is still packed in cardboard downstairs.

By late afternoon, he figures out the hard way.

He stands behind my car with the hatch open, cold October air slipping into the garage around us. The concrete smells faintly of exhaust, and somewhere farther down the row an engine turns over.

Bishop stares at the boxes. Then at me. Then back at the boxes.

“This is where you’ve been keeping everything?”

“Not everything.”

He points at a box marked BOOKS 3. “There’s a three?”

“There’s a four too.”

“Christ.”

“Some people have hobbies.”

“I have a hobby. It pays me millions of dollars.”

“That’s a career, jackass.”

He lifts the box and grunts dramatically. “Your hobby is going to blow the suspension on your car.”

“They’re books, not bricks.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”