“Okay.”
Lauren stood with her hands in the coat pockets. She had not tried to kiss Derek goodbye in the house and she did not try it now. She looked at him as if memorizing the version of his face that was willing to load a suitcase for a trip he hated. “Tuesday night,” she said. “Eight-forty. If it changes I’ll call before I complain about it.”
“Eight-forty. I’ll be here.”
Jonah held out a hand this time. Derek took it. The young man’s grip was dry and brief. “Thank you for not making him do it the other way,” Jonah said, low, so Mason could choose not to hear. “And for the couch. I didn’t wreck anything.”
“You wrecked a story,” Derek said. “The furniture’s fine.”
Jonah almost smiled. It was a good almost. Derek watched the three of them go through the doors, the extra seat no longer a trick of paper but a tall figure with a duffel, walking half a step aside so Mason could have the middle if he wanted it. He wanted it. The doors closed. Derek stayed until the reflex to follow had to be put down by hand. Then he got in the car and drove to work, because a promise about eight-forty on the return did not require him to sit in a garage for two days, and because taping an ankle was a task with a beginning and an end, which he needed the way some men need a drink.