Page 159 of ClickBack

Mom asks which album, and Giselle names it. Mom remembers where she used to keep that CD in the car. So do I. It was one of the ones Von scratched trying to change it while I was driving.

“You hit a bump,” he says.

“You had four discs in your lap.”

“Because you wouldn’t let me use the visor thing.”

“Because it was full.”

Giselle looks between us. “You could have left one in until you stopped.”

“That’s what I said,” I tell her.

“No, you told me get my hands off your shit,” Von says.

Mom lifts her glass. “That sounds closer.”

Graves laughs. “He gave me the same speech about a hat.”

“Because you lost it.”

“You had twenty more.”

“And I wanted that one.”

Giselle rests her hand on my leg beneath the table. “You should have labeled your things.”

“I lived in my own room. Thought the door covered that.”

Von grins at her. “He moved out, I took it.”

“My room?”

“Best thing you ever left me.”

Mom starts laughing before I can answer, and I look across the table at my brother, comfortable in a city I may be joining him in. I missed years of him getting older in small ways. Phone calls don’t show you everything. Here he is choosing a bottle for the table, asking Giselle whether she likes it before the server pours, then interrupting me about a scratched CD like we’re still at home.

I want to be closer to him. I want that enough to be careful about what else I might agree to because of it.

Mom asks Giselle about her work, and she gives her an example of a client who tried to count a family vacation as a business expense because he answered two emails by the pool.

“Did it work?” Von asks.

“No.”

“What if it was three emails?”

“Then he worked harder on vacation.”

I laugh into my glass. Von puts a hand to his chest like she has personally cost him money.

Mom looks delighted. “I’m going to enjoy knowing you.”

Giselle smiles at her. She doesn’t look toward me for help. She doesn’t need to. Her hand has moved off my leg because she is using both hands to tell Mom what the client said next.

Graves orders dessert. Von claims he doesn’t want any, then takes a fork when it comes. Mom gives him the look she has been giving him since he could reach a plate. He takes a smaller bite and keeps the fork.

By the time the server clears the table, I have heard Giselle laugh without checking who might be looking. She and Mom have exchanged numbers. Von has invited her to his place Sunday, with an assurance that the noise will be repaired by then.