Henry
“So, are you gonna tell us about your head or should we start guessing?” asks Regina.
“Baltimore’s a rough town,” I say.
The barista, a tall lady in a Dolly Parton T-shirt, drops a little plate of biscotti at our table. “On the house,” she says. “They’re a little stale, but biscotti’s always a little stale, so have at it.”
Regina updates me on some accounts, a few new business opportunities. Win and the team of designers who’ve been standing in for me shot video for Real Love last week. It’ll launch mid-January, a full, integrated Valentine’s Day campaign.
“It’s beautiful, man,” says Win.
It’s nice to see these two, because they’re my old friends, but it’s weird to talk about work, like they’ve beamed in from another dimension and are going on about things I don’t understand. Then Win says, “Whoa. Check it out. It’s really coming down out there.”
Regina and I turn to the big window overlooking Thames Street. Snow falls in a steady torrent. People have stepped out of buildings to watch.
“Do kids still build snowmen?” I ask.
I’m imagining Ian and Bella in their yard rolling three big snowballs. Harry Styles would steal the carrot nose, obviously, and run around the yard with it like a glorious little asshole.
Regina and Win snicker.
“Who the hell knows, man?” say Win.
“If I ever have kids, I’ll let you know,” Regina says.
I check my phone in case Ian has texted. He hasn’t.
“So, how are you, brother?” asks Win.
“Good.” I don’t really think about it, I just say it, because it’s what they want to hear.
Am I, though? Last time I saw Win and Regina, I was practically living with my parents because I was too scared to go into my own house.
Apparently, I wasn’t shaving properly, and I was so sad that I couldn’t imagine not being sad. Now I’m here.
“Well, you look great,” says Regina. “Healthy.”
I watch the snow while the floor vibrates under my boots from the record shop downstairs.
“So anyway,” says Win. “You know where it doesn’t snow, right?”
Regina rolls her eyes. “Really smooth, Win.”
“Transitions are my one literary weakness.” He takes his phone out, taps a few times, then sets it in front of me. “But yeah, check this out.”
It’s his iPhone weather app set to L.A. where the forecast for today, tomorrow, and the day after that is sixty-seven degrees and sunny. “Merry Christmas, huh?” he says.
Regina pushes the biscotti aside. “Ready for the next chapter, Henry?”