Page 68 of Go Back to December

“I’m aware of what a B-Corp is.” Dooley hooks his fingers behind his head as he lounges back on Baz’s pillow. “They’re for-profit businesses that provide a positive impact on communities and the environment.”

“Could it work for the café?” I ask.

“In theory.” Dooley frowns at the files. “But you tell the partners you want to do this—”

It would be blood in the water. “They could shut us down before we apply.”

“Not if we give them a graceful exit. And line up other investor interest. Make the café seem like a hot commodity they wouldn’t want to miss out on. This saves face for them,” Baz insists. “We should track down someone who’s been through the certification process.”

“Sam Evans,” Dooley says. “He certified his place last year.”

Baz checks his watch. “You think he’s open today?”

Dooley swipes at his phone. “Yeah, he’s open.”

“Good, because I’m starving.”

“You’ll love Sam.” Dooley nods at me. “He’s more ginger than you.”

As I ease off the bed, I ask, “Who’s driving?”

“I’m ordering a car.” Baz taps on his phone. “To take Dooley the fuck out of my bed.”

“He’s so cranky when he’s hungry,” I mock whisper.

“Facts,” Dooley agrees. “Sebastian, go get a snack while I make myself decent.”

Baz’s head snaps up from his phone.

Dooley slides me a smile. I lift the comforter, and my jaw dangles in a no you didn’t gawk.

“Is he—” Baz’s voice cracks like a pubescent Boy Scout. “Is he pantless? In my fucking bed?”

I clamp my mouth shut, and Baz wheels around to hurtle himself out of the room. Probably to go smash something in the kitchen.

As Dooley flings back the covers, revealing his dark-washed jeans, he releases a sigh. “It’s too easy.”

The car drops us off in front of a cavernous building whose facade has been stripped back to reveal its bare brick bones. We’re back in the transitional quarter, in a developing neighborhood where yuccies will gamble their personal safety for handcrafted bourbon and molecular bar snacks.

“Close your mouth, dear,” Dooley chides.

To say I’m surprised is an understatement. While Dooley can roll here, this is not a hood I ever pictured Baz visiting.

Dooley marches ahead, but Baz places a hand on my arm and bends down to murmur, “Wait a minute.”

A burly bouncer steps through the tinted glass doors, and Baz’s face lights up as he adds, “Dooley’s getting carded.”

His breath is hot on my ear, sending shivers through me, and I couldn’t move if I wanted to.

“Come on, man. Go ask Sam, we’re friends,” Dooley insists.

“No ID, no service,” the bouncer says.

“Fine, I won’t drink. Just let me inside.”

“He has ID,” Baz yells in a singsong. “Show him your license.”

Dooley’s hands curl into fists. “You bastard, you called ahead. It’s going to be like this all night, isn’t it?”