"I remember," Elena said, and he could hear her smile. "Did your second act improve?"
"Not yet. But my shin has a bruise with thematic resonance, and my building is going condo, and I wondered if you wanted to get coffee that I don't have to make myself. After Christmas. Or during. I'm flexible. I'm also slightly fleeing a romantic climax upstairs that I refuse to narrate."
There was a pause. Then Elena laughed, warm as a lit window. "During," she said. "Thursday. The place with the orange couch. And Gus? Bring the bruise story. I collect those."
When Gus hung up, he leaned against the brick wall and felt, for the first time in months, like a character who might surprise his own author. He went back upstairs with three fresh mugs and a face that tried not to look triumphant and failed.
"Well?" Wren asked, reading him instantly.
"I have a Thursday," Gus said. "Also, congratulations on finally rewriting the subtext."
Dez threw a pine needle at him. Gus did not duck. Friendship, like Christmas trees, sometimes required taking the hit.
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