Page 23 of Just One More Thing

“Yeah.”

Bethany nods once. “Good.”

That’s all she says about Mo. Then she points at Hank. “He looks guilty.”

“He’s sleeping.”

“He’s never sleeping,” she says. “And one of you has gas.”

I look down at Hank. He fake snores louder.

She heads for the kitchen door. “Call me if you need anything.”

“I won’t.”

A small smile pulls at her mouth. “I know.” The door swings shut behind her.

“And it’s not me,” I holler.

From the other side of the door, all I get is a deadpan, “Sure.”

I should get up. There’s plenty to do. Deliveries to check. Ice beds to build. Tables to set. Beer taps to test. A whole restaurant to get ready before noon.

Instead I stay exactly where I am because Hank’s comfortable and I don’t have the heart to disturb him.

My thoughts go right back to Mo. To the way her shoulders shook. To the fact that she didn’t apologize for crying. To the way her hand stayed at my wrist for a while after the worst of it passed.

My eyes drift up to the doughnut box. Do I want to know if she remembered? Or am I better off not knowing if she didn’t?

My phone buzzes on the bartop. I ignore it.

Hank does not.

His head jerks up. Ears pin back. His whole body goes alert in that split second way that always makes it look as if somebody switched him from bulldog to missile.

“Oh boy.”

He launches off my lap. His rear end tucks under, and then?—

He takes off.

Hank is hauling ass across the restaurant. A little torpedo with legs. He cuts a hard corner around the first table, slides, corrects, keeps going, loops around the hostess stand, then tears back through the center of the room, weaving around the tables in tight figure eights.

The zoomies have fully possessed him.

I can’t help but laugh.

He stops mid-lap and turns to me. “I’m not laughing at you.”

That’s a lie, and we both know it.

He does another lap. And another. Then, like his battery dies all at once, he stops in the middle of the dining room and flops onto his side so dramatically it feels rehearsed. He lies there panting, cheeks puffing out with every exhale.

I shake my head. “Did you get it all out?”

He gives me a long, dramatic huff.

I push myself up off the floor, still smiling, and reach for the doughnut box. “If I’m going to do this,” I mutter, “I’m doing it fast.”