Page 11 of The Lonely Road

“Yes.” Because he seems to be waiting, I add, “Now, private. You?”

His expression shifts—barely, but I’ve spent years reading barely.

“Similar.”

We sit with that for a moment—two men who have said almost nothing and understood quite a lot.

“Army?” I ask.

He picks up his glass. “Does it matter?”

“Does it to you?”

That gets a reaction—not a smile exactly, but an emotion adjacent to it. He sets his glass down. “Marines. Two tours.”

“And then you built a company, sold it, and came here.”

He studies me carefully.

“Feig’s been tellin’ stories,” I repeat his words.

“He doesn’t seem to know your stories.”

That’s his way of telling me he’s checked up on me. I’d expect nothing less.

My backstory—a mix of truth and careful embellishment—satisfies a standard security check and reassures anyone who digs deeper.

“I got no stories,” I say easily. “The usual. Stayed too long in the military. Left and started my own business. I consult now. Travel the country.”

“No attachments.”

I let out a quiet chuckle. “Let’s say that no one’s asking me about where my truck was parked last night.”

He picks up his drink and raises it in a toast. “Touché!”

We clink our glasses.

We recognize each other.

I suspect he’s not entirely who he says he is, and he feels the same about me. We’re both from a world where recognition bypasses the usual machinery of getting to know someone and lands in a place where pretense is already thin. There are two ways to handle it—one is to deal with it, and the other is to let the chips fall as they may. The latter, I’ve always felt and experienced, is the best approach.

“Now for the more important question,” he drawls in mock seriousness. “Giants or Jets?”

“Neither. I’m from Ohio.”

“You live in New York.”

I give a small shake of my head. “I have a place in Chelsea, but that doesn’t make me a Jets fan.” I rest a forearm on the bar and lean forward a little. “In fact, nothing makes you a Jets fan. That’s a choice people make when something has gone wrong in their lives.”

Kaz laughs. It’s the first authentic emotion he’s allowed me to see. He narrows his eyes. “Bills?”

“Broncos. It’s a geographic loyalty. Non-negotiable.”

He drums his fingers on the bar counter. “I spent two years in New York when I was building the software company you mentioned. I was a Giants man. Felt like the right call for someone who wasn’t planning to stay.”

“You didn’t intend to stay?”

He scans the bar. “Nobody plans to stay in New York. You either leave, or you stop planning.”