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“—because he felt like he had to.”
“After we unpacked this entire fucking case for you.”
“You did, yes. But North, be reasonable. You are, if I’m being honest, a terrible employee. Tell me, is this how you conduct your own investigations? When you’re working independently, just you and a client?”
North considered the question. “Pretty much.”
“Don’t be ridiculous; of course it’s not. You write reports. You provide updates. You work within the parameters the client has established. This case is different, and I understand that. Our window of time is compressed, and there’s not a chance for you to write up your findings and submit them and wait for further instructions. But there’s always been time for you to make phone calls. I thought, for a while, you understood and were doing better. It seems that wasn’t the case. You put John in a terrible position. He has to explain not only why you acted the way you did, which resulted in the death of two people key to this investigation, but he has to tell the whole world that he had no idea you were even doing it—that the people he trusted kept him in the dark.”
The croissant was gone. North went for one of the unicorn lattes, ignoring the way Emery raised an eyebrow. It was sweet, and the caffeine kicked like a mule—well, a unicorn—and it did nothing to help with the sloshing feeling in North’s stomach. Finally, he muttered, “Ok, well, yeah, I’m an asshole.”
“You do that a surprising amount, you know.”
More coffee. The sloshing only got worse. “Do what?”
“Parade your…combativeness, as though that were its own kind of excuse. Perform self-awareness as a way of distancing yourself from your behavior. It’s a defense mechanism, I believe. It’s one of your standard maneuvers. That, and picking on someone. Usually, Auggie, which on general principle is probably fine; God knows he needs it.”
“I don’t pick on—” But North stopped and stared into the mountain of whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles. He wanted to say that’s what he did with Shaw, and it was true. Because he loved Shaw. And messing around with him was fun. Especially because Shaw loved it, and because later, he had plenty of time and opportunity to show Shaw how he really felt. But had he had that opportunity with Auggie? Or Theo? Or Jem? Or, for that matter, Emery? He put the coffee back and said, “Remember how I told you that you’re a lot?”
Emery laughed again. When he quieted, though, his tone was serious. “I do not always remember you being this abrasive, however.”
The sting in North’s eyes surprised him. He closed them briefly, barely more than a blink. “Yeah, well, I guess you’ve got me all figured out.”
Something crossed Emery’s face. His eyebrows drew together, and his hands loosened around the steering wheel.
“You know, it’s not like the last couple weeks have been easy. You get that, right?” North tried to stop there. He tried to think of what he ought to be saying—something light, something with an edge. He’d spent years of his life perfecting it, the dry ironic distance that kept the Chouteau boys on one side of the wall, and him always on the other. Everyone except Shaw, as it turned out, who had the insanely fucking annoying habit of jumping over the wall no matter how high North built it. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was the reality of the last few days, everything finally soaking in. “You know, Shaw could have died last night. We both could have, but Shaw—” He had to stop again, his throat tightening. “And that asshole just kept coming. It didn’t matter what I did; I couldn’t stop him. He had that fucking sickle, and he—he just wouldn’t stop.” The sun caught in the glass blocks of the motor court, and he had to close his eyes again. He gave up on what it felt like, on trying to make the words into some kind of sense. Opening his eyes, he shook his head. “John-Henry was right to fire me. Fucking useless, that’s what I was.” He pushed open the door, and the heat was a tidal wave. “Thanks for breakfast.”
Emery’s hand on his shoulder stopped North, as much from the surprise as the actual contact. North wasn’t sure Emery had ever touched him before—nothing beyond a handshake, maybe some incidental contact somewhere along the line. Not like this: the touch purposeful, firm, unhesitating. It was, in its own way, a demand, and North’s eyes rose to Emery’s in spite of his best efforts.
The gold-glitter of amber looked surprisingly soft right then. Maybe not even amber at all. “North, for a long time now we’ve been drifting in and out of each other’s lives. My husband is convinced that it’s somehow meaningful that I have you on speed dial. My son worships the ground you walk on. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned from John and Colt, it’s that nobody can control who comes into your life. Chaos or chance or the universe, call it what you will—it brings people into your orbit, and you can’t control it, can’t change it, can’t stop it. But at some point, you can’t keep drifting. You either take hold, or you let go.” He paused. “You’ve been an ally to me. In some bizarre, twisted way, you’ve been a mentor. You’ve certainly been a pain in the ass. I’d like you to be my friend.”
“Do I have to?” The words popped out, more as a way for North to deal with the rush that stung his eyes, but he didn’t miss the way Emery’s brow wrinkled with annoyance. “Sorry; bad habit.”
Emery made a sound that could have meant anything.
“Do we have to braid each other’s hair now?”
“I believe you were leaving.”
“Shaw would say we should kiss, but no tongue.”
“This is very good. This is all the proof I’ll need when I tell John—again—that I was right and he was wrong.”
“Fine. Yes.” North couldn’t actually look Emery in the eye, but he managed to mumble, “We should be friends. We are friends.” He couldn’t help adding, “I guess.”
“Remind me again: you’re how old? And in some clownery version of a committed relationship?”
“Well, fuck you,” North said. “I don’t go around squirting my feelings every time things get bad. I’m so fucking sorry.”
The smile was tiny. Barely even there.
“Yeah, yeah,” North said. “I hear it; I’m an asshole.” He slid out of the van, grabbed the remaining breakfast sandwich and the unicorn latte, and said, “This has got to be a secret. If you tell Shaw about this, he might literally kill me.”
“Hm.”
“I’m not joking. When you asked Tean for his opinion about those two weird documentaries, he went into the garage and tore up a bunch of old newspaper and screamed.”
“I was saving those newspapers.”
