Page 41 of Breakaway
"He's putting on an act," I say. "Give him ten minutes."
"I am not. I am being generous with the ambiance score because Kevin brought energy and Austin brought wine and Grant is sitting there like a king and the whole room benefits from the composition."
"I like being called a king," Grant says, as he reaches for the serving plate. "The pork is good, Wes."
"Thanks."
"Don't tell him that," Berger says, grinning. "He already knows. If you validate him, he'll stop trying."
The food debate folds into Austin's boat, which folds into a rating Austin did not ask for, and the evening moves the way evenings with Kevin and Austin and Grant always move: one conversation bleeding into the next, Berger scoring things that do not require scores, the table giving him shit for scoring them, and the whole thing turning on the axis of people who have known each other long enough that the bit is the friendship and the friendship is the bit.
"Tell the deposition story," Grant says to Kevin. "The insurance guy."
"You've heard the deposition story."
"Luca hasn't heard the deposition story."
Kevin tells it. The insurance guy. The sweating lawyer. The whisper that changed the room. Berger leans forward on his elbows while Kevin talks. When Kevin gets to the part about the whisper, Berger's eyes narrow.
"What do you think he said?" Berger asks.
"I will never know. I have theories. They keep me up at night."
"Rank them."
Kevin laughs. "Rank my theories?"
"One to ten. Best guess to worst guess. Weighted by plausibility."
"He's going to make you build a spreadsheet," I say.
"I already want to," Kevin says.
We clear the plates. Berger carries the serving dish to the kitchen and I follow him with the glasses. He sets the dish by the sink and I put my hand on the small of his back as I reach past him for the faucet. My fingers press against his shirt, flat and steady, and I leave them there for a beat longer than the reach requires.
Across the room, I feel someone watching. I catch Kevin's eyes over Berger's shoulder. Kevin looks at my hand and then at my face and then away, and says something to Grant about the wine.
"I'll dry," Berger says. I hand him the first plate.
Kevin appears next to me at the counter after the dishes are done and Berger is in the living room talking to Austin. He picks up the towel and folds it, which he does not need to do.
"Wes," he says. "I haven't seen you smile like this in a long time."
I don't say anything. His voice is so low the words barely leave the space between us.
"It's good," Kevin says. He puts the towel down. He squeezes my shoulder once and walks toward the living room.
Austin is asleep on the couch by nine-thirty. Grant puts his foot on the coffee table and reads something on his phone. Kevin and Berger are at the table with the laptop open, and Berger is showing him the spreadsheet, walking him through the columns, explaining the weighted formula.
"The bread basket gets ten percent," Berger says. "It's the restaurant's handshake."
"That's high for bread."
"That's exactly what Wes said. And he was wrong then and you're wrong now."
"I was not wrong about the bread," I say from the kitchen.
"You were wrong about the bread. The bread has been vindicated by data."
