Chapter 30 Ridge
THIRTY
Ridge
I step out of the restaurant and let the door close behind me.
My hands are still steady. That’s the first thing I register. They don’t shake. They don’t tighten. They hang at my sides like nothing just happened.
The street hits me all at once. Heat. Noise. Motion. It’s too much after the tight control of the room, after watching her move through it like she owns the air. After answering a question I’ve carried for months, and walking away without knowing if it changed anything.
I put distance between myself and the door before I reach for my phone. I don’t want her to see me turn back. I don’t want her to see anything.
Keller answers quickly.
“What the hell,” I say.
He exhales like he’s smiling. “You usually save that tone for people who actually screwed up. Was the food not good?”
“Funny, asshole,” I say. My voice stays level, but there’s pressure under it now. “You didn’t think to mention Coco Boudreaux was the one running it.”
There’s a beat of silence on the line, long enough that I slow my steps without meaning to.
“…What,” Keller says.
“Don’t do that.”
“I’m not,” he says quickly. “I swear to you, I didn’t know.”
I turn the corner, my shoes striking harder than they need to. “Then tell me how it happened.”
“Michael Lynch,” Keller says. “He called this afternoon. Something blew up in Austin and he couldn’t get to the city in time. He offered the seat and asked if I wanted it.”
“So why did I end up there?”
“I couldn’t go,” Keller says. “I was already booked. And honestly, I figured it was the perfect excuse to get you out of the office. One night where you weren’t buried in numbers.”
I stop beneath a streetlight and look down at the concrete, pale and cracked beneath my shoes.
“You figured wrong,” I say.
There’s another pause. Shorter this time. “I didn’t know it was her, brother, I swear.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “I handled it.”
“I’m sure you did,” he says. “You always do.”
My phone vibrates in my ear. I flip it around and look at, never expecting to see her name on my screen.
The name interrupts me mid-step. I stop short at the curb, the rest of the street moving past like I’m no longer part of it.
“Keller,” I say. “I’ve got another call.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah, it's fine. I've got to go,” I say, because it’s the closest version of the truth I’m willing to offer. “We’ll talk later.”
I end the call and stand there for a second longer than necessary, the city moving around me like I’m not paused at all.
Then I answer.
“Coco.”
“Hi,” she says.
Her voice is steady, but there’s energy threaded through it, unresolved. I can hear movement on her end. It sounds like a door closing, then the soft scrape of something being set down.
“I just finished wrapping up,” she says. “I have too much energy left,” she says. “And not enough wine.”
I shift my weight and look down the street, the glow of open bars and lit windows stretching ahead.
“There’s a lounge on Dauphine,” she continues. “Quiet, good wine. I was thinking of grabbing a glass before I head home. Care to join me?”
She hesitates, then adds, softer, “You said earlier that if I wanted to talk, I knew how to find you. Just thought I'd try if you're not already home.”
“Yes,” I say quickly.
"Great. I just closed up so I'll head there now. See you when you get there."
“I can be there in ten,” I say.
Her breath shifts on the line, a small sound she doesn’t try to cover. “Cool.”
“I’ll see you then.”
She ends the call first.
I slide the phone back into my pocket and start walking again, my pace measured, the night opening up ahead of me.
It’s three blocks and one light if I cut the corner the way I usually do. I don’t rush it, letting my stride settle into something steady and predictable, the way it always does when I need my head clear.
The city keeps its own rhythm around me. Music leaks out of an open doorway and dies a few steps later. Someone argues softly on a stoop, the words blurred enough that they don’t mean anything yet. I register it all without taking any of it in.
I replay the end of the tasting without meaning to. Not the room or the wine, but her voice, controlled and precise, carrying across the table without effort. I'm still drawn to the way she didn’t hesitate when she spoke to me, the way she didn’t soften when she thanked me.
I hadn’t expected the call. I had expected silence, or time, or nothing at all. I’d been prepared to carry that. Prepared to leave the door unlocked and walk away from it.
The light changes. I cross with the rest of the crowd and don’t look back.
The lounge sits half a block off the main stretch, its sign understated enough that you could miss it if you weren’t looking for it. The windows glow low and amber. No line. No noise spilling out into the street. The kind of place people go when they want a drink without an audience.
I reach the door and pause with my hand on the handle.
