Page 289 of End Game

“They asked you, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And they're paying you?”

“Yeah.”

“And covering Chicago?”

“Yeah.”

“Then why the fuck are you sitting in my office acting like I'm going to tell you not to go?”

Because that would be easier.

I don't say it.

He waits.

I shrug. “Just checking.”

“Go.” His voice is firm now. “Seriously. We'll figure out the bar when you get back.”

That isn't a guarantee.

I want a guarantee.

I want him to promise that the exact same shifts and coworkers and Thursday-night regular who tips twelve percent but always brings me homemade cookies will be waiting exactly where I left them.

He can't.

That's the problem with leaving.

Things continue without you.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

I stand.

Then stop at the door. “If you replace me with someone hotter, I'm suing.”

“That may be difficult.”

“Because I'm irreplaceable?”

“Because almost everyone is hotter than you.”

I put a hand over my heart. “Hostile workplace.”

“Get behind the bar, Dex.”

At least some things remain predictable.

I tell Grave Intentions at rehearsal.