Page 82 of Keep

“You knocked his fucking teeth out.” Clyde’s grin widened. “Don’t know what the other fellow said, but I reckon he had it coming.”

“He did.”

Hank closed the umbrella, lowering himself onto the curb beside Clyde’s milk crate and under the awning. His knees protested and his hand throbbed, but he suddenly didn’t want to be alone.

“Mind if I sit?”

“Public sidewalk.” But Clyde’s voice was warm. “You doing okay?”

“Honestly? I don’t know.” Hank stared at the pavement between his feet. “I’ve spent my whole career building something. Reputation, influence, the ability to help people. And I might have thrown it all away because I couldn’t keep my temper.”

“Or maybe you finally stopped pretending.”

Hank looked at him.

“When I first ended up out here,” Clyde said, “I thought my life was over. I’d lost everything—job, family, self-respect. Figured I deserved to disappear.” His voice was matter-of-fact. “But then someone saw me.”

“How’d the interview go?”

“I got the job.” Clyde’s eyes brightened. “Park Service. I start next week.”

“Clyde, that’s wonderful.”

“It’s something.” He reached over and patted Hank’s shoulder with a calloused hand. “Now go home, Mr. Senator. Get some rest. And put some ice on that hand. Looks like it hurts.”

“It does.”

“Good. Means you did it right.”

His apartment was quiet when he unlocked the door.

The only sounds were the hum of the refrigerator and the distant whisper of traffic. Hank dropped his keys in the bowl by the entrance, went to the freezer for a pack of frozen peas, and sank onto the couch in the dark.

First Kiss was across from him. He didn’t look at it.

He removed his phone from his pocket, scrolled through the notifications—texts, voicemails, emails—the whole world wanting a piece of him.

There was nothing from Chad.

He set the phone down, pressed the frozen bag to his hand, and sat in the darkness, letting the weight of the day settle around him.

He’d punched Clancy Howard. On camera. In front of a tour group from Ohio. The video was everywhere by now—that moment playing and replaying on every screen in the country, his fist connecting, the teeth arcing through the air, Clancy sliding down the wall.

His career might be over.

And he was still here. Still sitting in his apartment with his bruised hand and his silent phone and the painting. Still himself.

Maybe more himself than he’d been in years.

The hiding was done. Whatever came next—the ethics inquiry, the campaign, the rest of his life—he wouldn’t be pretending anymore. He’d thrown a punch for someone he loved, and the whole world had seen it, and there was nothing left to hide behind.

That wasn’t comfort, exactly. But it was something.

A place to stand.

Outside, the city settled into its nighttime rhythm. Hank sat in the dark, peas melting against his knuckles, and waited.

His phone lit up at 11:47.