Page 144

"I told Pruitt," I say.

"I heard."

"You heard?"

"Moretti called me. He said, Hale finally pulled his head out." Webb glances at me. "His words."

I laugh. It comes out cracked.

"Marcus," I say. "I need to tell you something."

"You don't have to."

"I know I don't have to. I want to." I look out at the water. "You've been my best friend for twelve years. You're the only person who ever asked me anything real. You sat next to me at a bar in West Hollywood and told me I never looked at Laurel the way I looked at him, and I told you to drink your beer."

"You did."

"I'm bisexual," I say. "I'm in love with him. I've been in love with him since before the night on the ice. Maybe since opening night. Maybe since he came in the door singing with one earbud in."

He drives. A seagull flies alongside the van for a second, then peels off over the water.

"I know," he says finally.

"I know you know."

"No, I mean—" He shakes his head. "I know, and it's fine, and I'm glad you told me. That's what I mean. That's all of it."

He reaches over without looking and punches me in the shoulder. Not hard. The way he does after I score.

"Also," he says, "I told Jen at Christmas."

"You what?"

"She guessed. From the picture of the two of you in the Grumpy and Sunshine thing. She said, and I quote, Marcus, that man is in love and you need to be nice to him." He grins. "She wants to have you two for dinner. After the Final. She's going to make that lasagna."

I put my face in my hands. I'm laughing. I'm not sure I'm only laughing.

"He ended it," I say through my fingers. "He left. I said the word, and he left. There might not be any you two."

"Then go fix it."

"Everybody keeps saying that."

"Because everybody's right." He takes the next exit. "Where is he?"

"His place. I think. The team got back from Nashville this morning."

"Then that's where we're going."

"Marcus—"

"You've got two legs' worth of excuses and one working leg," Webb says. "I'm driving. You're going."

We're parked outside Rémy's building at five-thirty. It's still light out. June light, gold and long.

I don't get out of the van.

I've got a pad of paper on my lap. The kind they leave in hotel rooms. I took it from the nightstand in 814, the morning of the picture, without knowing why. It's been in my bag since then.