“Give me a time frame,” Tina says, hands up in surrender, backing away from the table. “I’ll leave you be.”
“A month,” I spit out, one hand against Mitch’s chest.
“A month?” She laughs. “You’re such a fool. The day she leaves before this time next month is the day I’ll be collecting.”
“Go,” I tell her, “or I’m gonna let him loose.”
She sashays away, singing the chorus to “Layla,” by Eric Clapton. “Layla, you’ve got me on my knees. Layla, I’m begging, darlin’ please. Layla, darling won’t you ease my worried mind…”
My teeth are grinding when I sit down again.
Mitch’s fingers are flying across the face of his phone. “God, I hate that bitch. This is the only decent place to eat, and she ruins it every fucking time.”
It wasn’t the only decent place to eat in town, it was just Mitch’s favorite. “You can’t let her get under your skin. What are you doing?”
“Texting Craig.” He puts the phone down and pins me with a look, part curiosity part concern. “Is it true? Is she here?”
I drop my elbows on the table, exhale, and rub my face with both hands.
“Ah, fuck,” Mitch says with more compassion than frustration. Mitch always liked Laiyla. Until, of course, she bailed, but even then, his dislike was only in solidarity toward me.
I drop my hands and sit back. “I’m fine,” I lie. “It’s nothing. Tina’s right, she’ll be gone in a matter of days. Hell, she could have blown out of town already.”
The idea that she might already be gone again feels like a hole in my chest.
Mitch just spins his beer bottle, waiting until I’m ready to talk.
I have to finish half my beer before I share the story. I still laugh when I tell him about the dock going out from underneath her, then sober when I describe how she responded to the news of Otto’s house.
“She said it was her father who hired Artega to watch the marina,” I tell Mitch.
“And we all know how much her parents love this place.”
“I guess that explains a lot.” I force my mind back to business. “We gonna go over these or what?”
Mitch shakes his head and collects the forms and papers he has spread across the table. “This is more important.”
“I’ve already told you all there is to tell. That’s all I got.”
Mitch evens up the papers against the table and slides them into a folder, drops it on top of the one I brought, and stuffs them both into a portfolio. “You told me what happened. You didn’t tell me all the important stuff.”
“Like?”
“How you feel about seeing her. What you two talked about. If you’re going to see her again.”
“Don’t be such a girl.”
“Don’t be a such a prick.”
I grin. “She called me a prick too.”
“You’ve always had a way with women.”
A few silent moments pass. We sip our beers and stare at the table, lost in thought.
“What’s she like now?” Mitch finally asks. “All slick and citied up?”
I give a one-shouldered shrug. “Not really. Maybe. I don’t know. She was driving a sweet BMW.”