This is the point where I could decide not to go in. I could turn back, call it what it was, tell myself that answering her question was the whole of my responsibility. I could leave this for another night.
The door opens easily. Warm air hits my face, carrying the scent of citrus and old wood. Low music hums from somewhere near the back. The room is dim but not dark, the light arranged to flatter more than it reveals.
I see her immediately at the bar, one stool in from the end. Her jacket is draped over the back, a glass already in front of her. She isn’t looking at the door. She’s watching the bartender measure something carefully, her attention focused, like this is still work even now.
I take a few steps into the room and stop beside her, not wanting to distract her from what she's doing. She looks up.
There’s a flicker of surprise, gone almost immediately, replaced by something steadier. She studies me for half a second, then nods once, like she’s confirming something to herself.
“You made good time,” she says.
“I was pretty close. I'm glad you called.”
She shifts on the stool, turning more fully toward me. “Sit. Want me to order a glass for you?”
It isn’t an invitation. It’s instruction, familiar enough that it lands somewhere between a memory and a dare.
"That would be great. You’re the expert.”
I take the stool beside her. The bar is warm under my forearms when I rest them there. The music is low enough to be ignored, steady enough to hold the room together.
She considers me, then signals the bartender. “He'll have a glass of the same Pinot, please.”
He nods and moves away.
For a moment, we sit without speaking. It isn't awkward. Not comfortable either. Just charged.
“I wasn't sure if I should call you. Didn't know if you really meant it when you offered,” she says.
“I did mean it.”
The bartender sets a glass in front of me before she can answer back. I lift it, take a sip, then look at her.
The dark red wine is smooth and light.
“You were good tonight,” I say.
Her mouth curves slightly. “I was in my element. I enjoyed doing that.”
I hold her gaze. “It's impressive. I remember when you told me how much you love wines and how they go with certain foods. You found your niche.”
She nods. “I did.”
There’s pride in it, not defensive, not brittle. Earned.
“I finally got to go to that sommelier program I told you about. Do you remember? The one in California.”
I don't tell her how well I do remember. "Yes, I think I do. How was it?"
Her eyes sharpen. “It was life-changing. It was great. I left in January and got back in April.”
“Wow, Coco. I’m really happy for you. I can tell you’re glowing. It looks good on you.”
“Thanks.” She smiles, then tilts her head slightly. “How about you? How is work going? Did things calm down?”
“It’s quieter,” I say. “Not peaceful, but quieter than it was after my father’s death.” The word still catches wrong in my mouth. He was murdered. But we don’t need to open that door now.
She nods, then her gaze drops.
Not to the glass. Not to the bar. To my hand resting on the counter between us.
Her fingers hover for half a second before she reaches out, tracing the faint line that cuts across my right knuckles. The scar has flattened with time, pale against my skin, but it hasn’t disappeared. It won’t.
“I remember this,” she says softly.
So do I.
Seventeen stitches. Glass biting deep as I went through the window without thinking, driven by the stupid certainty that I could still get to him in time. The sound of breaking glass. Blood slick on my hands. The moment I realized I was already too late.
“It healed,” I say.
She looks up at me, her thumb still resting there. “I can see that. It gives you street cred.”
She doesn’t ask how it happened. She never did. She just sees it for what it is.
Something that changed over time, but didn’t go away. Something that links us.
“What was the deal with the fentanyl? You said earlier you didn't want to go into it. I'm curious. Was it bullshit, or was there something to it?”
Her fingers tighten around her glass, then loosen again.
“It wasn't bullshit, but it wasn't my family.
Alton Duvall was trying to move a bunch of it into our city.
If you hadn't told me, I might not have known about it.
In the moment, when you said it, I was caught off guard.
And didn't want to put you in the middle of all that,” I say, surprising myself with my candor.
“Damn. So y'all really knew nothing about it?”
"Really. I'm ashamed to say, but everything in those weeks was like a circling drain. There was so much chaos, so much misdirection, that things were sliding by. Things are a lot calmer, now."
She studies me, her expression careful, not guarded, not soft. Deliberate.
“You could have said this months ago.”
“Yes,” I say. “I could have.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why.”
I don’t rush this. I don’t give her a speech, only the truth.
“Because I still thought you were safer without me in your life. I know this world isn't what you want.”